Tales of the Intermezzo - POW
                       A Transformers Universe Story
                     copyright 1999 by Dave Van Domelen
                     based on properties owned by Hasbro
=============================================================================

     "intermezzo - n. A brief entertainment between two acts of a play."
          - American Heritage Dictionary

     Treadshot tossed aside the spent pistol.  He hated to treat a gun with
such disrespect, but he really didn't have time for niceties right now.  He
was only barely keeping those damnable micros from flanking him, and they
were making good use of cover.  He grabbed another pistol from the belt slung
around his chest, and wished for the 354,901st time that he'd never
volunteered for that Nucleon project.  What good is being faster and stronger
if you can't transform into your own best weapon anymore?
     Then he heard a crunch behind him.  Outflanked.  He whirled to face the
new attacker....
     Suddenly, he found he couldn't move.
     And he was strapped inside some sort of shell.   
     And he was unarmed.
     Treadshot fought down the panic...it wouldn't do him any good even if he
could move, so get rid of it.
     "Prisoner Number 143," a soothing voice spoke inside his head, tapped
into his comm system.
     "What's going on?" he demanded, then felt foolish.  He knew exactly what
was going on.  The micro had gotten the drop on him, now he was in a prison
pod of some sort.  Getting hauled back to Cybertron, most likely.
     "You are in a re-entry pod, headed for the surface of Penal Colony
Alpha.  You have been judged unfit for re-integration and will spend the
remainder of your life among other Decepticons who would not gracefully
accept the outcome of the Great War."
     Okay, Treadshot frowned inwardly, he was wrong.  Trial was already
over.  "So I'll be left to rust?"
     The voice just continued, obviously a recording or a very simple-minded
computer.  "Motive control will be restored upon planetfall or in the event
of an emergency landing.  Your re-entry pod will then act as a recharging
bay, using the planet's abundant solar energy to maintain your life
functions.  Repaireons will be dropped to the surface periodically to tend to
any injuries you may sustain by mishap or by any unfortunate struggles with
your fellow prisoners.  Your onboard weapon systems have been deactivated if
you had any, to help ensure that you will not pose a threat to your fellow
Decepticons."
     Treadshot smirked.  How low an opinion the micros had of REAL
Decepticons.  There might be the occasional squabbles or power plays, but in
a situation as dire as a prison colony...did they truly think the Decepticons
would fall to such petty infighting during a crisis?  More fools they.
     There was a sharp jerk of the capsule.
     "Atmospheric parachutes have been deployed and the remains of your
heat-shielding have been jettisoned.  The shielding is composed of photo-
decomposing polymers so as to have minimal impact on the environment," the
recording explained.  The real reason, of course, would be to minimize the
amount of raw materials available to the prisoners, Treadshot realized.
Parachutes rather than thrusters, to make sure no one could jury-rig an
escape craft.  No doubt the recharging pod was made of extruded plastics as
well, to keep it from being disassembled and used for weapons and armor.
     A few minutes later...Treadshot inwardly chided himself for continuing
to think in terms of Terran units...the pod thudded down on land.
     "Welcome to your new life, Prisoner Number 143.  Please try to make more
of it than you made of your old life."
     With that, the pod opened and Treadshot felt power surging back into his
limbs.  He sat up and looked around.
     It was, as the Terrans might say, a real acid trip.  No animals were
immediately visible, but there was a great abundance of plant life.  A riot
of color and shape, although most nearby vegetation was low to the ground.
White grasslike plants, purple...shrubs?  And so on.  Obviously this world
had spawned something other than chlorophyll for its photosynthesizing life
forms.  For its native photosynthesizing life forms, he mentally noted,
realizing he'd joined the plants at the dinner table.
     Then he noticed he had more than one shadow.  Suppressing the urge to
make sure no one stood behind him, he looked into the sky.  Two suns visible,
and he'd lay odds there were more under the horizon.  Tricky...if it's never
night, it's harder to figure out where you are in the galaxy by the stars in
the sky.  He supposed it might also have been merciful...if the suns never
all set, the prisoners would never have to worry about energy.
     Energy.
     Treadshot examined his pod, finding the recharging jacks and the
solar collectors built into the front of the sturdy plastic shell.  He
plugged in and checked the current flow.
     Pretty low.  A price paid for durability, perhaps.  But probably another
hobble, to make sure prisoners would need to spend most of their time
recharging.  Just like the plants.
     Then he saw his reflection in the pod's surface and looked down at his
chest.  Where he had once had the root of a gun barrel on his chest, a
remnant of his old transformation, he now had a smooth plate.  Slaggin'
micros didn't trust the Nucleon to keep him crippled, did they?
     Treadshot's audio sensors picked up a roar, like a rocket engine, or
maybe a jet.  A welcoming committee?  He looked to the sky, but saw nothing.
Then the source of the noise suddenly transformed almost right in front of
him, having zoomed in at ground level.  
     "Whoa," Treadshot stepped back and instinctively reached for guns that
weren't there.  The newcomer was painted in garish purple and white
camoflage, fitting in with the local plants, but his form was vaguely
familiar.  "Blast Off?"
     "The same," the Combaticon replied, hefting a rather potent-looking axe
in one hand.  "And you are?"
     "Treadshot.  Or Prisoner Number 143."
     "Forget about the number.  We're not numbers here, we're Decepticons,"
Blast Off replied, then looked at Treadshot's chest.  "Figures they'd
mutilate you."
     Treadshot shrugged.  "Nucleon did it first.  But, say, does everyone
here just get knocked out, tossed in a pod and dumped?" he gestured at the
ground, indicating the whole planet.
     Blast Off chuckled quietly, but not unkindly.  "No, most of us got
trials first.  When we refused to renounce our loyalties and join either the
Maximals or the Predacons, they exiled us.  I suspect a lot of them wanted to
just execute us, but soft-hearted Maximals and a few Predacons with an eye
towards possibly using us in the future insisted on exile instead."  As he
talked, he walked around the area, collecting the discarded parachutes and
idly plucking the support cords off, stuffing the chutes themselves into a
sack at his hip.  With a few deft gestures he wove the cords into a single
rope, then tossed one end to Treadshot.  "Here, tie this to your pod and sit
down in it, I'll tow you back to the Community."
     "Isn't that going to take up a lot of energy?" Treadshot asked as he
secured the line.
     "Sure, but I have it to spare.  Oh, you're thinking of the pathetic
solar converters our jailers gave us.  Don't worry...one of the first things
Onslaught did after we sorted out the pecking order was to pool resources.
Instead of spending all our time recharging in separate booths, we take turns
getting quick-charged.  And when no one needs charging, we use the energy to
run other projects...we're working on a hydroelectric plant.  Too bad we
can't make energon, but we can still store energy the primitive way, like in
water towers.  Letting the jailers control our resources struck the commander
as a stupid move.  Oh, and don't expect to see any repaireons around, we
deactivate them as soon as they arrive and cannibalize them for what few
useful parts they have.  Better to learn how to take care of our own repair
needs than depend on them...especially since they might decide to 'repair'
any improvements we make in ourselves."
     Once the pod was hitched up, Treadshot got in and Blast Off transformed.
But not into his infamous shuttlecraft form, which had once rained death on
Autobots from high orbit.  Instead, he was now a sleek road rocket, with
large rear wheels and an almost invisible front tire.  They took off and
quickly reached impressive ground speeds.
     Blast Off continued over radio, "You'll find they took out your long
range radio.  Probably to make sure no one boosted a long range kit and
contacted offworld sites...and with the extra bonus of keeping us isolated.
THAT didn't work too well," he added sardonically.
     "You mentioned Onslaught...I thought he was killed when Bruticus
stumbled into that trap?" Treadshot inquired, hoping he wasn't stepping on
tender ground.
     "Almost.  The blast did kill Brawl, Vortex and Swindle, and the feedback
shut down the commander's mind so I thought he was dead.  I panicked and
ran," he added with a tone of regret.  "The Autobots held the commander until
the end of the War, then turned him over the the same trials that sent me
here.  Guess they've stopped bothering with the trials now...we got a few
others already who were dropped here without one.  Anyway, once we hooked
back up, the commander figured out how the two of us could form a limited
merger.  I'm his right hand Con, literally.  My thrusters give him the best
weapon on the planet, which is useful for keeping the occasional troublemaker
in line.  But as you'd expect, most of the newcomers accept his authority and
fit right in...I think he's the highest ranking Decepticon to survive and not
turn traitor."
     "I've heard rumors of Soundwave still being on the run out there
somewhere," Treadshot offered.
     "You and everyone else.  But there's also news that Ravage turned
traitor and joined the Predacons...I doubt he'd do that if he thought
Soundwave was still alive," Blast Off countered.
     "Maybe it's deep cover?"
     "Maybe.  I don't want to think about Ravage too much, though.  Even the
thought of pretending to be a traitor turns my stomach."
     Treadshot paused.  "Look, I don't care for any of the crawling little
micros, but it strikes me that the Predacons are at least *like* the
Decepticons, right?  They used to *be* Decepticons, after all."
     "NO," came the vehement reply.  "If anything, they're worse than the
Maximals, because they THINK they're Decepticons.  But everything they've
done regarding this prison shows they're not Decepticons.  From their
misplaced sense of mercy to their refusal to let warriors die with honor to
aiding in programs to keep us separate, afraid and weak...I'd sooner join the
Autobots than the Predacons."
     Treadshot snorted.  "The Blast Off I'd heard of back in Cybertron
wouldn't join the Autobots, that's for sure.  But...you don't really seem to
be the same person."
     "What do you mean by that?"  The question wasn't angry, merely curious
and perhaps a bit cautious.
     "Well...to be honest, everyone always thought of you as a stuck-up son
of a skidplate," Treadshot finally replied.  "And you've probably said more
civil words to me today than you ever did to anyone back on Cybertron.  It's
as if...whatever crawled up your reactor linkage and died was found and
removed."
     There was a moment of radio silence as they bumped and skidded across
the purple and white landscape and speeds approaching that of sound.
     "I suppose there's something to that, Treadshot.  I mean, for as long as
I was part of Bruticus, I held myself aloof, above everyone.  Especially my
teammates.  But now I'm part of the Community.  We have to put aside our
little ego trips and get along if we're going to get at least a moral victory
out of this.  I guess maybe I finally grew up here," Blast Off admitted.
     Treadshot chuckled.  "Maybe you'll want to thank the micros for it if we
ever get off this planet?"
     Blast Off's voice dropped into a low, dangerous hiss.  "Oh, I'll want
to...thank them...all right.  They mutilated me, stole from me the skies and
the stars and thought it was compassion to turn me into the image of an
Autobot.  I begged them to instead remove my personality component and
imprison it...that was a punishment I was accustomed to, at least.  But those
superstitious fools insisted that separating my mind from my 'spark' was
tantamount to murder.  Instead, they did everything they could to break us,
turn us into pathetic little islands...no, into no better than plants,
sitting in the sun and absorbing energy to merely stay alive.  I will not be
potted like a plant.  I will not be stepped on, beaten down, herded,
shepherded, or numbered.  I am a Decepticon, and my life is my own.  The only
question is whether I will be able to find a bomb large enough to thank them
all...and the despicable traitors who have joined them."
     Treadshot shuddered for a moment, the placed his hand to the smooth
plate on his chest.  In a flash of clarity, he realized he was glad he hadn't
been given the choice of joining the Predacons, because then he might never
have known the truth about this place.  Might never have known that he would
gladly help Blast Off drop that particular "thank you" gift....

============================================================================

Author's Notes:

     This actually started when I bought a Blast Off at the flea market the
other day.  It was missing a wing and all its accessories, and I was inspired
to turn it into a land vehicle.  But I didn't feel like totally repainting
it, so I pondered what circumstances might lead Blast Off to take a ground
mode.  I concluded he'd never do it voluntarily, and that led to the idea for
a penal colony where all the Decepticons who neither died nor assimilated
would be dumped.  Another dirty little secret for the Maximals and
Predacons.   As I tinkered with the story, I brought in Treadshot as a new
arrival, so Blast Off would have someone to exposit to.  Originally, the
story would start with Blast Off homing in on a dropping pod, but I ended up
shifting the focus to Treadshot.  I decided that the details of the descent
would make a better story if they happened than if Treadshot told Blast Off
about them.  Plus, it would be less like the typical Beast Wars "hunt for the
stasis pod" episode.
     And yes, when I realized that this had some of the feel of "The
Arrival," I did go back and tweak the story to add more of a "The Prisoner"
feel.  "Chimes of Big Bot" next?  }->