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(Originally posted on FullMetalHero, but still an ongoing work.)

[Author’s Note:
What follows has been envisaged as if it’s part of the current IDW comics continuity, it probably doesn’t mesh 100% and there’s every chance I’ll use a character that might already be taken (or is actually dead) by Mr Roberts and co. but basically, read this as if it were set in that universe. I say this because you’re about to read something that intertwines characters from disparate eras of TF fiction (like when they put Sky Byte in RID). It ain’t gonna be no geewun ride here.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Ben “Waspshot23” Watson]



Book One
Addicted! – Chapter 1

“It’s here, I know it is!! Let me have it! I have seen it!” he shouted as he burst through the doors, almost falling to his knees.

“I’m sorry? Please, calm yourself and tell us how we can help you.” replied the nurse at the desk, not the least bit shaken by the all too sudden arrival of this new visitor. She looked up from her viewscreen expectantly but patiently, waiting for the frantic retort to her practiced greeting. The bot in front of her was wide-eyed and clearly highly strung. He was also dirty and in need of a tune up; his left knee, visibly loose. Perhaps he was desperate enough to resort to harming her, but the nurse still sat there with an air of tranquility, she’d seen this sort of thing before.

“Look, I don’t want any of your help, I just – I just need what you’re advertising. I can pay… Just, come on!”

He stood with his hands on the desk, tense and impatient. But he seemed more composed now, under a semblance of control. The appearance of the nurse had shocked him somewhat, though he wouldn’t admit it. He couldn’t recall when he had last seen a “fembot”, at least one as serene as the white and green clad nurse greeting him.

“What we’re advertising…? I’m afraid we don’t sell anything here… Wait, you saw the beacon? Oh, I’m sorry; I think you’ve misunderstood what this place is.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” The volume of his voice reduced as his desperation was replaced with confusion.

“This is a dependency centre, dear. What you saw was our psychometric beacon; it’s what we use to encourage the people who need our help to step inside. Whatever it is you saw, you only saw it because it’s overtaken your life and you need help to stay away from it. Do you understand?” This was another carefully crafted and well rehearsed response.

It had the desired effect. “Right… Right… I guess I see what you mean… Look at me, my hands are shaking! Primus, I must look a mess to someone like you… Maybe – maybe I could use some help. This has gone too far…” He started to calm down properly now, perhaps further than calm, he looked dejected. While he hadn’t found what he was so desperately searching for, maybe he had found a way out.

The nurse drew her performance to a close. “That’s OK, I can take a few details and then we can show you to your hab suite. Treatment can begin once the doctor has assessed you. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I’ll need a name and… well, whatever it was you saw outside.”

He pulled himself together. Even without the addiction, he was impatient, and he knew this could take a while. But what else did he have to do? All there was – now there weren’t so many Decepticons to shoot – was looking for the next hit. It could hurt, but he knew this was where he should be. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to accept that. He decided to stall for a little more time.

“OK, er, I’m sorry; I don’t even know what planet I’m on…”

“We’re part of the Ascorbis medical system, this is the Guaifenesis dependency centre. OK, I’ll need those details now…” She turned back to the viewscreen.

This was it. No turning back. He could clean himself up and start anew or just give in to the gnawing at the back of his head and walk out the door. Except, he wasn’t sure he could get out of that door, even if he tried… He gritted his teeth. If he could sweat, a visible droplet would be rolling down his forehead just behind his visor…

“Er… it’s Hot Shot… And er, JaAm.”

Addicted! – Chapter 2


Apart from the recharge slab, a desk with a viewscreen and an overhead light, the hab suite was empty. It was a clinical dwelling space with no personality - but like most things - a low level of artificial intelligence. The door slid open, granting the two figures standing outside a view of this example of interior non-design.

“Here’s your room Hot Shot, I think you’ll find it has everything you’ll need during your stay here.”

The nurse gestured for Hot Shot to enter and he did so with an air of caution, unsure quite what to make of the place.

“Thanks” he said, keeping his composure.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in, the doctor will be around shortly.”

The door slid shut and Hot Shot was left alone with his thoughts. Settle in? What settling was there to do? He had no possessions and even if he did, there wasn’t really anywhere to put them. He stared around at the angles of the “furniture” and their cold grey surfaces stared back. Just as he was about to make some comparison between his room and a prison cell, the door whooshed open and his brief solitude came to an abrupt end.

“Hello there… Hot Shot,” the doctor checked the viewpad in his right hand. “I’m Red Alert, I’ll be helping to assess your condition here today.”

Hot Shot was a little bemused. “Red Alert? You’re not the paranoid guy are you?”

“You don’t want to know how often I’m asked that… I’m given regular psychoanalytic checks. I can assure you I do not suffer from paranoia. I just have the same name as the bot you’re thinking of. All the best names are taken after all…” With that Red Alert turned back to the viewpad in his only hand. “So, let’s try to learn a little more about you Hot Shot. Let’s start with what you’ve been doing for the past few months…”

Questions already? I’ve only just got here, thought Hot Shot. He felt this Red Alert was a little stern and stony-faced, clearly taking everything too seriously, but at the same time he felt at ease with him.

“I guess… I dunno, some of it’s a blur. Just looking for the next hit, you know?” He rubbed his hands. “The past few days have hurt… Beyond that, it’s not much different… I was on a boat, post-war misadventure, you know?” Hot Shot decided to keep some of the finer details to himself.

“Right.” Red Alert took note. “Do you think you could tell me what happened that drove you down the road to your dependency? What would you say was the turning point for you psychologically?” Red Alert summarily continued with his questions.

“The beginning? You want to go back that far…?” Hot Shot was taken aback by this. It seemed far too soon to for him to speak about the events of so long ago. He grit his teeth and paused for a moment to think. Not that he needed to, the memories were always there, just below the surface, no matter how hard he tried to push them deeper.

Gaining some control over himself, Hot Shot continued, “There was… an incident. I was stationed at a depot in Uraya. We were hit by a Decepticon raid… There were flames and – and screaming. I thought I was ready for it all, I’d taken out ‘cons in action before… But- but this was different. The higher-uppers decided we couldn’t fight for the depot, they’d hit us too hard and we were pulling out. That’s when I realised my friend wasn’t accounted for… I- I went back to save him, I knew I could… I went into the blaze until my paintwork started to bubble… But I couldn’t find him.” Hot Shot synthesized a sigh. “The part that hurt most was that I knew I could have done… I could’ve! …And he would have done the same for me… They never even found his body.”

If Red Alert was shocked by any of this exposition, he didn’t show it. He simply said, “We all went through a lot.” He glanced at the laser attachment in place of his left hand. “But please, continue.”

“I spent the next day in a back alley bar in Protihex. I didn’t want to face the wider world, the bottom of a vial of engex was all I wanted to see. But with the rationing, none of what I was drinking was strong enough. Then I saw this bot come up to the bar, I guess he could see how I felt… He offered me this thick vial of gelatinous reddish purple stuff and said that’d do the trick. That was it really…”

“And that was this… Jam?” Red Alert seemed even more inquisitive now. He leaned forward.

“JaAm, it’s JaAm. Two “A”s.”

“Right. Well, Hot Shot …We treat Syk addicts, Circuit Booster abusers, Engexaholics - amongst others. But not a single “JaAm addict”. Perhaps you can tell me, exactly what is JaAm?”

Hot Shot girded himself again.

“I don’t know.”

Addicted! – Chapter 3


Blades lay on his recharge slab, staring at the ceiling. There wasn’t much else to look at, and precious little to do in the confines of the Phenylephros dependency centre, especially after they’d taken away most of his swords. “They” being the virtually identical nurses that ran the place. “They” had let him keep two of his beloved blades on the grounds of “Effective Application of Alt Mode” rights. He couldn’t do anything in helicopter mode if “They” took away his rotors, and he’d convinced them they weren’t just another pair of swords. But, since they were another pair of swords - now his only pair of swords- he decided to polish them again, just as something to do.

“Ah, good ol’ Righty. I’ll get you gleamin’ again in no time.”

“Stabby”, “Slashy”, “Swooshy”, and “The Cleaver” to name but a few, were the imaginative names of some of the rest of Blades’ prized possessions that now hung imprisoned in a locker somewhere on the lower levels of the facility. Torn away from his loving care, he worried how tarnished the ultra-sharp metals of “Blades’ blades” were getting.

“Addicted! Ha! How can a bot be addicted to objects? Swords at that? Lovely, shiny, sharp swords…”

He synthesised a sigh. While his blusterous bravado attitude remained to question the reasons behind his presence in the centre, something deeper down, something unspoken, knew it was probably for the best.

But since when did Blades listen to the puny voice of reason? He was a brawler, even now he was itching to fight something. To hack away at some ‘con with good old Lefty… But now choppable Deceptichops were harder to come by. Probably harder now than when he fell through the one way doors of this facility almost a year ago…

Picking a fight with one of the doctors just wasn’t as fun. They always tried to talk at him or just stun him with an E.M.P. burst from whichever arm they had that missed a hand. There were only so many times he could rub down his rotors each day. He had to get out.

After prising apart the desk at the other end of his room to see if there were any seams in the wall behind it, it had been weeks since Blades had made a concentrated attempt at escape. Weeks since he’d managed to entertain himself with the desk’s visi-screen after the ultimately futile attempt at that escape. Maybe he should just go out into the recreation yard and fly over the wall… There might be a time of day when they shut down the overhead energy dome. Scorching his rotors again wasn’t something he wanted to go through.

Just as that thought went through his head, it occurred to him that something was trying to come through the wall. Maybe he didn’t have to risk an escape now, it seemed as though one had come right to him.

CRK, CRK, CRRK

Muffled grunts with every crack could be heard from the other side of the wall. It hadn’t occurred to Blades that his room was on the outer perimeter of the facility. This might be his chance, maybe the others had come to rescue him…

CRRK, CRA, CRAKK

Without so much as flexing a servo, Blades lay staring at the wall as it came tumbling in, in large bronze chunks, and his erstwhile labourer stood in shadow before him. He didn’t seem like a bot Blades knew. He was tall, darkly coloured with broad shoulders and a gold club in each hand.

The Autobot badge on his chest bore a massive scar though its face. He shouted,

“Where’s Hot Shot?!”

Addicted! - Chapter 4


The screens making up the walls of the security room buzzed and hummed with the activity of every corner of the Phenylephros facility. They elicited no response from Rampart. As always, for a good few million years now, he just sat there and stared, hoping something would happen to cause him to rise up out of his chair. Since Blades was admitted to the “care” of the centre, this had happened a lot more than usual and Rampart enjoyed the fact someone in this place had some fight in them.

He had thought – a long time ago now- that he’d had some fight in him. It turned out it wasn’t quite enough to fight a war raging for millennia without end. Despite his original intention to join the glorious ranks of Megatron’s Decepticons and spill the Energon of many a foe to win the world, it didn’t take him long to find he wasn’t quite cut out for it. Yes, he had a big build, a heavy treaded alt mode, a stout chin, but none of this could make up for the fact he just wasn’t nasty enough to be a Decepticon. He tried though. For a while he wore the badge proudly but when the opportunity arose to leave the fight, to slip away to a life of menial service, he took it without pause. Being a security guard was much more his style. A battle only occurred every so often, not every second. Enemies rolled in, in ones or twos, not thousand strong hordes.

He still wore his Decepticon colours even now. Anyone else at the facility gave up caring whether he was an Autobot or not a long time ago. The badge seemed a bit much though and now a pointed area of slightly lighter grey could be seen on his left shoulder. The dependency centre was, by nature as a medical facility, pretty much neutral. The nurses wouldn’t ask you for your allegiance when you fell through the door if they couldn’t see your badge, but it was mostly Autobots who wound up here. The same could be said for the Guaifenesis centre. The Paracetos centre however was another story…

Rampart swept his optics across the bank of screens to his left. This was where he’d see if Blades was cooking up any trouble he’d be more than happy to deal with. He stared at Screen 23 for a few seconds, wishing someone would bust the door down so he could step in and stretch his servos.

Nothing.

Then, a whole lot more than he’d wished for. The screen flickered as a tall black and gold bot burst through the door and raced down the hallway. Blades could be seen poking his head out of the newly made hole and took no time to pass through it himself.

“Scrap!”

It wasn’t every day Rampart spun his transformation cog. Most “patient restraints” didn’t call for the use of an armoured plough. Today was different. “Smash through the door. They can put a new one up.” He thought impatiently as he sped for the exit of the security room. Time was of the essence here. He had to get two floors down and three rooms along before this “unknown combatant” could wreck anything else. The irony of his actions was lost on him. “Huh, ‘wreck’.” He thought. Wreckers would be handy to handle this situation. No…“I’m The Wrecker here.”

With a FOOSH and a CRUMP, Rampart tipped up and buried the tip of his plough blade into the hallway floor. He thanked Primus that he was a jumping armoured plough. Flying was cool and all that, but the only jets he needed were on his underside. Another CRUMP and he was down two floors. Now get to the room. FOOSH, Rampart kicked in his jump jets and transformed before hitting the ground. It wasn’t graceful but “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this kind of action…”

Running up to the remains of the door, he glanced inside. Empty.

“Get moving.”

----------

BONUS!
Original character Rampart concept sketch

Addicted! - Chapter 5


Hot Shot lay on his recharge slab, staring at the ceiling. He’d been at the Guaifenesis facility for almost a month now and he did feel better for it. But being cooped up in the place was starting to get to him. As an active, eager bot he had to have something to do, something to rev his engine and actuate his servos. He had to get out there and run and drive into some new adventure; not just sit here and wait for Red Alert to do his rounds.

The thought had crossed his mind many times during his stay that all the time he’d been out hunting for JaAm, this was what kept him occupied. Without the war, that became his driving force, kept him from going mad doing nothing. Now that that was gone too, Hot Shot realised he’d have to find a new distraction. Maybe he could start racing, no; some of the bots here were race addicts…

This train of thought was interrupted by the calm swoosh of the door and Red Alert stepped in. He never announced his presence, which startled Hot Shot the first few times he had come to check up on him. Red Alert customarily stared at the datapad in his right hand and proceeded to seat himself at the small desk opposite the recharge slab.

“Hey, Doc.” Hot Shot felt compelled to break the strange air of silence his doctor often conducted himself with and sat up on the slab.

“Hello Hot Shot.” was the subtly strained reply.

Red Alert continued to peruse his datapad until he was ready to engage with his patient.

“How are you today, Hot Shot?” he asked without lifting his gaze from the screen.

“Feelin’ pretty good, doc. Just need to be doing something, you know? A bot could go mad with boredom in here.”

“Hmm. That’s good. Don’t forget we have a recreation yard, perhaps you could find some activity there?” without pausing, Red Alert changed the subject of his queries, a quirk Hot Shot had almost got used to. “I’m here today to talk to you some more about JaAm, and the dealings you might have had with bots for it. Could you describe to me the character of any of these individuals?”

The question puzzled Hot Shot. He’d already told Red Alert numerous times that he didn’t have the faintest idea about what JaAm was or where It came from, but this interrogative was new to him.

“I’m not really sure… It seemed like a different bot every time… One time they were an organic… I’m pretty sure Swindle sold me some at one point. That didn’t end well. But, I can’t see how this information is going to help my treatment here…”

“Actually Hot Shot, I’m asking this not necessarily for your benefit, but for those of this whole facility and even our sister centre on Phenylephros. Do you know anything about the Phenylephros facility? Or anyone who might be undergoing treatment there?”

This was definitely the sign that something was wrong. Hot Shot knew Red Alert well enough to realise he wasn’t the kind of bot to crack under pressure or panic when a disaster came calling, but he could see there was a sense of urgency behind Red Alert’s agenda. Something had happened that Hot Shot could see lead to himself.
“Why would he ask about past dealers?” Hot Shot thought, “How does that concern anyone in here or over on Phenylephros? Unless…” The veiled impetus of Red Alert’s questioning revealed itself to Hot Shot’s quick mind.

He vocalised his revelation. “Someone’s here looking for me, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” Red Alert offered a customarily concise reply.

“Oh Primus…” Hot Shot shifted in his seat and put a hand to the back of his head. “What if I owe someone? I’m sure there’ve been bots I’ve ticked off in the past, some Dead Ender looking for his pay…” Hot Shot’s dismay was visible.

“I can’t let this happen! I can’t! There are innocent bots here, I won’t let them be dragged into whatever vendetta this guy has! Who is he? You must have pictures! Show me, Red!”

“The security system recorded this incursion into the facility yesterday. The assailant broke into one of the patient’s rooms and then into the wider facility, looking for you. The guard on duty wasn’t fast enough to stop him before he started breaking into more rooms and threatening the staff. He kept asking for you by name. While none of the staff will have told him where you are- patient confidentiality is strongly enforced- we believe it’s only a matter of time until he comes here.”

Red Alert passed the datapad to Hot Shot. A slightly blurred image of a tall black and gold bot standing in the broken doorway of a patient’s quarters was unmistakable to him. He stared in silence, not daring to believe his optics. This stunned speechlessness was quite clear to Red Alert.

“Who is he Hot Shot? We need to know, so that we can keep you safe.”

Without looking up from the image on the screen, Hot Shot murmured, “It’s Wheeljack… It’s gotta be…”

“I’m sorry? Wheeljack?”

Hot Shot grit his teeth.

“Not the bot you know doc. And by all accounts, not the one I knew either. You need to stay out of this. It’s my problem to solve… It’s always been my problem to solve.”

Addicted! isn't over yet... But here's a taste of what comes next...

Book Two
Leaving So Soon? – Chapter 1


Life for the inmates could be harsh. Luckily, Brushguard had friends. Not everyone in the Paracetos facility was the murderous kind of crazy, but there were still a few wandering around the darker hallways. The complex was originally erected to serve the same purpose as those on the other two worlds of the Ascorbis system- a dependency centre. However Paracetos quickly descended into chaos when the Decepticon hierarchy had realised addictive personality traits should be encouraged amongst the troops, especially the lust for power. The centre was repurposed and now stood as the most feared insane asylum for light years around.

Decepticons feared the centre mainly due to its overzealous admittance of patients. If you were deigned to be of a mind that functioned outside the narrow scale of the “Decepticon Psychological Ideal” – i.e. you weren’t a greedy thug, an overambitious low ranking officer or a calculating assassin, you had a chance of getting thrown through the doors.

Everyone else feared the centre mainly due to its overzealous patients. While there were some genuinely sane bots to be found within its walls, damned to live out a life in this dark hell, too many of the genuinely insane bots were, well, genuinely insane. Murderers and psychopaths were the staple of the Decepticon elite forces, thus a different kind of insanity flourished on Paracetos. All under the gaze of an even more twisted master…

Brushguard was one of the many “mad” scientists who now found their home among the dank surroundings. Deemed to be obsessively pursuing a science simply too weird for use in the war against the Autobots, he was admitted to the centre for treatment. What this really meant was “put out of the way for the duration of the war to lessen the consternation caused to the commanding officers”. The friends he’d made here were of a similarly eccentric and dangerous bent.

Heavy Load was a chemical engineer, driven mad by exposure to the substances he’d created to use as weapons against the Autobots. Once placed in the custody of the centre, some of his competent discoveries were employed on the battlefield. The main innovations to come from his relatively short career though, were improved safety measures for the handling of such compounds. “It’s alright for Mixmaster…” he’d be heard saying on a daily basis, “Maybe if I was someone’s left leg they wouldn’t have thrown me in here…”

It was that time of day and today Brushguard had decided to go for a seldom used response.

“You mean you think you’re sane?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be, Brushguard?” he happily retorted. The look on his visored, faceplated face somehow changed.

“Well, the simple fact that we’re sat here inside an insane asylum doesn’t give you any ideas? No nagging little doubts, no blazing explosions of realisation?”

“Nope. Come on, you know what this place really is.”

“And what is that?” Brushguard enquired, fully expecting the reply he received.

“The Six Lasers over Cybertron, stupid. Let’s go find a ride that’s free.”

Brushguard slapped his hand across his face. “What in the name of The Pit must he have had seeping between his panel lines for all those years?” he thought, “And where can I get some?”

Before Heavy Load had a chance to lumber too far, Brushguard extended a hand to stop him.

“Hey, hang on a klik, we were talking.”

“Who were we talking to? Wreckloose?” Heavy Load pointed to the pointy looking bot sat at the opposite end of the room.

“Hey, Wreckloose! Over here!” As if to answer his own question, Heavy Load beckoned him over.

Wreckloose was like a relic of an older time. Not actually very old, but a bot of bestial and tribal design. He’d never used a blaster in his life, or so he’d say, and would only walk in robot mode if “he were about to do battle”. He skittered over to Heavy Load’s side in his reptilian alt mode.

“What do you want, Heavy?” he snarled.

“Why don’t you ask Brushguard, he has all the answers…”

“Maybe if I need a new houseplant, I’ll ask him then…” Wreckloose sneered.

“Where do you get off talking like that ‘Loose? I thought you were all about fighting naturally. What’s more natural than a hulking vine creature?!” Brushguard offered a very animated rebuttal.

“And there we have it… The reason you’re in here, ‘Guard,” Wreckloose stressed the shortening of the name, “is your crazy plant monsters. I heard what you were talking to Heavy Load about, I have such good hearing.” he hissed, “You think you’re above us nutjobs. You- heh - you actually think you’re sane.”

“I AM SANE!” Brushguard bellowed.

“…No-one appreciates the effectiveness of a good vegetable soldier…”

Addicted! - Chapter 6

Blades took the opportunity he was given. After this mystery bot had opened a wall in his “cell” and burst through the opposite door, he wasted no time in following. While escape was much easier just going out through the exterior opening, Blades had only one other thing on his mind: his blades. He sped from the rubble of his quarters towards the centre of the Phenylephros facility where he knew the rest of his swords must lie, tarnishing. No-one took notice of him as he fled from the wreckage of his room, a slightly subdued panic gripped the general populace of this floor of the centre and some of the doctors tried to regain control over the situation. Blades even bumped into one of them, clad in dark red and silver. He expected an E.M.P. burst from his multifunction left “hand”, but instead was met with only a frantic blue stare as the doctor acknowledged him as a patient and not the threat he’d been sent to try and deal with.

“Keep going, don’t look back…” was the thought echoing through Blades’ mind as he raced on-foot through the facility, desperately searching for the one room that truly mattered: The Safe. As he ran further into the heart of the centre he encountered less and less of the bots that made up its populace, staff or otherwise. He could see pulsing orange warning signs on the data terminals he passed, “Everyone must be moving towards my room.” He thought.

Everyone but Rampart. As the doctors tried to contain the situation from the patients, he was the only one going after the gatecrasher. He was finding it hard to keep up; Rampart wasn’t built for speed but could still match every move the bot made, erratically winding round corridors. It seemed to Rampart that this bot was clearly looking for something or someone, but didn’t want to stay still long enough to go about it the easy way: using a terminal to search the records. Rampart wished he would, at least then he might have a chance of catching him up and taking the time to give him the clobbering he deserved.

Rampart saw the bot turn left round a corner, completely ignoring the presence of The Safe as he passed its door. “Thanks Primus, he don’t want any guns.” He remarked aloud.

“Guns? Why would I want guns?” Blades replied as he came hurtling at Rampart from the other direction.

“Not now Blades! I got bigger chips to fry than yours! Go climb back through your hole in the wall!”

“I’m not moving. I’m here for what’s mine, and you’re in the way.”

“What?” Rampart had already forgotten The Safe stood behind him.

“Don’t make me use Lefty on you, I don’t have time!” Blades replied, taking one of the swords off his back.

“Neither do I!” Rampart bellowed, lunging at Blades to forcibly remove him from his path.

Crashing into Blades, Rampart pinned him against the floor with his right arm against his neck.

“You always were slow.” Blades remarked with a wry smile, just before swinging his legs up to kick Rampart through the door of The Safe. Crashing through the thick goldish plate, he was then stunned by the crackling electronet system just behind it.

“Well, that’s one way to solve two problems at once…” Blades said to himself as he got to his feet and jumped over Rampart’s smoking paralysed form into the dark of The Safe.

The room was larger than Blades expected, he hadn’t realised so many weapons had to be confiscated from his fellow “inmates”. The walls were lined with racks of photon pistols, smart rocket launchers, decrystallizers, oxidating lasers and more. Blades didn’t need any of that. All he wanted were the gleaming surfaces of his seductive sharps. Seven swords hung at the far end of the room, each similar but with differences that - while subtle - seemed radical to Blades.

“That’s it, daddy’s here. Come on, let’s get going.” He whispered as he took the blades and carefully inspected them before adding them to the sheathing mechanism on his back. They were in surprisingly good condition. It almost looked like someone had polished them recently…

“You’re not going anywhere.” Came a gruff reply from the darkened doorway. Rampart was awake, and clearly not very happy. Smoke still wafted from the sides of his head. Before Blades could comment on the swiftness of his recovery, a near deafening rumble shook the room.

“No…” Rampart turned and ran out of the room to the nearest data terminal. Bringing up information about the perimeter of the facility, he stared at it in dread amazement.

“He’s gone.” Rampart said without moving his face from orange light of the screen.

“Isn’t that a good thing? He’s out of our cranial superstructure now!” echoed Blades’ reply from within The Safe.

Rampart gave him a steely stare, his considerable jaw was clenched and offered up a tense response, “No.” and without a change in expression, “you’re coming with me.” He turned and with his back to Blades said, “I won’t look at how many of these guns you happen to bring with you.”

“Maybe I will have a couple of these rocket launchers after all…” Blades thought.

Addicted! – Chapter 7

Closure; this was what Hot Shot truly sought. This was the concept he had run so far to find. All he wanted was an end to the whole story of that day at Uraya, but it would never come. Wheeljack was marked among the dead from that day, but not even a single rivet from his chassis had been found in the wreckage. This birthed an unending uncertainty in Hot Shot’s mind. Was his friend reduced to slag in the immense heat of the inferno, or had he survived? This was a singular hope Hot Shot left burning in his heart. Maybe, one day he would find out the truth; it was another reason for him to run so far and wide. Hot Shot’s never-ending quest for JaAm was fuelled by a purely physical need, an urge he could barely control, but beneath that impetus simmered an emotional need; that there was the possibility of him finding Wheeljack in one of the many places he’d found himself looking for the elusive enigmatic substance.
Today, that flickering ember of a hope for Wheeljack’s life was affirmed and exploded into a conflagration within Hot Shot’s spirit. He didn’t need to run anymore. He didn’t need the JaAm anymore. He had found his closure in the sight of his long lost friend, and no force in the universe would now stop him from going to meet Wheeljack. Especially not Red Alert’s pleading.

“Hot Shot, stop and think about this, he’s clearly dangerous and very aggressive. This may not end well for you…”

“I don’t care how it ends, Red.” Hot Shot replied furtively,”It’s all over now anyway…”



Closure; finally Wheeljack was headed straight for it. It had taken him so many years, so many near misses, but he could now bring an end to his quest. It had all started on that day at Uraya, when Wheeljack burned. But he didn’t see it like that; he didn’t burn, he was forged anew. It instilled in him the only shred of purpose he had ever known and a newly found allegiance… While he was trapped, slowly smouldering beneath a red hot girder, he had accepted his end, and the Wheeljack that he was had died that day. Like a phoenix, he had risen from those flames, reborn, to walk a new path. All thanks to Megatron.
As he lay burning, any hope Wheeljack might have had extended to a rescue from his squadron. At first he was so sure Hot Shot would come to his aid. His dependable friend had taught him all he knew about the battlefield, and helped him out of tight spots more than once. Wheeljack had done the same for him, but now at his end, he lost all hope for his comrade; as every second passed his despair turned to anger and then hatred. Why wasn’t Hot Shot trying to save him? How could he just leave him to burn? At the point where his hate had irreversibly turned into something tangible, coursing through his circuits and taking root in his spark, he was rescued. But not by Hot Shot, not by his squadron, not even by Autobots.
A small group of Decepticons emerged from the dimming flames before him, the very ones who had ransacked the depot. Wheeljack expected them to deal him a swifter death than he was about to get from the fire, but he was stunned to find one of them, a heavy cyclopean flyer, lifting the girder that pinned him there. He was freed, but certainly wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. The Decepticons encircled him, a couple of them actually started making wagers on Wheeljack’s fate, then they parted and one more figure entered Wheeljack’s presence. A bot who until earlier would have commanded the greatest fear from Wheeljack, now all he could feel was hate, even for his would be rescuers. Megatron stood before him, and instantly saw the dark rage in his eyes. He smirked and offered Wheeljack a choice.

“Either we leave you to burn,” Megatron stated and then added offhandedly, “or perhaps one of my men will shoot you, I don’t know… Or,” his speech returning to valedictorian force, “you join my ranks and get to live to fight another day…” He paused, mulling over the expression that seemed to fuse Wheeljack’s face, “Against the one thing you now hate more than me.”

Wheeljack was silent. Megatron continued.

“You seem to have trouble making up your mind, Autobot-“

“Don’t call me that!” Wheeljack spat.

“Oh! I see you’ve made your choice then. Hate really is a powerful drive among the desperate. Help him up, men.”

As a couple of Decepticons Wheeljack never learned the names of took hold of his arms, some debris slid off of his chest. Megatron instantly noticed the power of the symbol before him. Where Wheeljack’s Autobrand once proudly shone, there now sat a charred and gouged badge. A huge rent ran across it diagonally, even exposing some circuitry beneath. It was as though it was crossed out.

“I think you’ll make quite a stir…” Megatron mused as he regarded Wheeljack’s scar.

After his initial induction to the ranks and not-quite-total repair, he changed his name and paintwork to better reflect his new nature; he was a road-eating monster, who would now answer to the name Rampage. Soon Wheeljack found himself at the front lines, fighting alongside former enemies against former friends. One day he had enough, and simply left the battlefield. Killing random Autobots gave Wheeljack no satisfaction. He had no interest in the progress of The Decepticon Empire, but was driven by his own personal inferno, one of revenge. He would find closure only in the sight of his old friend’s corpse, and no force in the universe would now stop him from going to kill Hot Shot.

Just read this entire piece - seriously impressive, character-driven fic. I loved the twist at the end as well. Kudos to a talented writer.

Blast Cannon wrote:Just read this entire piece - seriously impressive, character-driven fic. I loved the twist at the end as well. Kudos to a talented writer.

Thanks! It's by no means over yet though, I'll have a new chapter up (maybe) tonight.
I really should crack on and finish it...

Addicted! - Chapter 8


A massive rumbling, rending roar shook the walls of the Guaifenesis centre then left them in abyssal silence.

Hot Shot stood ready. He grit his teeth and waited.

The silence was soon smashed again; “I’M COMING FOR YOU!”

The cry rang around each metallic surface, echoing off every corner and reverberating along each corridor until it met Hot Shot’s ears.

This was it. A reunion with a friend long dead, now an enemy very much alive. Hot Shot didn’t think he could grit his teeth much harder. He thought he was ready for whatever might happen next, whatever rage or violence he’d be met with wouldn’t be any different to any of the other fights he’d been in over the millennia of war; except this fight would be with a friend… Could Hot Shot do what needed to be done? It felt like a small age of emptiness, waiting there in the corridor for something, anything to happen,but what Hot Shot was met with was nothing.

And then another thundering cacophony. What was holding Wheeljack up?



Blades and Rampart came hurtling into the Guaifenesis atmosphere in a tiny shuttlecraft. It wouldn’t have been so cramped if they hadn’t brought so many guns with them. Rocket launchers, photon rifles, a few good old fashioned miniguns and the rest clogged up almost all of the space that wasn’t taken up by Rampart’s hulking frame hunched in the pilot’s seat and Blades clanking around amongst the weapons behind him.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Blades asked irritably from under a tangle of firearms.

“We’ve just hit terminal velocity! You’re a helicopter for Primus’ sake, you know how flying works!” came the reply from over Rampart’s shoulder.

“How far are we from landfall then?” asked Blades, checking the scope on a smart rocket launcher.

“About 10,000 feet I guess.” said Rampart noncommittally.

“That’s enough.” said Blades more to himself than anyone else.

“What?! I can’t hear you over the sound of the… Engines? Wind? What is that?”

Blades knew just what it was, “That’s my battlecry.”

A light whoosh, then a larger roar filled the cabin as Blades opened the door and jumped out. The sensation of falling, the air over his vents; that was what it was all about. He could of course transform and fly most of the way down, but where was the fun in that? If anyone could have heard it, they’d have known Blades was laughing all the way down.

Rampart looked out of the shuttle viewport in astonishment, “YOU DAMN FOOL, ALL THE GUNS ARE FALLING OUT!” he bellowed in rage.

Blades had forgotten to close the door on his way out. But all this gung-ho jumping out of falling spacecraft got Rampart’s mind going. He hadn’t had a real idea in centuries.

“Heh, I think he might be onto something there…” Rampart introspected as he gathered up some firearms and moved for the howling void of the open door himself. Lacking the level of sheer bravado Blades possessed however, he paused by the port as it screamed at him.

“I don’t remember ever jumping out of anything before…” he thought as he put his hand to his chin and summoned his courage, which out of 10 would have been about a 6.

“Whatever… LET’S HAVE IT!” he thundered as he fell out of the doorway into view of the quickly encroaching ground.

Meanwhile, Blades was still enjoying his vertical joyride and had spotted the smoking crater left in the roof of the facility below. That would be his way in, after all this bot he was after was pretty good at making entrances. Why waste such an opportunity? He let himself fall for a few more hundred feet then shifted his cog into gear and set his rotors spinning. Rampart wouldn’t be far behind and maybe it would help to have a slightly more subtle entrance than one he might have offered.

Coming into land Blades stretched his legs and drew a couple of swords. Stabby and Swooshy would be good for this situation. Warily scanning his optics over the immediate vicinity, he could tell the bot he was after was already gone. A droning whistle then greeted his audio receptors as he looked up to see something about to fall on him. It wasn’t the shuttle so…

“Ah.” Mused Blades as he kicked in as much power to his leg servos as possible to lunge away from the spot where he stood.

A large tracked plough was falling from the sky and wasted no time in embedding its tip in the floor where Blades had stood, and then the next four floors beneath. After floor number two, Rampart shifted back to robot mode and made the least graceful landing ever to occur in the history of the surrounding solar system. He looked up, half dazed and regarded the startled form of the bot before him with rightful suspicion.

While Rampart’s landing was the singular most destructive event ever to happen to the facility, it was also the most pinpoint accurate. Lying on his front, he extended a hand to the bot he’d very nearly landed on instead of next to and almost managed to exclaim “You’re under arrest.”

Except to Wheeljack it sounded a lot more like “Yerrfunndah hurresss.”