Burn Them Bridges
Quickstrike let out a hoot and triumphantly threw his cards down on the table.
“Well, lookee there,” he said loudly, reaching for the credits splashed haphazardly across the table and pulled them towards him. “Full Arsenal. Beats what you boys got.”
Waspinator and Inferno both leaned in to examine Quickstrike’s hand as the Fuzor snatched a couple of credits that had strayed to the other side of the table. After another moment of grinning almost nastily at the cards, he swept his clawed hand across the table to gather up the deck and began to awkwardly shuffle the cards.
Waspinator grunted, crossing his arms across his chest. “Waspinator is starting to think that Two-Head is cheating.”
Quickstrike looked up at the green Predacon, his optics sparkling mischievously. “Now c’mon, bug boy, no need for complainin’.” He held his arms open. “Where would I hide ‘em, eh? Let’s just relax and play. Same game, boys.”
With that, Quickstrike dealt out the cards to the two other grumbling players. He picked up his hand with his cobra head and stared intently at the cards that he had been dealt. He cautioned a glance at the other Predacons, a hint of the smiling stretching across his facemask.
Almost got myself another killer hand here, he thought. He deftly let one of the cards fall into his cobra head. After a quick second of mental sorting, another card rose up to replace it. And now I do have one.
The three Predacons went around the table, placing their bets. As Quickstrike piled the credits on the table, trying to goad the others into betting more, Waspinator dropped out, grumbling about his rotten luck at cards. As if this version of luck was any different than the luck he had with life in general, he further mumbled as Quickstrike dropped another couple of credits into the pot. Quickstrike then sat back in his seat and watched Inferno studying his cards almost as intensely as he faced Maximals in battle. Inferno’s hand hovered over his neatly piled credits as he contemplated his move. As the minutes passed, Quickstrike started strumming his clawed hand against the table, losing his patience with the ant’s delay tactics.
“Today, blender butt,” he muttered loud enough for the other Predacon to hear it.
Inferno looked up, his hand still hanging over the credits. “Silence, drone,” he said before returning his attention back to his cards.
Quickstrike rolled his optics to the ceiling. He knew he shouldn’t complain. Playing cards with Waspinator and Inferno was as close to free credits as he was ever going to get. Neither one of them were exactly quick thinkers. Still, Inferno’s constant wavering was almost agonizing, especially when Quickstrike already knew he was going to win the hand.
Finally, Inferno lifted three more credits and placed them carefully in the center of the table. Quickstrike’s optics glinted greedily at the stack. It was easily the biggest pot of the game so far. Maybe a little too eagerly, Quickstrike threw his cards onto the stack.
“Triple Crystals,” he said happily, leaning back his seat grinning widely at the other Predacons.
But the Fuzor’s smile slowly started to wane as Inferno’s optics darted quickly between his cards, the cards on the table, and Quickstrike’s questioning optics. Then, in one smooth lightning-fast motion, Inferno ripped the table off the floor, scattering the cards and the credits across the room. Before Quickstrike could so much as protest, he found himself pinned against the wall. The larger Predacon slowly lifted Quickstrike off the ground and pointed his weapon between Quickstrike’s widening optics.
“Perhaps you can explain to me how five Crystals found their way into a deck that should have only four,” Inferno stated menacingly.
Quickstrike clutched Inferno’s hand, which was enclosed around his neck, and tried to kick at the larger Predacon, but to no avail. Behind Inferno, Quickstrike could hear Waspinator giggling in that unnerving way of his as he starting to gather up his, and likely everyone else’s, credits.
“Waspinator knew Two-Head was cheating,” he said smugly as he examined some currency that Quickstrike had marked to make certain no one took what was his. “Waspinator just take a few of these too.”
“Drop those credits, bug eyes!” Quickstrike rasped hoarsely and started slashing at Inferno’s arms. Inferno turned his head towards the other flyer. He didn’t say anything to Waspinator, nor apparently did he have to. Waspinator was carefully avoiding anything that looked remotely like it belonged to Inferno. Waspinator looked defiantly at Quickstrike.
“Waspinator would like to thank Two-Head for donating to Waspinator’s plans.” With that, he turned to leave.
“Slag it all, you--.” Quickstrike stopped talking abruptly as Inferno turned his full attention back to the Fuzor. The red Predacon pressed his gun firmly against Quickstrike’s forehead. He nearly expected fire to shoot out of Inferno’s red optics, he was staring down at him so intensely.
“Answer me, drone,” he said. “Or would you rather burn?”
“H-How am I supposed to know what happened there, big fella?” the smaller Predacon offered. His mind raced to come up with some explanation that would satisfy his interrogator, but knew that the ant’s absurd form of logic would likely never accept any explanation readily enough.
“It’s just one of them weird things,” he said, trying to stall. He started to slowly raise his cobra hand, hoping that Inferno’s flamethrower was blocking his view. “It was probably that darn Waspinator the whole time. You saw how quick he ran outta here. Let’s say we go find him and kick the living slag outta him.”
Inferno dropped his gun suddenly and grasped Quickstrike’s arm. The cobra head let out an involuntary hiss that was choked off by the crushing grip Inferno had on it. Inferno turned and tucked Quickstrike’s arm snugly under his arm and ripped the cobra head’s mouth open. Quickstrike watched several cards fall to the ground with a clang. Inferno leaned closer, examining them for a second, and then pinned the small Predacon against the wall again.
Before Inferno could utter a word, Quickstrike exclaimed desperately, “I got no idea how those got there.”
Inferno did not so much as give the slightest indication that he said a word. Instead he let out a crushing screeching battle cry that made even Quickstrike’s energon run cold for a second and shouted, “Now face the fires of my wrath!”
Quickstrike’s face set like stone. He didn’t fear Inferno. He didn’t fear anything. And he certainly was not going to give the bug any sense of satisfaction from seeing terror alight his optics. “Go ahead, ant,” he whispered menacingly. “Go ahead and see what happens next.”
But instead of the fire fight Quickstrike expected, he received a reprieve.
“Quickstrike, come to me at once,” Megatron voice echoed through the comm station in the corner. “I have an urgent mission for you.”
Inferno’s optics went from unbridled fury to an expression of subservience in the time it took him to look at the communication terminal. Quickstrike’s feet were on the floor again before Megatron so much as finished his last sentence. For all Inferno’s many, many faults, he was loyal to the core. Quickstrike rubbed his clawed hand against his aching throat as he watched Inferno gather up his scattered credits, plus a few of Quickstrike’s that Waspinator had left behind. His thoughts lingered on Waspinator, another of Megatron’s useful idiots. For all his big talk about independence and his slagheaded “plans,” Waspinator was no different than Inferno. So what then was Quickstrike? Was he another loyal goon? Or was he something else entirely?
Inferno’s head whipped around. Quickstrike almost jumped with surprise, an absurd notion that the ant had read his mind jumping to the fore. Inferno’s optics narrowed and then he said, “The Royalty summoned you, drone. When he speaks, you obey.”
“Right,” Quickstrike said as he made his way to the door. “Right, ‘you obey.’”
* * *
Quickstrike leaned the against the rock wall of the cave and stared into the dingy darkness of Tarantulas’ lair. Half of the equipment that was scattered throughout the cave was completely foreign to Quickstrike, and much of the rest he thought it best to play coy about how much he knew. He wasn’t an egghead like Tarantulas or Blackarachnia, and he certainly wasn’t Megatron, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. Still, he found it useful in his time with the Predacons thus far to play the fool. It made life easier living up to the others’ low expectations.
By far, the greatest concentration of equipment was located in the back of the cave, directly under a store of energon cubes that powered most of the devices. The stable source of energon had been the biggest reason for the choice of this particular place to serve as the spider’s lab, though with only one way and one way out—that Quickstrike knew of; knowing Tarantulas, he had some other means of escape for his optics only—it was easily defended should the Maximals find him. Or if Megatron were to discover what they were planning.
Tarantulas’ attention was seemingly occupied by a trio of screens. One of them had the neat gizmo he and Megatron had worked on, which Megatron’s most loyal nonimbecilic warrior would control. Quickstrike had let out a hearty hoot of joy at finding out he was going to impersonating that big ape, Primal. He’d made a show out of practicing his dorky righteous Maximal speechifying, just to rub into Inferno that it was Quickstrike trusted with such an important task. Another screen showed a schematic of the Ark. The third had some sort of writing that Quickstrike didn’t recognize. Probably some code the paranoid arachnid had developed to keep ‘bots like Quickstrike from snooping around too much.
“Well, there you are, Ranty,” he said with a taunt dripping from his voice. “I plum been lookin’ for you everywhere.”
Without turning around, Tarantulas said, “Yes, well, if you thought you were being stealthful, Fuzor, perhaps a lesson is in order.”
“The boss is looking for you,” Quickstrike said, ignoring the spider’s latest statement. He had not yet been able to sneak up on Tarantulas in the time they had been hatching their scheme. He quit trying ages ago. “Something about some alien whatchamawhozit or something.”
“Tell him you couldn’t find me.”
Quickstrike chuckled and stepped deeper into the cave. “Well now, I can’t be doing that, now can I? I got a reputation for finding folks that don’t want to be found. Might be suspicious if I come back empty-handed this time.”
Tarantulas simply grunted. “Oh, we don’t want to disappoint Megatron, do we?”
Quickstrike didn’t answer. He knew that the spider would be going back with him, even if Tarantulas didn’t realize it yet. He was serious about the reputation. He thought it strange that he would want to be seen in good standing with Megatron even as he plotted to depose him. He told himself that it was part of the plan, to make Megatron truly believe that Quickstrike was the ever loyal soldier. He even went so far as to imply that to Tarantulas, who didn’t seem to care one way or another how Megatron saw any of them. Perhaps it was the renegade culture which lead them all to unite under his banner to begin with. Everybody had their own agenda. Megatron’s was simply grander than everyone else’s by far and everyone around them all, whether Predacon or Maximal, got swept up in the wake of his schemes. Only Tarantulas fought the current with any sort of success and only then because their plans seemed to coincide more often than not.
From what Quickstrike had been able to gather, Megatron was a criminal. They all were. They were thieves and insurrectionists. Quickstrike couldn’t think of any other situation he would rather be in. But it also bred paranoia and sowed deceit. Their little arachnid duo was case number one. Even still, Quickstrike found something odd happening since that day long ago, when he and the spiders found this cave and hatched their little plot. He found Megatron turning to him for more missions that he trusted to few others. While Waspinator was little more than a simpleton for all his grumbling and Inferno was nearly mindless in his devotion, Quickstrike improvised when it was necessary. And he always, always succeeded. Megatron trusted him. He could see it, even where Tarantulas thought nothing of it. Quickstrike was almost...needed.
Tarantulas paused in his work, but still not turn around. “Why are you still here?”
Quickstrike took only couple of steps closer. “I told you, Ranty, I ain’t going back empty handed.” It was obvious that Tarantulas was mulling this over, just as it was obvious that he did not want to halt his work.
“Fine, but we can’t have you finding me too quickly,” the spider said, focusing again on his work. “Come back later and I’ll be sure to make a big show of it for Megatron. Mustn’t have him believe you are anything but a loyal toady.”
Quickstrike paused for a second. Loyalty was a foreign concept to him from the moment he stepped out of the stasis pod. Loyalty was given to the strong and only so long as that strength never wavered and never ceased in providing Quickstrike with the sport he craved so much. Sinking his claws into a victim, striking him down with his cybervenom, pounding the slag out of them...this were simple joys and Megatron never ceased in providing him with victims. He had found himself on the wrong side of the CR chamber doors sometimes, but that was all part of the sport as well. Megatron had yet to disappoint in providing him with entertainment.
“I think we’re needing to talk about this here plan again,” Quickstrike blurted out, with barely a thought as to why.
This time Tarantulas turned and looked at him, his optical visor narrowed so much that only a sliver of yellow light shone out from his helmet.
“What you talking...?” Tarantulas started to ask before pausing. Quickstrike didn’t know what the spider was going to do next. He was uncannily unpredictable to point of being chaotic. For several seconds, they stood like this. Quickstrike’s arms were crossed loosely in front of him. Tarantulas was studying the Fuzor intently, as if trying to read his mind. Maybe he really was trying to conjure his thoughts. There was certainly something about the way the spiders acted around one another that implied that they could read the other’s mind. Quickstrike’s thoughts stayed for a moment on Blackarachnia and the day they found the cave. And then Quickstrike flashed forward to a day many months later, when Tarantulas tried to kill her.
Tarantulas finally straightened. It was meant to seem a casual motion, but Quickstrike saw it for what it was. It was a ready stance, perfect to pounce upon a victim. So that’s how this is going to go down, he thought.
“Oh, I see,” Tarantulas stated. “You’re thinking of back out. Now. When we are nearly ready to make our move.”
Quickstrike said nothing. Until Tarantulas actually said the words, he hadn’t even thought of it. But now that he had said them, it encapsulated what had been building in Quickstrike for weeks. Still, he said nothing. Better to see where the spider was going to take this then walk willfully into his trap.
“I thought you told me you didn’t fear Megatron,” Tarantulas goaded.
Quickstrike chuckled humorlessly. “I don’t, legs. And I also ain’t afraid of you.”
“Then you’re a fool,” the spider said, raising his weapon toward Quickstrike.
But he might as well have been moving in slow motion from Quickstrike’s perspective. Before the weapon was lifted halfway to the ready, Quickstrike snapped his own weapon forward and blasted Tarantulas with a dose of cybervenom. The spider screamed in pain and dropped heavily to the ground. His motor relays seized as he tried to fight off the effects, but to no avail. Finally, Tarantulas stopped fighting it. He remained quietly on the floor of the cave, still twitching from the venom, his wild optics trained on the Fuzor standing over him.
“Yeah, I know,” Quickstrike said with a glint in his optics. “I’m a stinking traitor of shooting you like that. Course you’re just as much of one yourself, what with your little plan to take over and all. See, spider-boy, I been thinking.” Quickstrike waved his clawed hand around dramatically. “Now don’t go getting all shocked and all by that, since you obviously think I’m just some blind fool. I been thinking that I might need a little more than your good word when it comes to my part in this here plan.
“See, I been watching you, webhead. I been watching you but good. I see how you look at the other ‘bots when you think they’re not seeing you. It isn’t just that you thinking you’re better than them. It’s like you’re seeing a drone or something. Even the boss. And you know, maybe you are better than them. Heck, that’s part of the reason that I threw in with you in the first place. But I think you’re needing a little lesson about humility.” Quickstrike shot another round of cybervenom at Tarantulas and smiled as another involuntarily scream echoed through the cave.
“I might be slower on the uptake than some of the ‘bots ‘round here, but I ain’t stupid. Look what I got going on here. The boss turns me loose on solo missions, like finding slimey critters like you. He fights wars like it means something to him and I’m a part of it.” He stooped down and looked Tarantulas right in the optics. “He gives me destruction. He gives me desolation. He gives me all those things that you promised me when we first started this here plan. You’ve given me nothing but dirty looks and schemes. See, I’m starting to think I’ll be needing a bit more incentive to stick around.
“Heck, just imagine what he’d give me if I, oh I don’t know,” Quickstrike paused dramatically and scratched his claw under his chin, “hand him a nice juicy traitor all wrapped up in a nice little bow. He’d probably just love everything I’d have to say about you. And even if the word of scheming mole was worth more than a loyal soldier, I’m sure that even a stupid ‘bot like me could get enough out of this here contraption,” he pointed at the computer, “to bury the likes of you. So tell me, Ranty. What are you going to do for me? What are you going to give me to make me want to burn that impressive bridge I been building since I got here?”
Tarantulas opened his mouth but no words formed. Quickstrike, however, seemed barely to notice at all.
“I’ll tell you one thing you’re going to give me,” Quickstrike continued. “Sugarbot. Seems to me you were wasting a good gal trying to off ol’ Blackarachnia. It’s almost like she just gone and stopped being useful, so it was time to toss her aside. Seems like even a stupid ‘bot like me might get a little twitchy seeing how you treat weapons that don’t have any use to you any more. So we’re going to get one thing straight right here and now. I ain’t your creation. I ain’t some tool and I ain’t going to be used up and recycled. Got that, partner?”
He didn’t wait for answer before continuing. “And of course, Sugarbot. Don’t much care if she’s a Maximal now or not. I’m one too, after all, ain’t I?”
This time, Quickstrike did look down at Tarantulas, relishing the look of surprise in his optics. Best Tarantulas knew that Quickstrike wasn’t stupid without having to actually having to say the words.
Quickstrike stabbed out and clutched the spider by the neck with his cobra hand, the implied threat of another, more power dose of cybervenom with the gesture should his reaction be unsatisfactory. “So, Sugarbot. Right?”
The Fuzor felt Tarantulas try to nod his head. Quickstrike squeezed his throat a little tight. “Say them words, freak,” he whispered menacingly.
“She will be yours,” Tarantulas spat out. “Unharmed, to do with as you please.”
Quickstrike chuckled, images dancing through his head that would shock the most hardened sociopath. “Okay, but we’ll be needing more than just that. What else you gonna give me?”
Tarantulas grasped Quickstrike’s clawed hand and pulled himself closer. “You think Megatron has shown you destruction? He has but scratched the surface. I will show you destruction the likes that you will not believe.”
“And?” Quickstrike prompted, his voice barely audible.
“And you,” Tarantulas gasped painfully through the venom, “will be the impetus of that destruction. You will be at the front line to revel in it at your leisure.”
Quickstrike looked at Tarantulas for several minutes. Hate simmered in the spider’s optics, and Quickstrike reveled in that. He could feel Tarantulas’ grip getting tighter as the time passed. Quickstrike then chuckled without humor and released Tarantulas’ throat. He took several steps backward and waved his clawed hand in from of him like a pendulum.
“Now don’t you be getting all uptight, partner,” he said jovially enough. “We’re just having a nice quiet conversation in a language that both of us can understand. No big deal, am I right?”
Quickstrike studied Tarantulas for another second as the spider struggled to his feet.
“’Course you’ll give me Sugarbot. And I got no doubt about the destruction that’ll be coming on once we get the plan in motion. You got vision, after all.” He cocked his head to the side. “But you can be a slow learner in regards to respecting another’s strength.”
Before the spider could even react, Quickstrike shot Tarantulas again, throwing his across the cave. He stalked over to the arachnid and looked into his unfocused optics.
“Consider that a lesson not to underestimate me. Now how about we get back to Megatron? I got that reputation to think about after all.”
The end.
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