Chapter Text
The music swirled around Minimus as glittering shards of light swept over his frame. The ballroom was objectively a triumph of interior design, the stark black wrought iron decorations making each guest stand out in brilliant color. Truly, Senator Shockwave had outdone himself.
Minimus took a sip from his engex flute (discreetly filled with plain energon and a dash of pink coloring), and resisted the urge to rub at his brow. He had a headache.
It didn’t do to decline an invitation from a senator, not if you wanted to maintain the influence of your House. It was important to be seen, to demonstrate that you were still alive and well and wealthy. Still a force to be placated, rather than exploited, or worse, ignored. But Minimus had been here for an hour already, and spoken to half a dozen people he detested. Surely that was more than enough to satisfy his duties?
Minimus was considering his best exit route when an arm wrapped around his shoulder.
“Mims,” said Dominus, with an alarmingly cheerful air, “there’s someone I’d love to introduce you to.”
Minimus’ hopes of a quiet night in evaporated. “Oh?” he said. “I don’t know if—I really don’t fit in with your crowd—”
“Nonsense.” Dominus plucked Minimus’ engex flute from his hand and tossed it back. “Primus, are they watering the drinks? Waiter! Bring us something stronger, if you please? Anyway, Mims, you’ll just adore my friend. Or your fiance, I should say.”
“My—” Minimus sucked in a breath. Unfortunately, this was just as the waiter pressed a crystal cube of something inky black and reeking of imported diesel into his hand. He sneezed. “Dominus,” he choked out, trying to set the cube down even as Dominus tugged him through the ballroom, “what are you—”
“It really is a shame for the House to have you wasting away in spinsterhood, Mims,” said Dominus. “It’s my duty as Head to rectify the matter. I’ve been looking and looking for someone who might meet your understandably high standards, and I think this mech is just the ticket. Titled, quick-witted, funny, very rich—well. He didn’t show me his bank account, but I owe him quite a bit of money, and I’m sure I’m not the only one—”
“You owe him money?” said Minimus. “Dom, you’re not selling me to some ruffian, are you?”
“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.” Dominus paused in front of a door to one of the back rooms and turned to look Minimus over from helm to toe. He licked his finger and wiped away a smudge in Minimus’ otherwise immaculate finish. “Didn’t you hear me say he had a title? Come on, it’s for the sake of the House, and you’ll get a handsome mech out of it too. I’d conjunx him myself, only Rewind would probably murder me. Ready?”
“No,” said Minimus, but it was too late. Dominus had already pulled the door open.
The lights inside were dimmed, and Minimus had to squint to see the mechs ringed around a card table as his optics adjusted. The usual suspects were all there, Dominus’ gang of wealthy layabouts, but there were also a fair few unfamiliar faces. Flight frames, most of them. You didn’t see seekers in Iacon very often.
One of them, a striking jet painted in red and blue with a dashingly crooked nose, laid his hand facedown on the table. He took a pull on a cygar and then leaned back in his chair, letting the smoke stream in wisps from his mouth as he grinned. “We-ell,” he drawled, in a deep, rasping voice. “You were right, Dom, your brother is a looker.”
Dominus cleared his throat, having the grace to appear just the faintest bit ashamed of himself. “Your excellency, allow me to present my brother, the Honorable Minimus Ambus. Mims, this is Lord Starscream, the Winglord of Vos.”
---
“—So there I was, fighting off a dozen rabid tradesmechs, each of them armed with the energon-stained mining picks they’d just used to cave in the helms of my closest friends and family. ‘You’ll never take me alive!’ I yelled, and then the largest of the horrible horde replied, in his gravelly, uncultured voice, ‘We have no need for your life, Winglord, only your head.’”
Starscream paused in his monologue and gave Minimus a meaningful look.
“Oh dear,” said Minimus, blandly.
“They wanted to cut it off,” explained Starscream, drawing an illustrative claw over his own throat. “Display it on a pike from the palace gates. Terrible people, these commoners, really don’t understand all the sacrifices I made in a life of service for my city.”
“Mm,” said Minimus. He resisted the inappropriate urge to pick at the golden wire that wrapped around his chair's armrest. Old-fashioned and opulent, just like everything else in this benighted chapel Dominus had found.
“Still, being Winglord in exile isn’t all bad.” Starscream relaxed into his seat, leaning his cheek against his loose fist and crossing his filigreed thrusters over each other where they were scuffing the rather nice brass-age table. “Iacon has been very welcoming. Good parties, good fun, lovely mechs…” He grinned at Minimus, as if inviting him to titter and blush at the barest hint of a compliment.
“Actually, Winglord,” said Minimus. “I—”
“Please, call me Starscream,” said Starscream. “Or Star—we are about to be conjunxed, are we not?”
“Yes, about that,” said Minimus. “I—”
“Do you have a cute little nickname, sweet thing?” Starscream pursed his lips in thought. “Minimus, Mini, Mims, Mimsy—”
“Starscream,” said Minimus, wishing that for once he wouldn’t sound so shrill when he asserted himself, “please refrain from the familiarity. I do not welcome it. I do not want it.”
Starscream’s optics narrowed, but Minimus kept speaking, preventing the mech from perpetrating any further nicknames.
“This is a business transaction, nothing more,” said Minimus. “A practical arrangement. House Ambus gains access to your title and pedigree; you gain access to my funds and properties. A better deal for you than I, in all honesty—a title in exile from a revolutionary government isn’t worth much more than a few free dinners. But you did forgive my brother’s debts, and I—” Minimus looked down for a moment, swallowing his pride in favor of truth. “—I am not much in demand, as a commodity. So perhaps it is an even trade.”
Another mech of his wealth and status would have dozens of suitors. But Minimus Ambus wasn’t any other mech—he didn’t flatter or laugh at jokes, he didn’t excel at sport, he didn’t have a crowd. He was dull, rigid, and unfriendly. Foolish, he’d heard people say, when his House was always teetering on the edge of disgrace. His mentor had done his best to gamble away their wealth when he’d been alive, and now Dominus Ambus was actually giving it away. And he’d gone and conjunxed a memory stick.
Minimus was sometimes a little annoyed that Dominus was still popular amongst their peers despite his indulgences in philanthropy and inappropriate paramour. Meanwhile, Minimus was mocked for acting like an accountant when he managed their trusts and endowments, and now he was being bundled off to marry a politician so disastrously inadequate that he'd been run out of his own city.
But he’d always known that life was unfair. You just had to get on with it.
Starscream hadn’t rushed to fill the silence while Minimus contemplated the foibles of existence. He was watching Minimus, his optics sharp and his mouth a thin, uncompromising line. Likely Winglords rarely had such blunt speech directed at them.
Minimus collected himself, and returned to setting out the rules of their engagement. “We will live in opposite wings of my mansion. There are more than enough rooms for us both. We will not share a berth. You will not touch me. I will give you a generous allowance, but not direct access to any of my accounts. I trust this is acceptable to you?”
“It’ll do,” said Starscream. “For a start.” Perhaps he would’ve said something else, but then the door opened and Dominus stuck his helm in.
“Ready, loveshuttles?” asked Dom, cheerfully. “Everyone’s waiting.”
Minimus could hear the chatter of the guests, the chanting of the priests, the light choral music played on kazoo and keytar. He got to his feet and, after some deliberation, offered his hand to his betrothed.
Starscream took it. His hand felt smooth and cool, the hands of a gentlemech. Minimus supposed that was the best he could hope for.
---
Minimus woke up early the next morning. He stretched, in his big empty berth, and looked up at the velvet canopy that shielded him from the sunlight. Then he got up and went out to feed the turbofoxes.
It wouldn’t do for a member of Ambus House to do anything as gauche as maintain employment, but you had to do something with your time. Dominus collected art and worthy causes, their dutifully-beloved and rather exasperating mentor had held court in countless dens of iniquity, and Minimus kept turbofoxes. It had been Dominus’ suggestion. His brother thought he was very clever, very droll.
Still, Minimus enjoyed times like this—letting the turbofoxes out into the run, watching them yip and clamber over each other as they jumped to take the copper nuggets from his hands. Once the feedbucket was empty he left it where the gamekeepers would find it, patted the bolder turbofoxes a few more times, and then slipped out the back gate. It was only a few minutes’ run down a well-trodden forest path to the nearest tram station. Another mech would have simply taken the highway into town, but Minimus’ registered alt mode was too small and slow to be street-worthy and his unregistered alt mode was apt to become roadkill if he were ever bold enough to take it out in public.
Anyway, the tram was restful. Minimus could simply sit down amongst the other minibots and alt mode-challenged and let it take him where he needed to go. Today (and most days), that was the stop nearest the unstaffed storage warehouse where Minimus rented a modest little unit. Inside was a mobile charging station, a work table filled with tools and spare parts, and… his armor.
Minimus touched it relevantly, his fingers resting on the hip, as high as he could reach. Then he began to put it on.
He began by attaching the legs, one by one, tottering a little until the balancing systems came online. Then the torso, dozens of armor panels clicking in place and swallowing him into something greater than himself. Then the arms, his hands plugging into specially-designed sockets. Finally, the helm. There was always a moment of darkness when he put the helm on, a moment of blankness, of unbeing—and then Ultra Magnus’ optics flickered to life and it didn’t really matter that Minimus Ambus didn’t exist any longer.
Ultra Magnus rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and left for work.
As the head (and, indeed, only employee) of the internal investigations department, his primary responsibility was ensuring that all anti-corruption rules were being followed and mechanical rights were being preserved in the operation of Iacon’s many, many bureaucratic agencies. In principle, this was an enormous undertaking which deserved dozens of staff. In practice, it was a thankless job that only the indefatigable Ultra Magnus seemed willing to tolerate.
No. Not simply tolerate. He loved it.
“Good morning,” he boomed in his deep, commanding voice, as he threw open the inner doors in the enforcer headquarters.
“Oh no,” said Detective Prowl, and tried to hide under his desk.
“You cannot hide from justice, Detective.” Ultra Magnus stooped to peer into the dim footwell. Detective Prowl appeared to be eating someth—ah. He reached out and plucked the datachip from between Detective Prowl’s teeth before the mech managed to crush it. “And you cannot devour the evidence, either. Have you located those interrogation reports yet?”
“Tumbler has them,” said Detective Prowl, pointing at a mech attempting to scurry away through the maze of cubicles—and trying (and failing) to grab the datachip back while Ultra Magnus was distracted.
Ultra Magnus simply straightened up and lifted the chip out of Detective Prowl’s reach. With his height, it was easy to look over the walls of the cubicles and spot his quarry. “Mnemosurgeon third class Tumbler?” he called. The lanky mech froze in his tracks, one hand on the door to the fire escape. “I believe you have documents for me?”
“I, uh,” said Mnemosurgeon third class Tumbler. “I haven’t, uh. Finished redacting them yet?”
“Oh, redaction isn’t necessary,” said Ultra Magnus. “I have level gamma clearance.”
“Yes, but.” Mnemosurgeon third class Tumbler’s fingers twitched, his needles sliding out an inch and then slipping back in. “I don’t. Have them printed?”
“I can download them directly.” Ultra Magnus smiled and produced a data cable the size of a standard mech’s forearm. “And anything else that might be relevant to my investigation. Can you bare the nape of your neck, please?”
Mnemosurgeon third class Tumbler stared at the data cable in undisguised horror. Detective Prowl, meanwhile, made a noise like a server mainframe catching fire and threw himself at Ultra Magnus’ back. Ultra Magnus simply twisted a little to one side and picked Detective Prowl up with one hand. The one which wasn’t holding that very intriguing datachip.
“Now,” said Ultra Magnus cheerfully, holding Detective Prowl aloft by his bull bar. “Those interrogation reports?”
---
After the end of his shift, Ultra Magnus reluctantly retraced his morning commute, returning to his storage unit and coming apart piece by piece until he was once more reduced to nothing more than Minimus Ambus. Then it was back to the mansion, the tram ride feeling somehow longer and duller in the lengthening light of the afternoon. Starscream was probably awake and nursing his post-conjunxing hangover by now, so Minimus clambered up the crystal trellis on the southern wing and got into his rooms through a strategically unlocked window.
Normally Minimus would spend a few quiet hours writing reports when he got home, but now that he was a conjugated mech it behooved him to make an appearance so his… so that Starscream didn’t think he’d died in the night. He selected a plush purple dressing gown from his closet, gave his facial insignia a quick polish, and finally emerged from his rooms.
He could hear the chatter of voices as he descended the grand staircase, a cackling laugh rising periodically over the din. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, one hand resting delicately on the spiraled banister, and peered through the open door of the dining room.
Starscream was there, looking rather livelier than expected. He was holding court amongst the remnants of a (presumably late) luncheon, a seeker seated on either side of him. Minimus thought he recognized them from that first lamented meeting, though he didn’t recall their names. They were passing a deck of cards from claw to claw, not shuffling or dealing, just arguing amiably about something. Starscream was different, talking to his friends. His tone was a little higher, his words coming faster. Something in Minimus’ chassis twinged a little. He’d probably strained something when he picked up that detective.
Starscream looked up, and the sharp grin he’d directed at the other seekers melted into something more saccharine as his optics caught sight of Minimus. “Darling!” he called, his voice deepening and smoothing as if it were being distilled. “Did you just wake up? Come join us!”
Minimus crossed his arms over his dressing gown and joined them, more or less. He went into the room, anyway, though he took a seat at the opposite end of the long table. Starscream was sitting in Minimus’ usual chair, at the head of the table. He looked ridiculous, the small chair straining to accommodate a seeker’s frame.
“We’ve just finished,” said Starscream, gesturing at the picked-clean platters. “Though I suppose the serving drones can scare something up for you. Quite a mech of leisure, aren’t you? It must be nice, relaxing all day without any duties to drive you from your berth.”
“Mm,” said Minimus. He signaled to the drone docked in the corner, and a few minutes later he had a goblet of plain energon in his hand. He sipped it, watching as Starscream licked his finger and ran it through the pewter shavings left on his plate.
“I can’t stand idleness, personally,” said Starscream. “Aristocrats just lazing about, growing fat off society…”
The black and purple seeker sniggered, but the blue one nudged Starscream in the side.
“Present company excepted, of course,” said Starscream, a little resentment creeping into his voice as he shoved the blue seeker back.
Minimus barely restrained himself from rolling his optics. “Yes, I’m sure we Iaconians must seem quite useless to Vosian nobility. After all, you keep up such a strenuous lifestyle of drinking, gambling, and… I’m sorry, what else is it you do?”
A scowl flickered over Starscream’s face before he regained his ingratiating smirk. “Well, there are a few other things. I’d be happy to show you in private, conjunx dear.”
Another snigger. Another nudge. “No, thank you,” said Minimus, firmly. He took another sip from his goblet. “Are these guests or intruders, by the way?”
Starscream frowned and glanced around him before his optics lit on the other seekers. “Oh, them? Allow me to introduce Thunder—ah, Duke Thundercracker, and his associate Skywarp, the… Marquess of Crystal Clouds.”
Thundercracker waved. Skywarp leaned back, his chair balancing precariously on two legs. Twisting behind Starscream’s chair, he said to Thundercracker, in a remarkably carrying whisper, “does that mean I, like, outrank you?”
“The titles don’t quite translate,” said Starscream, loudly. “It’s very confusing to us poor refugees.”
“No, but like, am I more important, or less important?” said Skywarp, still at a volume that he apparently considered quiet. “Because if you gave me a shitty title, I’m gonna—”
Starscream smacked the back of the Marquess’ helm, which turned the mech’s attention from his title to the tragic possibility of scuff marks.
“We were just about to play a round of elder bachelor,” said Thundercracker, offering Minimus a smile rather more genuine than Starscream’s. “If we’re done arguing about the deck, that is.”
“We weren’t arguing,” said Skywarp, still rubbing sullenly at his helm. “It’s just not a fair deck, that’s all.”
Starscream sighed. “Why don’t we let my darling conjunx be the judge?” He tossed the deck down the table. The magnetic field that held it together broke as they hit the polished tungsten tabletop, scattering the cards in front of Minimus’ placemat. “Well, Mins?”
“Don’t call me that,” said Minimus. Reluctantly, he set down his goblet and began picking up the cards. There was, yes, there was a slight weight difference between the little sheets of metal. The face cards had an extra 0.01 to 0.03 micrograms, and the prime suit had a reversed polarity. Subtle work, cleverly done, but quite obvious to the right optic and a tuned set of hands.
Minimus neatly stacked the cards, then drained his goblet and pushed his chair back. “They seem quite fair to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap.”
He could feel Starscream’s incredulous optics on his back as he turned and went. “Is he really—” began Skywarp, when he probably thought Minimus was out of earshot. He was cut off with another ringing smack.
Minimus trudged back up the staircase. He’d always considered his home a refuge from the inanity of society, but this was his life now, he supposed. At least he had centuries of experience playing dumb to draw on.
It didn’t really matter if Minimus Ambus enjoyed his life, anyway. It was only twelve more hours until Ultra Magnus’ next shift.
---
Ultra Magnus worked cheerfully at his desk, relishing the predictable productivity of completing a few dozen requisition and travel forms. He loved his office, with its simple aluminum furniture and shelving filled with datapads that contained the regulations that forged order out of chaos. The world was mapped out at his fingertips, every action leading inevitably to another. Box 15a to 27c, sign and date, please provide the last forty digits of your source code… Ultra Magnus let out a happy sigh as he completed his stapler refill request and opened the daily commuter reimbursement form.
He was answered by a resentful groan.
“Having trouble?” he asked Detective Prowl, who was hunched over the table in the corner of Ultra Magnus’ office, poking at a datapad with his index fingers.
The datachip Detective Prowl had attempted to destroy had contained records pertaining to an unregistered informant who was providing Detective Prowl with rather unsavory details about government corruption. Detective Prowl seemed to believe that once Ultra Magnus learned about this informant—this Rattrap—he and his partner’s careers and perhaps even their lives would be forfeit.
Ridiculous, really. The penalty for an unregistered informant was nothing more than a ten shanix fine, and, of course, completing the paperwork to register them. Which Detective Prowl was working on under Ultra Magnus’ watchful optic, since the enforcers had apparently been neglecting their protocol training.
“Is it page forty-three?” prompted Ultra Magnus. “The flowchart is a little tricky.”
“No,” said Detective Prowl, quickly. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”
“There’s no need to struggle in silence,” Ultra Magnus assured him. The mech was clearly in need of mentorship from a seasoned bureaucrat. “Here, allow me.”
He leaned over Detective Prowl’s shoulder and plucked the datapad from Detective Prowl’s surprisingly firm grip. The screen displayed… well, not page forty-three, and in fact no pages from the informant registration form at all. It appeared to be a dossier from the central taxation authority.
“I was just taking a break,” said Detective Prowl, trying hopelessly to retrieve his datapad. “I’m working on the form, I just—Someone gave me a tip, and I—”
“The engines of government do not take breaks,” said Ultra Magnus, sternly, and lifted the datapad further out of reach. He allowed himself to indulge his curiosity for a moment, since Detective Prowl clearly needed the time to reflect on his behavior. The dossier detailed a rather nasty case of serial fraud, embezzlement, identity theft, and a score of related petty crimes. There was a photo attached, a seeker sneering at the camera as he held up a datapad displaying the designation ‘Ulchtar.’ Ultra Magnus tilted his helm, considering. The frame was generic, the paintjob unfamiliar, but there was something about the expression—the crook of the nose, perhaps…
“We think he’s linked to the Senate,” said Detective Prowl, leaning in as if confiding a great secret. “Or maybe even the Institute. Someone powerful, anyway. The central surveillance net caught his spark signature in Senator Shockwave’s residence a few days ago, but then it went out of range.”
“Hm.” It was dispiriting, hearing a bright young enforcer babble conspiracy theories. In Ultra Magnus’ experience, the Senate was too argumentative and ineffectual to employ the host of criminals and assassins that dissidents liked to imagine they had at their beck and call. And everyone knew the Institute was just an urban legend. “Is this informant registered?”
Detective Prowl did not have expressions, as a rule, which Ultra Magnus admired. But something about him still crumpled. “I think,” he said, “I think Tumbler registered him…”
“It’s easy enough to check the records,” said Ultra Magnus. “Do you have your informant’s deidentified verification code?”
Detective Prowl did not. Ultra Magnus wrote up another citation, collected another ten-shanix fine, and assigned a second 237-page informant registration form to Detective Prowl’s task list.
“I can rescind the fine if you do turn up that verification code,” he told a very disgruntled Detective Prowl. “Always better to be safe than sorry, I find.”
“I wouldn’t be sorry,” grumbled Detective Prowl. Ultra Magnus chose to ignore that. He took another look at the photo of Ulchtar.
There had been several seekers at Senator Shockwave’s party, hadn’t there?
“May I offer you some advice?” he asked. Detective Prowl glared at him silently, which Ultra Magnus took as assent. “A simple explanation is often the best one. No need to complicate things.”
Detective Prowl redirected his glare to one of the shelving units filled with regulations. Ultra Magnus really wasn’t sure what that was meant to communicate.
---
That evening Starscream was sitting in Minimus’ grand-mentor’s high-backed chair in the third-best living room, his thrusters kicked up on the delicately engraved table. His cronies weren’t anywhere to be seen, and in their absence Starscream seemed somehow… diminished. As if his brash arrogance was simply a costume put on for an audience, to be discarded when he went backstage.
Minimus stood in the doorway, half-hidden by the shadows and his navy-blue dressing robe, and watched as Starscream tapped idly at a datapad. Starscream’s optics dimmed as he took a drag on his cygar, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment before pursing his lips and making a lazy attempt at a smoke ring.
He was handsome, Minimus thought, if one went in for that sort of thing. His gold detailing highlighted the strong curves of his armor and the sharp planes of his face. Warbuilds were always on the heady edge of taboo attraction, at least in civilian-dominated Iacon. Minimus had seen more than enough senators with a tank or a troop carrier on their arm at the opera. Or dangling from their much larger companions’ arms, as the case may be. Minimus wondered if Starscream had ever seen military service, or if the armor was only a fashionable prop.
Starscream’s lips curved around his cygar again, his bottom lip dimpling under the thick cylinder. Minimus dragged his gaze up to Starscream’s distinctively-broken nose. He adjusted his visual filters, giving Starscream the optic-searing green and pink paint of Detective Prowl’s dossier photo. Yes. Yes, he thought—
Starscream tipped his hand to the side and tapped his thumb against his cygar, sending a few drops of molten metal to burn holes in the antique hand-woven rug.
“There is an ashtray, you know,” said Minimus, unable to stop himself and barely able to moderate the venom in his tone.
Starscream’s wings flicked up and his armor fluffed out, but his expression didn’t change. “Is that an ashtray?” he said mildly, nudging the little carborite dish on the table with his foot. “I thought the drones had forgotten to fill the candy bowl.”
“I don’t eat sweets,” said Minimus, stiffly. “And I’d prefer if you didn’t burn the house down, so if you don’t mind—”
“Dear Minimus, let’s not fight.” Starscream leaned down and set his cygar in the ashtray, flicking the heating element off as he did so. “Come and have a seat, tell me what you’ve been up to. I haven’t seen you since yesterday. Oh, and I had a few questions about the Ambus line of inheritance—nothing pressing, just something the Marquess was asking about—”
Minimus considered it, for a moment. It would be an opportune time to subtly ask about the details of Starscream’s background, his possible connections to this Ulchtar character, any criminal activity… The seating options in this room were all too large to be really comfortable, but he could have one of the drones bring a chair from the second-best living room—
Starscream caught his optic and leaned back in his seat, patting his thigh with a smirk. “I kept my lap warm for you, Mimsy.”
Minimus felt his face surge with heat. “I don’t,” he sputtered, “ridiculous, I—” He clamped his mouth shut and discreetly fled before he could embarrass himself further.
“I was joking!” yelled Starscream, after him. “Come on, sweetspark, don’t be such a—”
Minimus slammed the door to his wing shut, cutting off his conjunx’s voice. He stood there with his back against it, shuddering a little as his simulation circuits conjured up disturbing images of him perched on Starscream’s knee. Of course that was what the mech wanted—someone small and sweet and biddable to fawn over his every word. Disgusting.
Clearly Minimus Ambus was entirely unsuited to this task. Other measures would need to be taken.
Minimus offlined his optics and called up Ultra Magnus’ calendar.
---
Ambustia Manor was an intimidating building, when viewed from the outside. Perfectly manicured crystal gardens led to a soaring edifice of copper. The aged green patina did not scream old money, but only because it would never do something so gauche as raise its voice. It murmured it humbly instead.
Mnemosurgeon third class Tumbler shifted uneasily on the front landing, in stark contrast to Detective Prowl’s ramrod-straight posture.
“I still don’t really understand why we’re here,” he said.
“It’s important to never interview a witness or a potential suspect alone,” said Ultra Magnus. His internal timer went off and he rang the doorbell again. “And it’s a good opportunity for you to learn proper interview techniques and informant management.”
“But you’re not from our precinct,” said Tumbler. “You’re not even in our chain of command.”
This was a valid point. Ideally, Ultra Magnus would have identified a qualified senior officer to mentor Prowl and Tumbler and guide them in the ways of ethical public service. It was unsettling to realize that no one sprang to mind.
But Ultra Magnus was more likely to meet the corrupt, the unprincipled, and the unsavory in the course of his work. Surely there were dozens—hundreds—of upstanding officers who would serve as good role models for these young mechanisms. It was purely Ultra Magnus’ failing that he couldn’t think of any.
“I’m not keeping you here,” he said, pushing away his discomfort. “If you would prefer to return to my office and continue filing your informant registry forms—”
“No,” said Prowl, quickly. “We’re very grateful for the opportunity, sir.”
Tumbler started to say something else, but Prowl trod on his foot in a furtive way that Ultra Magnus probably wasn’t meant to notice. He obligingly averted his optics and raised his hand to ring the doorbell a third time.
The door was yanked open before he got the chance. Starscream leaned out, wings held high, a trio of serving drones bumping against his heels. “Yes?” he demanded sharply. “What is it?”
“Winglord Starscream?” asked Ultra Magnus. “My designation is Ultra Magnus, head of internal investigations. My colleagues are Mnemosurgeon third class Tumbler and Detective Prowl of the Iacon Enforcers. May we come in?”
Starscream’s optics flickered over them. “That’s who, not what,” he said.
“We’d just like to ask you a few questions,” said Ultra Magnus. This was the sort of equivocating language that one used when there wasn’t a warrant to be had, and Starscream seemed to know it. But after a long moment he stepped to the side and waved Ultra Magnus in.
“My conjunx is still in his rooms,” said Starscream, leading the way to the second-best sitting room. “Lazing away the afternoon, as usual. I can send a drone to retrieve him.”
“There’s no need,” said Ultra Magnus. There was one mid-sized chair in this sitting room, which Starscream promptly took. Prowl and Tumbler crammed themselves into the minibot-sized chairs, which left Ultra Magnus with the choice between the chaise longue or standing.
He assumed an easy parade rest and turned to face Starscream. “This is a routine inquiry,” he assured Starscream. It was true, because he routinely investigated fraud cases. “Can you tell us a little about how you found yourself in Iacon?”
“Please sit down, Enforcer Magnus,” said Starscream, languidly. “I’ll strain a cable looking up at you.”
Reluctantly, Ultra Magnus sat. The chaise longue creaked a warning when he briefly attempted to rest his weight on it, so he widened his stance and locked his knees, hovering over the cushions in a deep squat. He hoped it didn’t look as awkward as it felt.
Starscream’s optics slowly tracked over Ultra Magnus’ frame, lingering on the broad thighs that Ultra Magnus could feel beginning to tremble. “What was the question again?”
“How you found yourself,” began Ultra Magnus, but then Starscream snapped his fingers.
“Right. Well, there was a revolution in Vos, I’m sure you heard of it? So there I was, fighting off a dozen rabid tradesmechs, each of them armed with the energon-stained mining picks they’d just used to cave in the helms of my closest friends and family—”
Ultra Magnus tuned out the (probably entirely spurious) story and focused on Starscream’s face. Some mechs claimed that you could spot a lie in the hue of a mech’s optic, but Starscream’s remained a brilliant crimson throughout. His gestures were expansive, his expression open and honest. His voice wasn’t low and sultry, the way he spoke to Minimus Ambus, but still smooth and pleasant to listen to. He never hesitated, stumbled, or repeated himself.
The consummate confidence mech, in fact.
“Do you know a mech designated Ulchtar?” said Ultra Magnus, interrupting Starscream in the midst of his thrilling tale of escape.
“Ulchtar?” Starscream tapped his lip. “What an ugly name. It doesn’t sound familiar, but—”
“He’s a Vosian felon,” said Ultra Magnus. “You—that is, the winglord—refused a parole request from him shortly before the revolution.”
“Did I?” Starscream’s expression remained open and honest. “It’s all a haze of bureaucracy, I’m afraid.”
“I see.” Ultra Magnus carefully leaned back until his armor brushed the backrest of the chaise longue. “You were telling us about your escape from the Mist Dungeons.”
“Oh, yes,” said Starscream, and then went off again. Ultra Magnus listened with half his attention, the other half being devoted to remaining in his squat and not crushing the chair. Beside him, Prowl was fidgeting in his seat—a bad habit, clearly learned from Tumbler. Ultra Magnus wasn’t surprised when Prowl abruptly stood up.
“Sorry,” he said. “I think—I have something stuck in my wheel well. Is there a detailing room I can use?”
“Down the hall, second door on the left,” said Starscream—which was the disused servant’s detailing room, Ultra Magnus noted. He wasn’t sure if it even had running solvent.
“Tumbler, come help me,” said Prowl, grabbing Tumbler’s wrist.
“What?” said Tumbler. “I don’t—”
“I can’t reach,” said Prowl, firmly, and tugged him away.
That left Ultra Magnus alone with a suspect, which was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. He looked uneasily at Starscream, wondering how long Prowl’s problem could be expected to take.
“Are you going to fall?” asked Starscream, leaning back in his chair. “You can stand up if you need to, I’m not a monster.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ultra Magnus, who at this point wasn’t sure if he could stand up at all.
“If you break the chaise it’s no great loss,” said Starscream. “It belongs to my conjunx. The whole house does, actually.”
“Oh?” Ultra Magnus tried to lean forward, but he’d have to unlock his knees to do so, and unlocking them would lead to falling. “What’s your conjunx like?”
“Mims?” Starscream produced a cygar from his subspace. He didn’t turn it on, just ran his thumb over it thoughtfully. “Beautiful, of course, money, wits, I’m very lucky. But…”
Ultra Magnus nodded encouragingly.
“Do you ever look at a mech,” said Starscream, “and think just how easy it is to waste away a life?”
Ultra Magnus felt—he felt like something was stuck in his throat, which was impossible. He cleared his intake, opening his mouth to say—he didn’t know what, but—
“Magnus!” yelled Prowl.
Some unknown reserve of energy propelled Ultra Magnus forward, out of his squat and into the corridor. Prowl’s voice was coming from the second floor, and Ultra Magnus thundered up the stairs, Starscream close on his heels.
“I’m here,” said Prowl, waving a hand from where he and Tumbler were—were standing at the open door to Minimus Ambus’ bedroom.
“You’re not allowed up here without a warrant,” said Starscream, at the same time as Ultra Magnus said, “this is an illegal search.”
Prowl waved them both off, looking grimly triumphant. “I thought it was suspicious that the homeowner was still asleep in the middle of the day, so I asked the drones to take me to his rooms. Tumbler scanned for EM signals, but there weren’t any, so I broke open the door.”
“You broke open a locked door in my house?” demanded Starscream. Tumbler had the grace to look embarrassed.
“Yes,” said Prowl, meaningfully. “A door to an empty room, locked from the inside.”
The four of them looked in. The bed curtains were pulled back, displaying the neatly made covers. Silicate blew in from the open window.
“Minimus Ambus,” said Prowl, “has been kidnapped.”