CHAPTER TWO
Rodimus wasn't sure what it was, but things were deathly quiet on the Carcerian ship.
He had yet to put his finger on as to why. Even Swerve hadn't said any more than ten words, which had to be some sort of record for him. Chromedome and Rewind would quietly murmur to themselves every now and then, but beyond that, it was silent.
Perhaps it was because they were being accompanied by the one bot who called himself Ultra Trion, one of the many not-so-welcoming bots from Carcer. The fact that his appearance and name were a combination of Ultra Magnus and Alpha Trion was definitely not lost on anyone, and the fact that he had hardly spoken a word about it didn't exactly warm anyone to him.
Or it could simply be the fact that the Necrobot was such a touchy subject, whether because of beliefs or other reasons, and so most of them simply found it wiser to keep their mouths shut so as to not push any buttons.
That was probably for the best. After everything that had happened so far, some peace and quiet was much needed.
He just wasn't sure he could take much more of it though.
"Are we getting any closer yet?" he said to Ultra Trion, who sat at the controls of the ship.
"Nearly so," the old mech said. "Whatever planet this Necrobot is on, it is well outside the perimeters of known space. I do hope these coordinates are correct and we don't end up getting sucked into a black hole."
"Well, if we do, just remember: you volunteered to come with us. You could have very easily just said no or leave us with your ship."
Trion scoffed. "If you take us as that trusting, then I'm afraid you don't know us as well as you think you do."
"Well, no, I don't," Rodimus admitted. "Because you haven't told us anything about who you are or where you guys come from or--"
"Oh, would you look at that," Trion said, going for a button that had started blinked. "We're finally here."
Rodimus rolled his optics at what he considered the most weakest and patronizing diversion tactic there ever was but kept quiet as the ship came out of hyperspace.
The planet that was the supposed location of the Necrobot was... not at all what Rodimus was expecting. With a name like "Necrobot," he naturally imagined something grim and evocative of death. Instead, the planet was a very vibrant shade of blue, practically glowing with energy. From afar, it almost looked like a giant spark.
Now that he thought about it, that might have been the point. Whoever this Necrobot was, he or she seemed to enjoy being on the nose.
"How many life signs do you count, Minimus?" Rodimus asked.
"It's... a bit difficult to pinpoint," Minimus Ambus replied. "The energy the planet's outputting makes it very tricky... but the most concentrated amount is coming from here." He pointed to specific spot on the navgrid. "My guess is that the Necrobot -- or whoever is living on this planet -- will be there."
"Then let us not waste any more time," Ultra Trion said as he advanced the ship towards the mysterious world.
* * *
In his dreams, Punch remembered Harmonex.
The Singing City they called it. And sing he did; for as long as he could remember, he had performed on the stage, providing hundreds upon thousands of Cybertronians with experiences they would not forget. Harmonex birthed and shaped him. It was as much a part of him as his spark, brain module, or transformation cog.
It just figured that the Decepticons had to take that away from him as well.
Cycle 8841. Nearly three decades into the war. He had been stationed at Burthov when he received the news, just before the 'Cons attacked his post as well. Consumed by rage, he had led his entire unit to their deaths and nearly lost his own life as well. Had it not been for reinforcements called at the last minute, he would have still been left impaled upon a girder.
When he came to, he found himself in the good graces of the Autobot Secret Service. While repairing him, they found that his t-cog had an extremely rare mutation; one that could allow him to assume a second robot form. Not quite to the extent of a Shifter's abilities, but useful enough that the Secret Service had an interest in him.
It was on that day that Punch joined the Secret Service... and Counterpunch was born.
As a performer, Punch was used to portraying an array of different personalities. Counterpunch was no different... at first.
Initially it was simple enough. He would gather intelligence as Counterpunch and relay it to the Autobots as Punch. In then out. Easy as that.
But then something happened. He wasn't quite sure when exactly the change started, but before he knew it, Counterpunch had become a persona all on his own. Although he would continue to provide High Command with info, Counterpunch started doing things Punch would never do, such as torturing other Autobots and slaughtering organics. He tried to tell himself that it was all necessary to make his act as convincing as possible. But deep down, he knew that was no longer the truth.
Because as much as it revolted him to admit it, he enjoyed it. Or at least, Counterpunch enjoyed it. But he was Counterpunch. Wasn't he?
He was now at the point where he could no longer discern reality from fiction. Was he an Autobot spy playing as a Decepticon? Or was he just an alias for a Decepticon spy?
Was everything he knew about himself a lie?
Was he even real?
Sooner or later, you're going to have to accept the truth.
Punch frowned at the voice in his head. "Shut up. The last thing I need right now--"
At this point, it's the only thing you need. If you don't face facts now and give up, you're going to be tormenting yourself for all eternity.
"I wouldn't be in this torment if it wasn't for you," Punch growled.
You're right. If it weren't for me, you'd have never existed.
"You have that backwards."
Do I? Tell me, have you ever met anyone else from Harmonex?
Punch was silent.
No one? Not even anyone who's visited Harmonex at least once? Anyone?
Punch remained silent.
Because it never existed. It was yet another lie atop a mountain of fabrications that makes up your very existence.
"And how do I know you're not lying?" Punch retorted.
You should know. After all, you created me, didn't you? Are you not confident in the truth you've made?
Punch opened his mouth but stopped himself. What was he doing? He was arguing with himself. Literally. What was he turning himself into?
You tell me. You're the actor.
Suddenly, the door to his cell opened and Punch looked up to see a red and yellow mech standing in the entrance.
"On your feet, traitor," Firecracker said venomously. "Chief wants to see you."
Punch frowned. Something wasn't right. All of this felt... too familiar. Like it had happened to him before.
Remember Athenia.
His optics went wide as he was forced to his feet. Yes, this had happened before. Twenty-eight years ago to be precise.
And he was being force to live through it again.
* * *
Counterpunch could hear fighting coming from outside.
Well, "fighting" was putting it lightly. In all honesty, it sounded more like a bloodbath. Which was all well and good; he just wished he was taking part in it as well.
The sounds were getting closer, he noticed. Close enough to hear energon being splattered and what sounded like a harpoon of sorts skewering its victims. Whoever it was behind the slaughtering, they were coming for his cell.
He wondered what would await him when the door opened. Death, perhaps? Another session of torture? Energon goodies?
Whatever his expectations, they did little to compare to the sight that did greet him when the cell door finally opened. The bulky, purple and yellow mech stood before him with a harpoon-hand drenched in energon. A trail of dead Decepticons laid behind him.
"Oh wow," was all Counterpunch could say.
"On your feet," Impactor grunted. "There's a lot more where that came from."
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