Chapter 4 - Pilfered

Ankmor

Flare circled over head in a wide orbit as ordered. Krusher and Burnout had landed among the wreckages that consisted of Hookshot, Steele and Roadtrain. Burnout scanned the area, making full use of all his scanning equiptment, searching for any signs of Crash. Krusher's crew were of no interest to him, so he largely ignored them as they lay battered and twisted on the metallic ground. He eventually crouched down beside Hookshot and gave an experimental prod to a piece of exposed circuitry, causing the semi-offline Constructicon's limb to twitch and spark. His optics flickered red, then flared to dull life.
''Constructicon.'' Burnout rumbled impatiently. ''Where is the Decepticon designated Crash.''
Hookshot remained silent, processor reeling painfully. Flashpoint wasn't as flimsy as he made himself out to be...
When Burnout gave another, more solid poke to the same spot, Hookshot let out a low, moaning electronic squeel, tilting his head to one side as pain registered in his damaged arm.
''Dunno 'bout no Crash...'' He muttered, his voice tinny and distant.
Burnout rose steadily to his feet, keeping his angry red optics on the felled Crane.
''You are useless, Constructicon.'' He growled. ''Crash assigned himself to your convoy-''
''And he didn't show up.'' Krusher butted in.
Burnout turned to look at his fellow Decepticon as he loomed over the unmoving body of Roadtrain, who was still in vehicle mode.
''He must've been ambushed on his way to meet them.'' He continued.
Burnout made an odd, dismissive noise.
''Then these Autobots of yours must be as cunning as you said. Crash isn't one to be easily overcome.'' Burnout rumbled.

Overhead, Flare banked sharply and darted off into the distance. A few moments later, she came back.
''I've found Crash! He's just west of here, and looks to be damaged!'' She called to them before darting away again.
''You take care of your unit and I'll take care of mine.'' Burnout said, halting Krusher's next movements. ''Until we meet again...'' He smiled pleasantly and took off after Flare.
Krusher watched them go. He was now on his own, with three downed Decepticons that needed to be shifted back to base. He looked down at Roadtrain as the transporter started to laborously unfurl his armour to lay sprawled and defeated on his back.
''You lost the SPACE BRIDGE!!'' Krusher howled, administering a swift, solid kick to Roadtrain's dented side.
''Not... M'fault...'' Roadtrain muttered, his voice being disrupted by static. ''Ambushzzzzzzzz...''
The old mech twitched then lay still, red optics staring skyward.
From somewhere behind, came the sound of metal grating against metal, and the laboured sounds of mechanical limbs trying to move properly and fluidly. Krusher cast a disdainful look over an armoured shoulder and at the scarred and dented form of Steele, who was desperately trying to rise to his feet. The Constructicon managed to make it as far as kneeling before less-than-gracefully collapsing again. Krusher grumbled and shook his head.
''Jetstream!'' He transmitted angrily.
There was a moment's pause. Then:
''Sir?'' Was the careful reply.
''I'll be needing some help with getting these three back to base. They're badly damaged and can't move under their own power.''
''I'm on my way.'' Jetstream said before cutting the line of communications off.
Krusher gave one last kick to Roadtrain and walked toward where the more online form of Steele sat, rubbing at his head.
''Some experienced chief of transport you turned out to be.'' He growled as he walked away.
Roadtrain groaned in reply.


Nymex 3 - Furman Household

Sat at the crowded kitchen table, Poppy and Lee sat, prodding at their food. Neither Fox looked happy, their daily expressions and postures suggesting depression and lack of sleep. It had been yesterday morning that they'd got the phone call. Their mother had gone into a coma, her head injuries more severe than the doctors had first anticipated. It was a saturday, their father was at work and they had the company of their aunt Mavis whilst their grandparents were at the hospital. Mavis shuffled into the kitchen, a basket full of laundry in her thick arms, large, orange tail swaying busily behind her as she moved. All had been occupying their minds in any manner they could find. The basket was dumped on the tattered linoleum floor before the washing mashine. The greying vixen crouched stiffly before the squat, ugly machine and pulled the door open, eliciting a wet creek from the rusting hinge. She experimentally wiggled the door a few more times, gaining the same noise with each movement. She tutted and bundled the dirty laundry into the large drum before closing the door and administering the powder and liquid softener to the draw, which was half full with water and had sticky clumps of the cheap washing powder stuck in the corners.
''This poor thing's overworked.'' She muttered. ''Hasn't your mother considered getting a new one?'' She asked when the machine laborously started to move with a low groan and a wet gurgle.
''Too poor.'' Lee muttered.
''It's the only one we've had that's outlived its warranty. Never needed to call the repairman out, either.'' Poppy added in a detached tone as she prodded at her cold pile of mash.
''That and dad keeps drinking his wages, so we can't afford anything new.'' Lee added sourly, hunching over his half eaten dinner.
Mavis planted her paws on her hips, lips twisted in a disapproving pout.
''Your father needs something else to think about, other than booze.'' She grunted. ''How much longer is he going to be out?''
The twins looked at her, tired eyes suddenly alert.
''You know he's the one who put mum in the hospital, right?'' Lee said pointedly.
''Oh, I know. I've known what he's like since the day she met him. And it's about time someone turned the tables on him, don't you?'' She said gruffly and marched into the living room. ''I shall stay up for as long as it takes for him to crawl back home.''
She then sat down on the sofa and picked up her knitting project and started clicking away with purpose.


Come midnight, the children were still awake, sat downstairs in the small living room with their aunt. Poppy was reading a book and Lee was playing video games on his handheld console. Mavis was still industriously knitting away, a half formed stripey scarf reaching down past her thick knees and almost touching the shoddily carpeted floor. Poppy yawned widely, half heartedly shielding her mouth with the back of a brown paw. The front door clicked open. A moment later, George appeared, black tie hanging loosely around his neck and white shirt partially untucked. Mavis rose from her seat on the sofa, depositing her knitting down in its small carry basket. George gave her a sozzled look, one ear up, the other tilted. In the kitchen, the washing machine slowed to an inconspicuous halt, water draining prematurely as it forgot about its fourth load of the day. All eyes - and a set of hidden optics - were on George and Mavis.
''What yoo doin' up sho layte?'' He asked slowly, eyeing up the three foxes who stared at him.
Mavis smiled as politely as she could.
''We wanted to see you off.'' She said sweetly.
''Whut?'' George asked mildly miffed as he swayed on the spot, reaching a paw out to grab ahold of the banister on the stairs to steady himself.
''You're leaving. Tonight.'' Mavis continued, more firmly. ''Your bags are packed and I've payed for a room at the Moto-Motel for a couple of nights.''
George's brow furrowed and he swivelled awkwardly on the spot, eyeing up the two duffel bags and the single suitcase that were stacked neatly behind the front door.
''Oh! Sho, yoo shtill fink dat ah'mma... Ah'mma... Wife beater, ryte...?'' He then laughed drunkenly. ''Dun be sho fracken' stoopid, ya old hag!''
There was a solid crack as Mavis slapped George across the face with all the force she could muster, sending him sprawling to the floor. He pulled himself into an awkward sitting position once the dark spots had cleared from his vision and rubbed at the side of his face, tongue licking across the inside of his cheek.
''One: I don't think. I know you give my sister a good hiding everyday. And two, if you dare insult me or raise a finger to these kids or Julie ever again, I will have your hide, understand?!'' She growled angrily as she encroached on him to loom over him.
George looked up at her, wide eyed, and suddenly feeling a touch sober.

''Didchoo jus'...?'' He mused as he rubbed his cheek. ''I din't fink you 'ad it in yer...'' He smiled. It wasn't a particularily pleasant smile either.
''Remove yourself from this house or I will have you removed by force.'' She said brusquely.
''Or we'll set the washing machine on you.'' Poppy giggled from behind her book.
George's eyes narrowed on his daughter and he pulled himself upright. He took a step toward her and there was an odd gurgle and grinding noise in the kitchen. George stopped dead and cast a look into the kitchen. The offending appliance was just visible above the table top, the long table cloth hiding the rest of it from his view. The machine twitched and a small, red light on the control panel flickered.
I'll have your hide... He thought numbly. I'll strip the flesh from your bones...
George shuddered. He didn't know who he wanted to take his chances with. The police, Mavis or the washing machine that he'd somehow once managed to persuade himself was just an illusion. He muttered something unintelligable, turned and grabbed his bags before hauling them awkwardly out of the front door. There was a moment's silence until the sound of tiny plastic wheels rattling across the pavement had vanished into the distance. Lee looked at his aunt, who still stood in place, before the front door.
''Why didn't you use that brass ornament to brain him?'' He asked bluntly.
''Because it doesn't have the same satisfying sound as actually hitting him, deary. And anyway, it's only fitting we make his life in this town as miserable as possible.'' She said blankly.
Completely agreed, Aunty Mavis... Spinner sneered to himself.
''Right then. Off to bed you two. We're going to the hospital in a couple of hours.'' She said and ushered them off upstairs whilst she locked the house up.

Lights were clicked off and the house went dark and silent. Under the sideboard in the kitchen, the washing machine went about its daily routine. Two spindly feet emerged from two holes at the back of the machine and it pushed itself forward from its cubbyhole, water pipes and the power cable detaching from the wall and taps. Panels shifted and folded in upon themselves like a form of mechanical origami and the new form stood in the kitchen and stretched all limbs, each joint squeeking in protest of lack of movement. Dirty water dribbled from his chest cavity and Spinner pulled a long, stripey sock out from between his chest plating. Red optics focused on the piece of sopping wet, brightly coloured material before discarding it with disinterest. The sock landed against the opposite wall with a wet slap and slid down into the cat's basket.
''Moto-Motel...'' Spinner mused quietly as he scanned the kitchen. ''Where have I seen that before...?''
He silently made his way across to the living room and started to rummage through a stack of papers and books that had been deposited on the small table the phone occupied. After a moment of careful searching, he pulled a thick, yellow book from the pile and swiftly searched the flimsy paper pages of sickly yellow with nimble talon-like fingers. He slapped a hand down on a page about halfway through his browsing with an affirmative grunt. In the center of the page, was the advert for the Moto-Motel, containing the phone number and adress. The establishment was on the outskirts of Bresham, to the west. It was a main road and George was drunk. Accidents, even in the early stages of morning, could happen. Spinner slapped the book shut and slid it back into place, rearranging all the papers and phone books, placing them back in their previous positions. He checked the time. Then he crept toward the front door, rubbing his spindly claws together, a low, squeeking electric chuckle filtering out into the darkness. He cast a quick look up the stairs and listened. No movement. Just the snores that accompanied the dark hours of every day. Spinner proceeded to pry open the door, the simple lock clicking open under his precise fiddlings. He silently cracked the door open and slid out into the crisp, spring night.

Looking up and down the street, he plotted the most likely course that the organic would take. Lowering himself to the ground, bracing himself with his hands, Spinner inspected the slight trails in the thin frost that covered the ground. Powerful specialized optics homed in on the ice. There was, indeed, a fresh trail. Sticking to all-fours, the Decepticon followed the trail, alloyed face just inches from the cold ground, his other senses reaching outward, searching for any signs of life that may disturb him from his tracking. Halfway down the road, something in the back of his mind bleeped meekly. A small symbol slowly materialized in the bottom right of his vision. Spinner faultered in his movements. A message? He thought and hurridly continued with his current task. No one's made contact with me since... No... No, no, no! Carjack's offline. Permanently. He insisted to himself. But someone had sent him a message. As he continued inspecting George's trail, he took a hesitant look at the message.
If you wish to be reinstated into the Decepticon ranks without repurcussions for your previous crimes, then I suggest you find your way back to Cybertron while the boss is still in a good mood.
Reply to this message if you intend on taking this generous offer up.
- Turbulance
Spinner stopped in his tracks. He bounded off the pavement and skittered into the shadows of an alley opposite. Had he really just read that? He re-read the message numerous times. He inspected it's validity several times. It was definately from a Decepticon called Turbulance. The name rang a bell, but he couldn't place it. The message was five days old, but genuine. Spinner crouched, sitting on his metallic heels, a finger tapping thoughtfully at his chin. After several moments of hard thinking, he composed his first message in decades.
Offer accepted. I'll locate Carjack's remains and utilize his personal Space Bridge. I'll transmit once I'm back on Cybertron.
- Spinner
He sent the message and clacked his fingers together nervously. His Spark fizzed in his chest with an unexpected flux of anxiety. It could still be a trap to lure back all the renegades and run-aways to re-programme them. Or even to dispose of them.... Oh slag, I hope this isn't a trick... He thought nervously.

It'd been too long since he'd seen his home planet. And the run-in with Carjack had only ignited his need to be surrounded by his fellow mechs once more, be they enemy or not. It was something he desired. He had caught himself growing too fond of the organics, and he'd decided that it needed to be changed; that his feelings towards the slow creatures must be altered at all costs. He was a Decepticon, not an Autobot, and he intended on keeping it that way. After a moment, he shook his head and set about tracking George once more, in a hope that he might be able to catch up to him before he reached the motel. It had also dawned on Spinner, the closer he got, that the infernal Fox's place of work was close to the Moto-Motel. And, after a quick inspection of the labratories and their grounds after the incident in town some years ago, he'd learned that they were keeping Carjack's fractured remains there, piecing his damaged body back together like some kind of giant jigsaw puzzle.
It would indeed be a full night. Spinner proceeded to pick up the pace, rounding another corner and crossing the road. When he looked up again, he could see the motel sat hunched and faceless on a dark corner beneath the overhead by-pass. A single sign was lit up above the carpark entrance, Moto-Motel written in sparking, illuminated blue lettering pointing out the ugly building.
Nice choice Mavis. Spinner thought and skittered across to the overgrown shrubbery that lined one side of the carpark, his metallic feet clicking and clacking against the splitting tarmac and pavement.
He dived into the cover of the hagard bushes and circled around the side of the building carefully, optics searching. There was a click, and a sour, familiar grumble. George was fiddling around with a key, trying to force it upside-down into the scarred lock of a door. After a moment's swearing, he finally managed to open the door and he staggered into the darkness beyond, trailing his bags with him. The light flicked on, the door slammed shut then after a few seconds, the light went out again. A quiet hissing emenated from Spinner's vocal processor. He looked around and sprinted across the half empty carpark, toward the room that George occupied. He peered through the window, just barely able to see the dark room beyond the drawn curtains through a slit in the ageing material. The Fox had passed out on the sofa, his luggage discarded by the shoddily constructed dinner table. Spinner sidled across to the door, had another look at his surroundings and proceeded to carefully pick the lock. The door clicked. Spinner carefully prodded it open and stepped inside, locking the door behind him.

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