————
“First off, just to ensure this all gets filed correctly— would you like to register a name change?”
“A name change?” Dualspar stared down at the mint-green minibot, who hadn’t yet looked up from her boardscreen. She didn’t seem to notice their gaze.
“Yes.”
“For a cargo haul?”
“Well—” The minibot (whose name Dualspar hadn’t bothered to learn in the time since she’d introduced herself a few kliks ago) finally glanced up.
“You think I’m gonna file an ONC for a cargo haul? A cargo haul to some middle-of-nowhere ultra-compact? A cargo haul of ‘raw developmental materials’ to build an ‘entertainment center?’”
The minibot appeared to take offense to this, crossing her arms in a huff. “You should appreciate the opportunity. There’s not a lot of job options available to someone who refuses to register.” She glanced, pointedly, at the gaudy red symbol on her chest. Her folded arms seemed to hold it like a frame.
“I know, that’s why I’m here in the first place.” Dualspar chose to ignore the obvious suggestion in her tone; they’d heard it plenty of times before. “Taking what I can get. But you can tell any ’Bot dull enough to name themself after a cargo-hauling job that I—”
“—’s three.” The minibot’s words were drowned out by Dualspar’s own.
“What?”
“Three. There are three loyal Autobots named Cargo Haul.”
Dualspar blinked. “...Well, that’s just... Great. For them.” They fidgeted for a moment, scuffing the ground with their heel. “Can we move this along, please?”
“Gladly. Serial code?”
“ZWF-161.”
“Current name?”
“Dualspar.”
“Any previous names?”
“None.” Obviously.
“Place of creation?”
“Cybertron, Polyhex.” And didn’t they—
“Any criminal history?”
“Don’t you have that information already?”
“It’s just basic procedure to—”
“But you already—”
“Please just—”
“Two counts of petty theft and one misdemeanor for property damage.”
...No reply. The minibot looked up from her screen as if expecting something.
Dualspar blinked. “...What?”
“Nothing else to add?”
“...No?”
The minibot glanced back down at the screen and pointed at... Something. “Says here you’ve got a few marks for disorderly conduct, too.”
“What? They mark for that now? Let me see that.” Dualspar grabbed for the boardscreen. Startled, the minibot raised it up over her head for a split-second as if to hold it out of reach, then yanked it back down and to her side, seemingly having remembered that Dualspar was in fact a great deal taller than her and would only have had an easier time grabbing it there. To her obvious relief (and mild frustration,) Dualspar was too busy laughing to take advantage of it.
She took that chance to put the board away completely, grumbling to herself. “Well, that’s quite enough of that. The rest can be filled out automatically. Everyone else is already ready— let’s get you introduced to your crewmates.” With that, she started walking, setting a surprisingly brisk pace without a second glance back. Dualspar hurried to follow.
“There’s just the four of you total, so try to get along well, alright? Your team will be all you have for a good long while.”
Great.
————
The ship was decidedly not a cargo vessel. That was Dualspar’s first thought upon entering the hangar.
A nonstandard build, for one thing. Definitely didn’t match the specs of anything Dualspar had ever seen. And it was big, sure, but clearly not built with storage in mind. Nor a stable journey. This thing was angular, made for mobility, for sharp turns. For combat, even? It was light on weaponry (for now), and shaped a little strange, but there were spots visible where turrets could slot in like puzzle-pieces. Dualspar could almost hear the satisfying k-chunk.
It was only around their seventh or eighth thought that Dualspar realized the two strangers in the room were watching them run their hands along the ship’s lower hull. “’Scuse me,” they mumbled, backing away, hands raised as if they’d been caught. “Just not the type of ship I’d expected.”
“No worries,” the shorter of the two squeaked. The words were drowned out as in the same instant the taller one let out a gruff noise of dismissal. The short one— a slate blue color, clearly cold-constructed (a Scout, if the horns were anything to go by)— shied away at the sound.
The taller one didn’t seem to notice. “So long as you can pilot her,” was the only reply she saw fit to give. She clearly thought she was in charge. Probably was, too, if the Autobot symbol she sported was anything to go by. She waved off the minibot manager, apparently still lingering in the doorway, who gave a curt nod, saluted, and scurried off down the hall.
Yup. In charge.
Apparently pleased with her ability to make bots flee the room with a wave of her hand, she turned back to Dualspar, who had spent the last few seconds trying to discern her alt-mode. No wheels, no wings, lotsa pointy-out bits; some kind of lander? She made a noise to get their attention; a low-toned, ugly chirp.
That was difficult to pretend they hadn’t heard, so they straightened up a bit. “Nice to meet you, sir,” they droned, “Name’s— My name is Dualspar. I’ll be your pilot for this journey.” What was the rest of the script? Why had steerschool spent almost as much time on decorum as actually flying the damn things, and why did Dualspar never remember the words?
Nearly 300 years of study for this. Their smile looked more like a grimace.
Still, it seemed the bot-in-charge judged them passable enough. She nodded once before starting up a script of her own. “My name is Isochrome. I’ll be your captain on this journey. With me is—”
Dualspar, already losing focus and now on their thirtieth-or-so thought, had finally noticed a discrepancy. “Thought there were s’posed to be four of us.”
Already off-script, they hadn’t bothered to consider silly things like whose turn it was to be talking.
Or who was currently talking. Isochrome did a commendable job of not scowling, but her aggravation was more than clear enough. She started over. “With me is our engineer, Bluebottle,”she gestured to the Scout, who offered a shy smile, “and...”
After a pause, she nodded towards the ship. “...And S5S-CQD, here.”
Suddenly, a few things made a lot more sense. Many more things suddenly made much less sense.
“That’s a serial code,” they said blankly. Of course they recognized it; it was the same Polyhexian format as their own. “Inanimates aren’t given serial codes. I’m not—” They glanced back and forth between the ship, unmoving, and her captain, much the same— “Why do you need a pilot for a person?”
Isochrome let out an exasperated gust of air. “S5S-CQD is—”
Dualspar cut her off again. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Then, they whirled towards the ship, volume rising. “Why didn’t you say anything!?”
The ensuing silence was deafening. The ship didn’t move an inch.
The only response Dualspar got was Bluebottle’s quiet voice, creeping out from where they had ducked behind Isochrome. “Um. Ess-Five here is... Well...”
A cold chill ran through Dualspar’s wiring. “Please don’t tell me you want me to pilot a corpse.”
Bluebottle’s optics flashed from green to near-white, and they actually squeaked. “No! No, no, nothing like that, no! No, Ess is just, a bit, um, shy.” Their gaze darted to the ship and back. “We think.”
“She’s uncooperative,” Isochrome grunted. “Won’t run her own systems half the time. You’re right she’s not the proper choice for a trip like this, but there are only so many options for someone so recalcitrant.” She shrugged. “This is a small enough job that it’s not worth using up one of the major haulers, anyway. Most of those are being put to much better use in the war efforts.”
Ah. That was it.
Dualspar had been hired to pilot someone perfectly capable of steering herself, to work under an Autobot bold enough to call herself the Captain of a ship she had no control over, and beside a cold-construct too meek to look them in the eye. All because they had looked at the still-growing mass of The War, ongoing since before they had even been forged, and told the Autobot recruiters that maybe all of that wasn’t their problem to solve.
Bluebottle smiled, inching forth, gaze still lowered. “I-I look forward to working with you. I’m hoping that this will give me the experience I need to join the Autobots officially someday... I know it’s not too hard to sign up, but I don’t think I could handle it yet.” They looked sheepish. “...How about you? You seem like you could use some structure.”
Without sparing Bluebottle a second glance, Dualspar turned back to Isochrome. “Exactly how safe is it for me to be piloting someone you describe as uncooperative?” They crossed their arms. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
“That’s not an issue.” Isochrome replied directly to Dualspar, to Bluebottle’s obvious offense. “S5S-CQD has already agreed to the arrangement. Apparently her qualms are more with having to do anything herself.” Isochrome scoffed. “Unbelievable. You have no idea how hard it was to even get that out of her. Impossible to communicate with.”
Bluebottle was glancing back and forth between the ship and Isochrome. “Um,” they mumbled, to which the only response was another, louder scoff.
A captain that exemplified all the worst traits of the Autobots, an engineer without a single spinal unit, and a sentient transport that had more complaints about its own sentience than being used as a transport.
This was going to be a long journey. The one saving grace was that Dualspar wouldn’t be the only one testing Isochrome’s patience.
————
This really wasn’t what they had been hoping for when they’d first signed up for pilot’s training. They’d been hoping for thrills, for adventure, for darting back and forth between exciting, threat-filled planets few cybertronians had ever had the privilege to see. Not... this.
It took almost twenty years out of the planned 32-year journey for anything remotely interesting to happen. In that time, Dualspar:
- Recharged 258 times
- Refueled 7,274 times
- Got yelled at by Isochrome 5,364 times
- Got yelled at by Isochrome for valid reasons 1,522 times
- Watched Isochrome yell at Bluebottle 2,444 times
- Attempted to frustrate Bluebottle 902 times
- Attempted to ignore Bluebottle an uncountable number of times
- Decided that S5S-CQD’s silent company was far more pleasant than anything else.
...Not that they were keeping count.
At the very least, the something interesting was significantly interesting.
S5S-CQD’s bridge was relatively small, especially compared to some of the higher-magnitude battleships Dualspar had always dreamed of piloting, but they liked it well enough. Most of the interior walls throughout the ship were a dull blue-gray, only a shade darker than Bluebottle’s plating. (Dualspar had wondered more than once if that had been in some way intentional. Bluebottle did prove to be the kind of bot who’d value blending into the background.) It wasn’t a color Dualspar cared much for.
This was in part why they preferred to spend most of their time in the bridge, where the dull walls could be obscured by buttons and screens, and they could spend most of their time gazing out the vast windows into the even-more-vast swirl of distant stars and galaxies. Endless possibilities.
It was also where they could, y’know, do their job and steer the damn thing.
Which was easier when the typically empty, somewhat-cramped room wasn’t harboring the ship’s entire three-person crew. And when the pleasant hum of engines wasn’t drowned out by things like frantic pacing and blaring alarms and—
“Decepticons!” Isochrome shouted— her volume had really ramped up over the years— and again, “Decepticons, in an F-System! Here! Damn it all! What could they possibly be doing here!? There shouldn’t be anyone here but us!”
“Maybe they’re looking for me,” Dualspar said lightly, legs propped up on the arm of their chair, grabbing the main control desk with one hand to give themself a good spin.
“What?” Isochrome all but growled. “Excuse me?”
It had obviously been a joke. Frankly, Dualspar didn’t think it was their problem if Isochrome hadn’t picked up on their sense of humor by now, so they just shrugged, still spinning. With each rotation they could see Isochrome’s scowling face for a few seconds longer.
Bluebottle, clutching a wrench and huddled in the corner, let out a short squeak.
“You think you’re funny— you’re not.” Isochrome’s voice was almost level. Admirable, considering the circumstances. “I’ll deal with you once we’re all clear. For now, there’s no indication they’ve even spotted us yet. If we reroute towards the Traxeris bridge we can get out of this without much of a delay at all.”
“Fine,” Dualspar sighed, moving back into a sitting position and stopping the chair’s movement with a heel to the ground. They began to reach for the console, but Isochrome slapped their hand away.
“No. As of now, you are off-duty.” After one last oh-so-intimidating finger-pointing glare, she turned her gaze upwards. “S5S, divert course, now. That’s an order.”
Nothing. The ship continued to float steadily ahead, following the path it had been manually provided with.
Dualspar leveraged an elbow on the arm of their chair, resting their chin in their hand. Now this would be entertaining.
“S5S-CQD. I said, Divert. Course. You heard me, I know you heard me.”
Nothing.
“You can’t possibly be this stubborn. The Decepticons—”
“’s not like we’re heading straight for them,” Dualspar offered in the midst of another spin.
Isochrome barely spared them a glance. “If we keep going on this path, the Decepticons will see us, and they will kill us.”
Bluebottle’s voice was undercut by a high whine. “Or. Or, m-maybe not? Maybe we could, we could negotiate, or—”
“They’re Decepticons,” Isochrome hissed in the general direction of the corner where Bluebottle had wedged themself between two side consoles. “You should know better. You should know better, S5S.” This time they spoke downwards, as if having been talking to the ceiling and not the floor was the reason the ship had continued to disregard their commands, same as it always had. “Turn around.”
Hm. Now or never.
“Autopilot,” Dualspar spoke casually, hands far from the console, glancing at the radar screen, as if this ship had a vocal interface besides... the obvious, “Veer left 72 degrees, pitch up by 25.”
Towards the Decepticons.
Isochrome was so blatantly caught off guard by this that by the time she managed to stop spluttering and get out two words— “Are you—” she was cut off by the jolt of the ship’s sudden turn. It took her long enough to recover from that that Dualspar could hear the quiet clank of, presumably, Bluebottle trying to squeeze further back in their hiding spot.
“...Are you out of your DAMN MIND!?”
“Are you out of yours?” Dualspar got to their feet. “Every minute I’ve spent in your company you’ve spent antagonizing me. Throwing your weight around. Disrespecting me. Disrespecting my ship.”
Isochrome growled, but took a single step back. “Your ship? We don’t even need you here. You’re not a pilot, you’re a glorified caretaker. And S5— She’s her own person.”
The ship rolled sharply just as Isochrome leaned forwards, causing her to lose her balance. Dualspar took this opportunity to step even closer. Isochrome was backed against the far wall.
“She’s my ship. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“You think you can just do whatever you want, all the time,” Isochrome’s optics flared. “No regard for others—”
“That’s rich, coming from you—”
“You don’t have that kind of freedom. Nobody has that kind of freedom. You have an obligation to those around you. To help them.” Again, she leaned forwards. Her hands were shaking, curled into fists. “Whether they want you to or not.”
“I’d rather help myself.”
“You sure sound like a Decepticon.”
Dualspar chose not to dignify that with a response. Instead, they leaned back, crossing their arms. “Your little crony back before launch missed a few of the onboarding questions. I’ll answer the important ones now. First...”
There was a kind of strange satisfaction in seeing the way Isochrome pressed herself back against the wall as their plating began to shift, disparate parts moving and clicking into place on their shoulders and arms.
“Yes, I do have inbuilt weapons.”
Isochrome’s mouth was gaping wide with shock, but somehow she still looked more angry than afraid. “N-non-combatants and non-affiliateds are supposed to have their inbuilts removed or offlined— You’re in violation of—!!”
Dualspar moved closer, and Isochrome’s mouth snapped shut. “Can it.” They wanted to really hear the soft buzz of their weapons systems booting up and growing in power. They’d never really gotten the chance to use them before. Never needed to, at least.
Isochrome’s gaze drifted, eyes narrowing to focus sharply on something behind Dualspar’s back. They took that as a prompt to move things along.
“Question two:” they began, keeping their own gaze steadily forward. It was shamefully easy to read Isochrome’s body language and know exactly what was happening behind them.
“Yes, I am an Outlier.”
Bluebottle’s wrench phased through the back of their head and out the other side, embedding itself in the wall.
Just inches away from Isochrome’s ridiculous shocked face. Heh.
Between the quiet, distressed noise behind them, and Isochrome finally starting to look afraid, Dualspar could tell they wouldn’t be meeting much more resistance.
“Question three.” Better to wrap this up quickly. “No, I am not affiliated with the Decepticon movement.”
With that, they reached out and through Isochrome’s chest plating, wrapped their hand around her fuel pump, and yanked.
Most bots... couldn’t cope well with that sort of thing, to say the least. Isochrome was no exception.
“...Yet,” they finished, letting the fuel pump fall from their hand with a thunk.
It left a vibrant fuchsia splotch on the ground below it. Still more energon seeped in weakening pulses from torn, limp cables.
The rest of Isochrome’s body sank to the ground, making it’s own, louder thunk. Her face was contorted into a horrified grimace. The tips of her fingers were already beginning to gray.
Dualspar turned around.
Turned out Bluebottle was no exception, either.
————
A lucky break— When Dualspar hailed the Decepticon ship, they got a response that didn’t involve munitions being fired in their direction.
Even luckier— the ’Cons just accepted their request to share visuals.
Perhaps they admired the audacity. Perhaps they were just curious.
“Nice t’meet you,” Dualspar began.
The why didn’t matter.
“Name’s Leeway.”
What mattered was being able to lift an Autobot’s limp, graying frame towards the camera when they smiled and said;
“You hiring?”
————