Chapter Two
Switchblade

"You've been looking for days now
Oh but I'm not around
I've been finding new ways how
To see that I'm never found"
—Theory of a Deadman, Invisible Man

It was good to be home; at least in part.

Dusk half-turned to take in the Aelaria’s sleek exterior before slinging her kit across her shoulders and making her way towards the exit. Sure, she was going to miss the times she had aboard the trading vessel, but deep in her pump, she was a ground-bound individual. The spacefarer’s way wasn’t hers. That much she knew after spending a few hours under Kup’s watchful optic observing the traders’ port.

Flashing her card to the nearest Iacon port authority, Dusk cleared the outer rim and made her way to the waiting station. The further she walked from the tarmac, the quieter the environment became. That was another thing: as a scholar, she needed peace and quiet; traders were a boisterous lot, or, like in Kup’s case, rather colorful in their vocabularies.

Spotting an unoccupied bench, Dusk pulled her kit from her shoulder and dropped it to her side. A quick check of her chronometer let her know that she was early. Twilight was supposed to arrive in thirty klicks – as far as Dusk was concerned, that was enough time to look over her notes and organize them before showing them to Beta. Later, she’d write her thesis and present it to her sisters and Beta at the next meeting. Unlocking the magnetic straps that kept the kit closed, Dusk rummaged around for her datapad while the world passed her by, mechs and a few femmes not created by Beta wandering in and out of the Iacon Port gates.

She sat there for a while, trying to add notations in the margins of her already-cramped commentary: As Nightwing once noted, traders seem to be a race unto themselves. They have their own language, which seems to become the lingua franca of whatever planet or station they inhabit. Therefore, it could be hypothesized that the galaxy runs according to the traders’ schedule, and are subject to their whim. Dusk bit her lower lip component and thoughtfully chewed on the end of her stylus. She might have to revise that opinion – Beta’s older creations might criticize such broad generalizations without sufficient knowledge to back it up. This was her first big assignment, and she didn’t want to mess it up. Femmes as young as she was were rarely allowed off Cybertron. You had to have Beta’s attention for that – and prove yourself worthy for the experience.

“Dusk – Dusk.”

The sky-colored femme jerked herself out of her cortexal wanderings and looked up into the sharp-planed face of Twilight, one of Beta’s oldest creations. The older Cybertronian grinned, knowing that she had caught Dusk off-guard, her malleable soft blue facial features stretching upwards. “Well, how was it? It seems to me that it must have been quite exceptional – you looked deep in thought.”

Recovery was swift; Dusk saved her work and stuffed her data pad back into her kit. Rising, she slug in over her shoulders. Twilight looped a companionable arm over the younger femme’s shoulders and began to gently draw her down the sidewalk to where a public hopper sat, idling. Upon seeing the craft, Dusk hesitated.

“That’s a hopper, right?”

Twilight’s blue optics winked in surprise, and then she chuckled. “Oh, of course it is. Mother Beta briefed me on you aversion to Transformer transportation.”

Dusk’s shoulder struts sagged in relief. Sometimes, they tended to forget. Twilight patted her comfortingly. “You know, I used to be like that, too, when transforming was this huge, new-fangled deal. Everyone was getting it. But Beta cautioned us – she built all of us, you know, with one form – we could get an upgrade, but we would have to provide our own credits.”

Dusk remained silent, knowing that Twilight was telling her personal story. She didn’t get to be around the older creations, mostly because they were out and about, usually running their own businesses or working for high-end professionals. The youngest of Beta’s “children” remained at the compound.

They approached the hopper and Twilight let go of Dusk’s strut for one moment to open the hatch and guide her in. Dusk ducked, murmuring her thanks, and settling herself on the one wide bench within the hopper, closest to the window.

“So.” Twilight slid in and lowered the hatch. “Want to stop for oil? You must be servo-weary after that trip.”

“A little,” Dusk admitted.

Twilight smiled and leaned forward, rapping politely on the partition that divided the cab from the driver’s seat. It lowered with a pneumatic hiss; the driver, a droid, turned its sightless head in their direction.

“Destination?” it queried through a grill-like slit in the lower half of its face.

“The Platonia,” Twilight returned and leaned back. The grill of the droid’s face flashed green in acceptance, and the partition slid back into place. Through the ovoid window, Dusk watched as the craft rose into the air and slowly turned onto the main drag. She could feel the magnets in the undercarriage catch the track that ran under the street, helping to guide the vehicle.

“Now, where was I?” Twilight turned and looked down at Dusk expectantly. Tearing herself away from the view, the scholar-in-training earnestly replied, “About Mother Beta saying that you would have to provide your own credits for an upgrade.”

“Yes.” Twilight nodded, her twin headfins slightly scraping the back of the hopper. “As I said, I was like you – scared. But as time went on, I decided that if I wanted to be on-time, I would have to provide my own transportation and not rely on public transit – which wasn’t that good back then, and if I must say, not that good now. So, I saved for a few vons and managed to scrape enough together to upgrade. It feels good to rely on yourself – teaches responsibility.” She tapped her high struts for emphasis. “Now you – I can see you as a two-wheeled unit. Or maybe one of those sleek hydrofoils. You’re smart and quick.”

Dusk grimaced. She couldn’t see herself sprouting a pair of tubes or whatever from her shoulders, or Primus-forbid – her back. She wasn’t a frilly individual to begin with. “No,” she replied, her optics sliding back to the view. “I don’t think I’ll ever do it. I like myself the way I am.”

Twilight touched her on the knee-plate. “Sub-space technology is the latest craze, I hear. You could look almost exactly like you do now, but still have transforming capabilities.”

“Theta said that it’s unstable.”

The older femme smirked lightly. “Theta is as old as me, but more rusty. She’s always preaching against such upgrades. Anyway, here we are.” She leaned forward and slid a card through a slot that suddenly broke free from the hopper’s interior. Orange lights flickered in response and the hatch shot out at a leisurely pace. Twilight climbed out first and held out her hand to Dusk. The younger femme looked at it, contemplating whether or not she should take it. Politeness won out and she reached forward, marveling at how strong Twilight’s grip was.

Stepping out into the clear Cybertronian sunlight, Dusk clutched her kit, marveling at how grand The Platonia was. Certainly not the small café she’d been imagining. Bright colors assailed her from every angle, but soft enough not to offend the cortex. A small rail separated the clientele from the rest of the street; round tables were evenly spaced along the property and contained many robots, all chattering away. Dusk was surprised to see that most were couples: mechs and femmes. From what she had learned from Kup, she believed that the Iacon consensus was against such cortexal diversity. Apparently the rugged spacefarer was in error.

“Aren’t Iaconians against this?” she had to ask, gesturing to the apparently engrossed couples.

“Against what?” Twilight returned, turning away to address a small servant-bot who had rolled out of the door. She flashed two digits, “Two; outside, if you please.”

“This way,” the ’bot bleeped, gesturing grandly with its pincer arms.

“ ‘Mechs’ and ‘femmes’,” Dusk clarified, lifting her kit high on her strut so as not to knock anyone in the back of the helm as she and Twilight slid through the mass of robots to an unoccupied table near the rail.

Twilight thanked the ’bot, gave it an order for two high-grade oils before slipping into her seat with a sigh. Dusk did the same, propping her kit between her feet. The older femme steepled her digits and leaned forward. “What do you think?”

Among the bustle, Dusk’s cortex was working. It was a common query that her teachers had always asked of her, making her try to figure the answer out for herself. It wasn’t as if she had anything against it, but there was that odd prejudice of Kup’s – or just fear of the unknown – that she wanted to understand. She told Twilight as much; the dark blue femme nodded once or twice, and then tapped her thumb digits on the tabletop.

“I think you have the right of it,” she said at last. “As far as I’ve been able to discern – and mind you, mental gender differences is not my forte – it’s merely a fear of the unknown. I’m sure if this Lieutenant Kup is around more of us, he’ll find we’re not so different after all. Who knows? He might find himself working with femmes in the future. Beta’s been talking about sending some of the older ones into space for more than a quick analysis.” She cocked an eyeridge. “You wouldn’t be interested in that, now would you?”

Their drinks arrived and Dusk took consolation in her cup for a while, formulating her response. As exciting – and dangerous – as her one jaunt was, it would most likely be her last. Twilight shrugged when the sky-colored femme voiced this opinion. “That’s fine. You’re too young as it is, but there’s always an exception.”

They sat in silence – Twilight downing her oil and ordering a more powerful flask of Energon, Dusk mulling over hers, watching the interaction between the mechs and femmes around her. There it was again, part of her cortex asserted – that desire to watch two halves of a whole. She found the same interest growing within her that had surfaced on the trading planet. She still hadn’t picked an area of interest, yet. She had enough time to choose, but that time was coming up very soon, and Beta would want to know where she was going to go.

Out of nowhere, as Dusk was taking another contemplative sip, a roar descended upon the laconic café street. The quiet murmur that had pervaded and enhanced the atmosphere was broken as more than two dozen Cybertronians stood up to watch as three sleek vehicles came streaking towards them, engines roaring. Twilight’s hand wrapped around Dusk’s wrist protectively, the older femme half-rising in her seat as the creators of the noise screeched to a halt before the café.

“Elites,” she hissed through clenched dental plates.

Locked within Twilight’s grasp, all Dusk could do was rotate her head, her field of view blocked by her rounded struts. Among the low cloud of smoke and burned fuel rested three long and glossy craft; black marks marred the silver street where they had skid to a halt. The lead roadster had five deactivated silver turbofox shells magna-clamped to its sides, the other two had one a piece. Dusk’s optics shuttered at the sight.

“Elites,” Twilight muttered again, her facial plates drawn down in disgust. “Some mechs who decided that they were better than the rest and went on to create even more mechs with the same personality components. What a waste of Energon and parts.”

It was the first prejudicial statement that Dusk had heard being issued from Twilight’s vocal components. Pulling her wrist free from the older femme’s grasp, she turned in her seat to get a better look. Along the café row, some Cybertronians were raising their volume, complaining about the interruption and the stench. The vehicle in the lead merely revved its engine, issuing a bright blue cloud of smoke from its exhaust pipe. As Dusk watched in anticipation, the sleek car began to shake; slowly, it rose up in a flurry of mechanics with barely a pneumatic hiss or whine of hydraulics. In the car’s place stood a tall black and silver mech, an iconic helm framing a sculpted face. Stripes of gold lined his chest, outlining a shiny cockpit. Hooded optics regarded the crowd with uncontained ego. The turbofoxes swayed sickeningly from his narrow torso with its gleaming groin guard. Beside him, the other two Transformers completed their display, each laughing at the patrons’ shocked expressions.

“Dusk, we’re going.”

Twilight’s hand snaked around Dusk’s wrist once more. The blue femme dropped several credits beside Dusk’s unfinished oil and began pulling her towards the slit in the railing. Wide-opticed, it was all Dusk could do but follow. As Twilight led her through the crowd, the femme remembered something.

“Twilight! My kit! My notes!”

“I’ll tell the concierge,” Twilight muttered between her dental plates. “But now, we have to leave.”

“Didn’t like the show?” A booming voice cut through the pall.

Twilight ground to a halt, turning to watch as the elite’s leader put one pointed foot on the polished rail and leaned over to scoop Dusk’s kit from under the table.

“Come now,” he continued in a rolling, patronizing baritone, “no applause? You’re looking at the Tower Hunting Champion – just crowned today. Five turbofoxes in thirty klicks. A new record.”

As Dusk watched, the mech leaped the rail and padded towards them, her kit in his slim black hand. “Yours, my dear?” He bent at the waist-joint, offering the kit to her – above her head.

Behind her, Twilight was growling and the proprietor was speaking low and fast into a communicator, possibly calling up the protectorate in case things got ugly.

The mech’s hard optics flickered with possession up and down Dusk’s frame, then up her arm and onto Twilight. “Well, well, Twilight. Got yourself a new protégé, have we? How’s old Beta doing?”

Twilight’s optics slit. “I’ve no time for you, Switchblade. Give me that kit and we’ll be on our way.”

The black and silver mech straightened, laughing; as if in some entertainment vid parody, his two lackeys sounded a chorus. The elite called Switchblade flicked the top of the kit open and peered inside. “Dear Twilight, there’s always time for me. At least give me this charming femme’s name. No – let me guess … Beta was never that creative. ‘Dawn’? No, too dark. ‘Sky’? Dreadfully unimaginative, even for Beta. Hrmph. … Ah! Here it is. ‘Dusk’, is it? Well, a pleasure to meet you, Dusk. I am Switchblade, one of Beta’s failed mech experiments.” With the kit still dangling from one hand, Switchblade extended the other within inches from Dusk’s nasal ridge.

Before Dusk could even calculate a response, Twilight was tugging her through the crowd and onto the street. Dusk stumbled over her own feet, almost going down, but Twilight’s uncanny strength kept her level.

“I’ll return this to you!” she could hear Switchblade calling, swinging her kit from side to side. “I know where you live! And if that’s wrong, I’ll find out soon enough!”

Running backwards was proving futile, so Dusk was forced to spin around and move in the proper direction. Twilight moved at a fast clip, almost stalking to the nearest public comm-unit.

“—Twilight,” Dusk began, turning her head in the opposite direction, back towards the café and her precious kit.

“You’ll get it back,” the other retorted, a thin line of venom coating her words. “I’ll explain it all to Beta, so no worries.” She finished punching in a code, then lifted the receiver, letting go of Dusk in the process. Slowly, the sky-colored femme turned and squarely faced the street; the boom of three engines drifted down the lane, but it was an echo, not a harbinger. Her shoulders drooped with the weight of Twilight’s pronouncement. Her hard work – her spark had been on the line for what lay within that kit. (Not really, her rational side reasoned, but it had almost been – sort of. No, not at all. Slag.)

“Come on,” Twilight urged, setting the receiver back down. “Beta’s sending us a hopper. It’ll be here soon enough.”

Dusk turned slowly, almost wishing for Switchblade to come roaring down the strip. Despite Twilight’s warning, she wanted to see him again. The appeal of the unknown ranged merrily within her cortex.

Twilight peered down at her with slitted optics, their cores flicking up and down the street and back to the smaller femme. “Blade was one of Beta’s projects,” she began without preamble, “but he got too cocky. No matter how well someone is programmed by Vector Sigma, there’s always a stick of chance thrown into the smelter. He saw that there was something better than learning and he left the compound to join the Tower Elites. I was his mentor.” She huffed, her struts rotating from side to side, mirroring her mood. “He’ll return it – when he wants to.”

Dusk nodded, her cortex still fixated on the image of Switchblade. “But – elites. Why don’t you like them?”

The arrival of the hopper cut Twilight’s reply short. “He’s the reason why,” and ushered Dusk into the bowels of the craft. And that was that, she supposed.

As the hopper rose into the air, Dusk peered once more out the window. To her right, she heard Twilight shuffling around the passenger section for a portable comm-unit, which she slid her credit card through and dialed Beta. Dusk thought about listening in, but her thoughts were inexorably drawn down the street. Perhaps she would do some research – she’d never heard of a mech being involved in Beta’s program. It seemed that this was the reason why. And if it had ended so badly, she assumed that no one would be willing to talk about it. Still, there should be some residual material left over.

Perhaps … perhaps she had figured out what she wanted to study after all.