"One Man's Junk", Updated 2/25/06 with part 6 Options

[newsy891]

Reposting here, with a fresh update just for you! (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-hotrod.gif)
Eventually I hope to dump all of my previous fics into a LiveJournal account, so those of you who either want to read them, want to read them again or want a reference point can access them in one stop. Not today, though.

This story continues in the movie timeline with a look at the Junkions' homeworld. To refresh you real quickly, Magnus and Co. have just crashed on the Junk Planet. Kup and Hot Rod have apparently just bought it, but we can't deal with that now. (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-fire.gif)

Woelffen, the creation of my good buddy darkwoelf and the only fan character in my core cast who hasn't gotten a spotlight piece yet, gets one here, yay! You know the other fan characters by now: Drivaaar's Quartz, Rebelshoe's Bandit and my own Headline.

Thanks also to a bunch of you for giving me helpful tips on writing Junkions... I hope I can make those suggestions pay off, in what I hope will be a less dark piece than you're used to from Miss Makes-Blackarachnia-Look-Like-An-Optimist. (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-arcee.gif)

So here again is part 1 of One Man's Junk. Enjoy!

***

The shuttle creaked and wobbled precariously under our weight. None of us dared move a gear… until Springer rose cautiously to test the stability of our rough landing.

Bad idea.

All nine of us – eight Autobots, one human – involuntarily yelped in surprise as the shuttle tipped and finally slid downward. We tumbled end-over-end twice before coming to a welcome, albeit abrupt, stop.

After a few moments, Ultra Magnus, somehow barely scratched despite the fact that the windshield had shattered only arm’s length from him, rose from the pilot’s seat. "Say something… anybody!" he pleaded with the rattled rest of us.

Springer slowly stood up and checked the alignment of his neck and head. "Remind me to give the autopilot a raise."

Arcee looked around the shuttle, now reduced to little more than a cockpit, and searched for our small human passenger. "Daniel?"

"I – I’m okay," the child mumbled unconvincingly, emerging from behind Springer.

I tried to pull myself to my feet, but my equilibrium had yet to return after the eventful flight and even more eventful landing.

"Hey – Headline, you all right?" Quartz asked, concerned, kneeling by my head.

"Fine," I reassured him with a half-smile. "Just don’t ask me to move for a few kliks." Quartz smiled in return and gingerly began lifting me upright. I slowly turned my head to survey my surroundings.

In front of me, Magnus groaned with effort as he shoved against the shuttle door, which was apparently either pinned against planetary debris or crushed shut by our abrupt meeting with the ground. It took a helping hand from Springer to finally force the door to fall open, then separate from its hinges and loudly collapse to the ground.

Behind me, a more muted clattering signaled Daniel’s struggle with the exo-suit his father had worn when he was younger. Arcee dashed back and forth, following the human’s ungainly movements, reaching here and there to catch him as he repeatedly tumbled to the floor.

To my right, Woelffen and Perceptor each extended a hand to Blurr, who appeared to have been the most adversely affected of all of us. He really was more suited to be a ground ‘Bot. The usually perfectly coordinated speedster unsteadily struggled to find his feet underneath him, all the while murmuring, "I hate flying I hate flying I hate flying…"

I cautiously followed the others out of the crushed shuttle, Quartz spotting me from behind, and froze at my first open-air view of the planet. The land was… invisible, really, under an endless collection of unidentifiable broken parts. Everything in visual range was mangled, twisted, rusted, charred.

I gave up trying to take in the entire scene and looked down at my feet… and saw a hand reaching upward from the ground. In shock and fear, I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over Quartz.

The hand stayed still.

My optics traced the vague outline of a severed forearm nearby… then an upper arm, also roughly severed and motionless. I allowed myself a moment of relief that my "would-be captor" was, in fact, quite dead.

I shuddered at the thought that much of the surface may have been made up of discarded shells of fallen Transformers, and I even felt a twinge of guilt at walking over their unmarked graves. Too much time on Earth, I admonished myself, remembering that avoiding treading on the ground above the dead was very much a human custom. Still, I could not help wondering who this anonymous broken husk had been in life. Was this robot a Cybertronian, or a native of this strange world… a victim of age and rust, or a casualty of war?

A comment from Woelffen, already at work trying to repair what was left of the shuttle, broke my concentration. "Hey, Headline, move that skidplate, will ya?"

"I’m coming," I acknowledged.

"No," he corrected me, pointing to the ground. "Move that skidplate."

I followed his hand and saw what had obviously been the hindquarters of a robot blocking Woelffen’s pathway to get underneath the craft. The lupine tech mech’s hands were too full, and possibly too large, to maneuver the precariously positioned piece out of the way without causing the shuttle to fall again.

Ignoring any thoughts of the impropriety of putting my morbid newsroom humor on public display, I joined Woelffen in a hearty laugh. Medics and media have something in common: we both survive the more disturbing aspects of our jobs, the constant presence of violence and death, by occasionally finding a way to poke fun at them.

Perceptor, supervising Blurr’s attempt to weld a damaged panel, cast one nervous optic toward me as I opened the way for Woelffen. The chunk of debris – I chose to ignore the fact that it was a body part – scraped ominously against the shuttle… but to our relief, the craft did not budge.

"I’ve got a bad feeling about this place," Quartz complained.

"Then get down here and help me out," Woelffen bluntly suggested. "The quicker we get this pile o’ parts fixed, the sooner we can get off this… bigger pile o’ parts."

We laughed uneasily at Woelffen’s frank description of our landing site. "You know I’m not much for fixing things," Quartz said, "but if it means getting back in the air…"

"You do all right," Woelffen answered, tossing a wrench in Quartz’s direction. The tool clanked to the ground without Quartz even bothering to try to catch it. The pilot stood frozen, staring at the horizon.

"Hey, kid – what’re you looking at?" I asked.

Quartz pointed at an imposing approaching ship. "Them."

"Decepticons!" Magnus shouted, signaling us to dodge and duck as Galvatron and his minions loudly swooped into view. The intimidating armada circled over us, firing all the way, Galvatron concentrating much of his firepower on the Autobot commander. "We’ve got to draw them off and double back to the shuttle!" Magnus ordered, leading us away from the craft.

Quartz and I pulled Woelffen from underneath the shuttle and began running as soon as he was on his feet. Woelffen, however, lagged behind us, stopping to collect his tools.

"Come on!" I urged him.

"I’m gonna need these," he argued, finally catching up… and just in time. A salvo of laser fire from Galvatron’s fleet of anonymous blue soldiers landed dead center in the shuttle, destroying the craft in a massive cloud of flame and debris.

"There goes the shuttle," Springer observed. In the heat of battle, his frequent statements of the obvious could grate on a mech’s nerves.

"Split up!" Magnus directed us. He took on the Decepticon assault, accompanied by Arcee, Springer, Blurr and Daniel. Perceptor and Quartz darted in another direction, trailed by a few stray Decepticons, leaving Woelffen and me to find another escape route.

"This way," Woelffen urged me, forging a path through a mess of pointed metal.

"Like I have a choice," I mumbled in reply. And truly, I had no choice but to trust his judgment. Fortunately, the old shop-‘Bot seemed to instinctively know his way around the unfamiliar, ever-changing landscape.

As Woelffen continued cutting a path, I noticed that something was missing: enemy fire.

"Where are the ‘Cons?" I nervously asked.

"Dunno," Woelffen shrugged as we crested a hill. "It’s like something’s keeping them awaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!"

"Woelffen!" I yelled, watching him fall headlong downhill – and then losing my footing and hurtling downward behind him.

I skidded to a stop and crashed into Woelffen. "You all right, kid?" he grunted, struggling to roll himself over on his side.

"Fine… as soon as you get off my arm," I groaned.

"Um, Headline… that’s not me on your arm."

I strained to see what had trapped me – and the land itself began to move and come apart… and then to speak.

This post has been edited by newsy891: Feb 25 2006, 02:09 AM

[newsy891]

Thanks to Andrusi for a special contribution to part 2...

***

"Put your head between your knees…"

"And kiss your ass goodbye!"

Strange voices greeted us with laughter and seemingly scripted taunts. Dozens – no, hundreds of oddly built, rusty mechs rose from the jagged landfill of the planet’s surface and encircled us. They’d watched us crash-land into a mound of twisted metal and corroded parts, a description that now fit our shuttle itself. They’d seen Galvatron and his minions arrive noisily in pursuit; they’d observed as Ultra Magnus sent us splitting up and running for cover; they’d seen us slip and tumble into the valley where we lay.

And now, they’d apparently decided we were the bad guys.

We scrambled to our feet and slowly backed away from the still growing group of robots in front of us – only to run into more behind us. The weird mechs formed an impenetrable circle, trapping us inside.

One brown-and-orange mech menacingly approached Woelffen, axe drawn, appearing to challenge him to a one-on-one battle. "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!" the others rhythmically chanted.

"Wait a minute!" I pleaded. "We’re not gonna hurt you! Bah weep… oh slag, what was that?… Listen to me!"

But they weren’t about to listen. The chanting continued as an undercurrent to an unnecessarily loud and completely incomprehensible speech from the challenger. "Introducing the Power Slice Two-Thousand! Cuts through aluminum, ham bones, frozen food, anything with ease. Side effects may include shortness of breath, abdominal pain and muscle weakness. Call today if you’ve been hurt!"

"What the…" I started to say, but I stopped trying to interpret the unusual mech’s even more unusual words for fear that I would blow one too many fuses. The only thing that needed to be understood was plenty clear: the mech was poised to fight, to the death if necessary.

"You want a fight?" Woelffen growled, producing an energon axe of his own. "You got one."

The two robots circled each other, glaring. Then with screams of abandon, they ran at each other full-tilt, their axes clashing and sparking as they met.

A swing-and-block stalemate continued for what seemed like hours. The stranger drew first oil, spinning out of the way of a block and striking Woelffen in the right shoulder to the cheers of the assembled crowd.

Woelffen howled in pain, then steeled himself and retaliated. He faked a swing from the left, then rushed forward and swiped the handle of his axe across his opposite number’s knees. The hit forced the fighter to the ground; a follow-up swing of the axe landed forcefully on his shoulder – disintegrating him into a pile of parts nearly indistinguishable from the rubble that formed the ground.

Panicked murmurs rumbled through the crowd. "Officer down! Officer down! Request assistance! Send backup!"

"Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!" one shouted, rushing toward his broken comrade with a look of concern.

Woelffen, the victor in what appeared to have become a mortal combat, dropped his axe and raised his hands for a truce. The frightened chatter slowly faded into stunned silence.

"Guys," Woelffen addressed the subdued watchers, "I can help you fix him."

"What time is it?" a fembot in the front of the crowd perkily asked.

"Tool time!" the others jubilantly responded.

"Fix him?" I hissed under my breath.

"I’m a medic, Headline. I only fight if someone makes me," Woelffen explained, looking around at the crowd – none of whom looked confused in the least. "And these mechs get it. They’re the same way." He addressed the others again. "What do you say, guys – truce?"

The gangly femme nodded and smiled. "On tonight’s very special episode, the two tribes become one. Can’t we all just get along?"

"I guess that means truce," I commented, taking a knee alongside Woelffen as he began assessing his vanquished opponent’s condition. Seeing the scattered parts, I wondered aloud, "Are you sure Frazier here can be fixed?"

"Sure he can," Woelffen said confidently. "These guys are built… different. And his name’s not Frazier."

"Then why did –"

"They talk different too," Woelffen explained.

"No slag," I snickered. "Sometimes I think they’re just… quoting stuff I’ve seen somewhere else."

"And you’re right." Woelffen placed his hand tools in a somewhat organized layout to his left and began working on the broken mech. "I think they call it talking TV."

"How do you know all this?" I asked.

"I don’t really know," Woelffen admitted. "There’s a lot I don’t remember… I kinda wiped some slag from my memory banks. Maybe I’ve been around these guys before."

"You sure seem to fit in all right," I said, watching a few disjointed mechs pick up tools without prompting and join in the rescue effort. "Guess it was a good idea to grab those before we left, huh?"

"Thought you trusted me by now," Woelffen grinned.

"I know you too well to trust you," I needled him.

"Ah, shaddap." Woelffen playfully punched me in the shoulder. "Now grab a wrench, will ya? I could use some extra hands."

"All… right," I said, hesitating. "I don’t even know where to start, though."

"The hip bone connected to the… back bone," the talkative femme offered in a sing-songy tone. She seemed to be a leader type.

"The back bone connected to the… neck bone," a young-looking mech added, grabbing a tool I didn’t quite recognize and setting to work on his broken comrade’s shoulder blades.

"This a planet full of medics?" I muttered to myself.

"Oh, I’m not a medic," the young mech insisted, without looking up from his work. "But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night."

I shook my head and looked desperately in Woelffen’s direction, hoping he could find some translation in his selective memory banks. "What in the Pit’s a Holiday Inn Express?"

"I got nothin’," Woelffen shrugged. "Come on – help me put his leg back together."

The young mech at the casualty’s shoulder blades agreed… I think. "Act fast! Everything must go by midnight!"

"Huh?" I blankly asked.

"He says we have to work fast," Woelffen informed me with surprising certainty.

"Seems like you’re catching on better than you thought," I complimented him. "Maybe if we’re stuck here long enough, I’ll finally get it."

The fembot, overhearing me, nodded vigorously. "For just three easy payments of nineteen ninety-nine, you too can learn a second language in ten simple audio lessons! Choose from English, Japanese, Cybertronian, Lithonian or TV."

"Offer ends soon! Call now!" the other awkward-looking natives chimed in.

The femme waved sternly toward the others to silence them, then turned toward me with a reassuring look. "Yes, you too can learn to talk TV… just like the Junkions!"

"Junkions," I repeated. "Is that what you call yourselves?"

"By George, I think she’s got it!" crowed an old-looking mech, in an accent similar to Quartz’s. I relaxed and smiled at the sound of the natives’ – the Junkions’ – laughter, this time much more friendly than taunting.

"Doctors – if we don’t do something, this patient will die on the table," Woelffen reminded the others in an uncharacteristically melodramatic tone.

The group around us fell silent; then, the feminine leader figure spoke earnestly and seriously to the rest, pointing confidently at Woelffen. "Take him to Mr. Goodwrench."

"Where’d you pick that up?" I asked Woelffen as we resumed work on the fallen Junkion’s leg.

"Some kinda guilty-pleasure show on Earth," he casually answered. "I think they call it a soap opera."

Quietly and quickly – surprisingly quickly – we worked. These Junkions may have claimed not to be medics, but each of them seemed to be more than capable candidates for a position in Perceptor’s repair bay. One worked at each shoulder, two more on the forearms, two others next to us reassembling the victim’s other leg, and the femme and the accented elder made delicate yet deliberate progress on the torso.

At last, Woelffen motioned to the others to give the wounded mech some space. We stepped back and watched… as the old medic fused one last wire in his former foe’s Spark chamber.

[newsy891]

Part 3, in which I first remind everyone that the Particus bit is entirely Rebelshoe's fault... (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-fire.gif)

***

The battered Junkion’s optics flickered, then dimmed, then flickered again… and intensified, glowing a steady, bright red-orange. He gingerly raised his head and looked around at his relieved friends.

"It’s alive! It’s alive!" a few shouted.

The newly repaired mech raised and inspected his arms, wobbled his legs… gradually sat up… then surprised the oil out of everyone assembled by jumping energetically to his feet with a jubilant exclamation. "Goooooooooood morning, Junkion Planet!"

"How can they do that?" I wondered.

"Easy assembly, only a few ordinary household tools required," the femme replied in rapid-fire salesperson-speak. "Guaranteed for the life of your home or your money back. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!"

I stared blankly at her. "Huh?"

Woelffen, now apparently comfortable speaking the Junkions’ language, joined in the nonsense. "Gentlemen, we can rebuild him."

"We have the technology," the elder confidently added.

"Rebuild…" I mumbled to myself, mentally digging for a translation. "They’re indestructible!" I nervously turned to Woelffen. "Right?"

"Close to it," Woelffen nodded. "You’d pretty much have to slice one of these guys’ Sparks in half to kill him. The rest of their parts are mix-and-match."

"A society built from interchangeable parts," I said, looking with awe at our hosts. "I wonder if that ever gives these guys an identity crisis?"

"On this week’s after-school special, Rivet learns that beauty comes from the inside," the elder said in a slow, easy voice, gesturing toward the femme. Nice of them to finally give her a name, I thought.

"But first," the femme – Rivet – teased, "watch Misengage mix and match again. One man’s junk is his treasure. Stay tuned for This Old Bot!" Misengage… an unusual name for an unusual old mech. It seemed to fit.

Rivet and Misengage stood silent – that seemed to be a rare occurrence on this planet – and smiled invitingly at me. Apparently it was my turn to introduce myself.

I glanced apprehensively around, stalling… then gave TV-talk my best shot.

"And coming up on the news," I tentatively began, mining my memory circuits for the few non-journalistic earth programs I’d ever enjoyed, "a crew of Cybertronians… boldly goes where no mech has gone before. I’m Headline… I’ll have that story next." I pointed subtly toward Woelffen, hoping the others understood. "Back to you, Woelffen."

"You need practice," Woelffen wryly critiqued me. "But not bad for a first try."

Almost pleased with myself, I turned to the just-repaired mech, pulling my camera from my waist and feigning rolling tape. "Sir, may we have your name for the record?"

The boisterous young Junkion suddenly turned stoic, looking straight ahead, almost beyond my camera. "I’m Particus," he melodramatically declared.

"I’m Particus!" another mech shouted from within the crowd.

"I’m Particus!" a third insisted… then a fourth… a fifth.

"Must be a popular name around here," I muttered to Woelffen. "Even if it is sorta weird."

Woelffen shrugged. "It describes 'em pretty well… they're all made of parts."

Attempting to appear unfazed by the fact that a gaggle of mechs apparently shared the same name, I made an uneasy transition to sports reporter, a role I'd never played, and continued my "interview" of Particus – the first Particus, that is. "So, Particus, you think you'll be ready for the big game tonight?" I queried, hoping he'd interpret that as a question about his state of repair.

"Lemme at 'em!" Particus began in a surprisingly squeaky voice that sounded much like a human male in the opening stages of puberty, before continuing in the fast-paced, frantic voice of a commercial pitchman. "It pops out dents, buffs out scratches, makes your old rust bucket look just like new – and all for only twenty-nine ninety-five! Repairs are guaranteed for life or your money back. Call now!"

I smiled and responded with a confused laugh. "Great." Forget it. If I try to understand one more thing these guys say, I'll fry every connection in my central processor.

"He's fine," Woelffen interpreted.

"Good." I grinned wryly. "From now on, you're doing the talking on this planet."

"Probably a good idea, kid," Woelffen needled me. The Junkions followed his lead and laughed heartily, then turned their attention back to Particus and began what looked to be an ebullient celebration.

"How'd you pick their language up so fast, anyway?" I asked Woelffen, more than a little envious of his relative ease with our new friends. "Even if you have been here before… I would've expected it to take longer for you to get it."

"I've always had to blend in quick," the tech mech explained. "Being on Earth for so long… it made me learn to connect with the land, I guess." He paused and winked. "Whether the land's made of actual land or a bunch of spare parts."

"And connecting with the land meant connecting with the natives," I reasoned.

"Maybe. If you think spending millions of years in disguise is connecting."

I dodged a pair of dancing, swinging Junkions and continued, recalling Woelffen's long history as Bandit's protector and confidant. "You've always been a master of disguise, haven't you? Whether it's disguising yourself… or disguising what you know."

"Guess so," he admitted.

"So how come everyone thinks you're so trustworthy?"

"B trusted me. Luna – I mean Phoenix trusted me." Getting used to an old friend's new name was curiously harder for Woelffen than getting used to an entire new language. "Looks like it turned out all right for them."

"Point taken," I laughed as one of the several Particuses tugged at my arm. "Looks like they want us to join the party."

Woelffen grabbed my other arm. "You got something against having a little fun?"

"No," I yelled over the racket around us. "But I can't dance!" The Junkion ignored my protest, twirling me around in a dizzying spin.

The enthusiastic cheering and whooping was unexpectedly silenced by the harsh, piercing voice of a small mech, crying out as he raced toward Rivet. "Hey, laaaaa-dy!"

"What's the frequency, Kenneth?" Rivet asked, looking concerned – and not the least bit offended at having just been called lady instead of the dignified title she appeared to deserve.

"Chief Wreck-Gar needs you at the station!" the little Junkion – Kenneth? – panted. "Ten-forty in progress! We've fallen and we can't get up! Mayday! Mayday!"

"Chaaaaaaaarge!" Misengage, fully convinced of the gravity of the situation, desperately urged Rivet.

"Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!" Rivet commanded. On her orders, the crowd transformed as one into a fleet of two-wheeled vehicles and took off with a deafening roar.

"I thought she was the chief," I grumbled as Woelffen and I transformed to follow the horde of Junkions. "And what in the Pit's a Wreck-Gar… and what kinda name is Kenneth?"

"Stop asking questions and floor it!" Woelffen bluntly instructed me.

"I guess now wouldn't be a good time to wonder what that little squirt said," I muttered to myself, struggling to keep up with Woelffen and hoping against hope that I wouldn't blow a tire along the way.

Sounds of gunfire and clashing metal grew louder as we traveled a winding course over unpredictable hills and valleys. At the height of the noise, the Junkions screeched to a halt, with Woelffen and me following suit close behind them. I rapidly transformed, switched on my camera and scanned the chaotic mess of a scene… and zoomed in on a collection of debris that stood out from the dull orange and brown of the planet.

Red, white and blue debris… one piece bearing the insignia of the Autobots.

[newsy891]

Thanks to DragonTail for helping to sort out in a consistent manner why exactly Wreck-Gar has that mustache, here in part 4...

*******

"Woelffen… tell me that’s not who I think it is," I begged.

Stunned and discouraged, Woelffen shook his head. "Magnus."

"Do you think they did it?" I whispered, gesturing toward the Junkions in front of us.

"They wouldn’t," Woelffen insisted.

No sooner had the words left his vocal circuits than Springer careened past us in ground vehicle mode, an angry-looking Junkion in hot pursuit. "Oh, wouldn’t they?" I shot back.

Misengage looked on in horror as defensive Autobot battled uninformed Junkion. "We have met the enemy," he solemnly intoned, "and he is us."

"Stop the insanity!" bellowed Rivet, in an ironically insane manner.

"Tell it to the judge," growled the oddest-looking Junkion yet. He carried himself a bit more regally than the others, even more so than Rivet and Misengage – who had appeared to me to be the leaders of this ragtag outfit. And decorating his face was a bizarre twist of thin metal, fashioned, it seemed, to look like a human male’s mustache.

The femme and the elder lowered their heads in shame and deference. This distinctive, apparently ill-tempered mech must have been "Chief Wreck-Gar."

"Automated security system keeps unwanted intruders out," the mustachioed one continued. "If they won’t settle, call us. We’ll flush those clogs right down the drain!"

One of the hostile Junkions affirmed his leader’s words, emphasizing his reply with a thunk-thunk to Perceptor’s back that sent the scientist tumbling off-balance. "Pop pop, fizz fizz!"

"Oh, what a relief it is!" a few other Junkion fighters added, optics focused menacingly on Arcee as they encircled her.

Woelffen charged to her defense, pulling a rifle from its holster and pointing it at one of the advancing forces. "See this?" he asked them. "This… is my boomstick!"

The apparent ringleader of the cadre of fighters was undaunted. "Say hello to my little friend," he replied in an odd accent, showing off an energon sword.

The Junkions raised their weapons – and then they froze.

A disorganized group of Junkions tumbled and scattered out of the way as an unusual spacecraft lowered itself to the planet surface in a vertical landing, then spiraled a short distance into the ground and extended supporting legs outward from its body. The craft settled and shifted before finally stabilizing. Its hatch opened, and mechs of all compositions braced for what we expected to be an unfamiliar and hostile force.

"I’ve got a bad feeling about this," Misengage confided to Rivet, who nodded uncomfortably.

The first to emerge from the hatch, though, was far from hostile. Arcee, ignoring the armed fighters around her, fairly squealed in exuberance. "It’s Hot Rod!"

"And Kup and the Dinobots!" the somehow still intact Daniel Witwicky piped up, watching the other welcome arrivals descend from the ship.

The hostile Junkions forgot Arcee, Perceptor and the rest, instead concentrating on the bizarre craft and its occupants. Keeping the Dinobots behind them, Hot Rod and Kup whispered animatedly to each other for a few tense moments, before Hot Rod stepped confidently forward to address the strangers in front of him.

The words hardly matched the regal tone. "Bah weep granagh weep ninny-bong."

"Was that it?" I wondered aloud. Coming from Hot Rod, Kup’s infamous universal greeting – if that was indeed the universal greeting – sounded like nothing more than a collection of random gibberish. If random gibberish was all it was, it fit in quite well on this planet.

"Bah weep granagh weep ninny-bong?" the mustache-wearing leader repeated.

Hot Rod produced a container of energon goodies and held them high, offering a gesture of goodwill. "Bah weep granagh weep ninny-bong!"

Wreck-Gar, as I assumed he was named, turned to his followers with a wide smile. "Bah weep granagh weep ninny-bong!"

"What the frell did they all just say?" I mumbled, as the suddenly giddy Junkions broke into spastic dancing and chanted the nonsense greeting over and over.

Kup skillfully avoided the frenetic crowd, ultimately stopping near me and offering his hand. "Good to see you again, miss."

Perhaps infected by the giddiness of our new allies, perhaps simply relieved that there was an experienced figure to step in for Magnus, I briefly flung my arms around Kup’s neck. "I thought the next time I’d see you would be at your funeral," I said, with no hint of joking.

"You know me better than that," Kup answered with a smile. "Once you’ve been in a pitched battle in the –"

"Once you’ve been through all of your war stories, you can survive an ordinary shuttle crash," I cut him off, laughing.

Quartz – who I hadn’t seen since the shuttle crew scattered – ran toward us, mostly to escape the awkward yet persistent advances of a Junkion femme. He met Kup and me at the top of a low hill of spare parts and appeared to physically relax in relief before peppering Kup with questions. "Where’d that ship come from – and how’d you know to come here?"

"The questions are her job," he groused, then quickly winked to break the brief tension. "Besides… that’s a long enough story for later."

I jumped at the chance to satisfy my own curiosity. "What I want to know is… what does that universal greeting mean?"

"Off the record?" Kup asked with a wicked grin.

"Promise," I playfully countered.

"It means…" The old ‘Bot leaned in close to me, heightening the dramatic effect of his answer. "It means, ‘I’m pulling some damn nonsense outta my skidplate, and I hope you eat this energon goodie instead of eating me’."

All three of us erupted in laughter. Quartz punched me lightly in the arm. "Told ya."

I smiled back at my dear friend. For the first time in a long while, it was a no-strings-attached smile, without a hint of dread behind it… for a moment, without even a thought of the fallen Magnus. The carefree climate of this strangely charming landfill planet had gotten to me, despite the initial inhospitable attitude of the mustachioed leader.

Who was this leader? And if his parts were as interchangeable as those of his followers… why did he look so distinctive?

Despite my total ineptitude at TV-talk, I boldly approached Rivet and Misengage and gestured subtly toward Wreck-Gar, taking on my best newscaster voice. "Meanwhile, the world is waiting to learn one thing tonight – what’s wrong with his face?"

Misengage apparently understood and answered me with a song, in a voice so well-tuned it made me envious: "Hail to the chief, he’s the chief and he needs hailing."

Rivet backed him up with more convoluted explanations. "Let ‘em know you’re large and in charge! Show off your new look for the world to see – and it looks and feels just like your own natural hair! Symptoms may include irritability, stiffness, bloating and susceptibility to cosmic rust."

I paused, interpreting their remarks, then fell back on a language with which I was better acquainted – the talk of everyday Cybertronian mechs. "So… the mustache is sorta like a badge to tell everyone his rank."

The Junkions stared at me blankly, as though I’d either spoken gibberish or produced an extra head from subspace… or possibly both.

Remembering a snippet from an old Earth advertisement, I rephrased. "He got his mustache the old-fashioned way… he earned it."

"We have a winner!" Misengage cheered in an annoyingly grating register. I laughed out loud and played along as Rivet congratulated me with an enthusiastic high-five, then slipped away to rejoin Kup and Quartz.

Surveying the collection of mechs in the valley below, I noticed a small one whose colors matched those of the Junkions – but who also wore the badge of the Autobots. He appeared unique on this planet, a blend of the cluttered, mix-and-match, hardy Junkion and the intricately wired, comparably delicate Cybertronian. Even the Autobot symbol could be junk, I reasoned; some part of some ‘Bot who got scrapped long before I even rolled off the line. The short, stocky mech only gave himself away as a foreigner to the junk planet when he misstepped and fell – something the Junkions never seemed to do.

"He one of ours?" I asked Kup.

"He found us that ship," he affirmed. "Wheelie, he calls himself. Weird little guy… but anyone who can get us a ride off that twisted planet’s fine by me."

I seized on the words Kup had tried to bury. "What twisted planet?"

"That’s a story for later," the old veteran said, shaking his head. The glare of tension that had briefly left his optics returned; he grew uncharacteristically quiet and even more uncharacteristically turned his back on us.

"Something happened wherever they crashed," I whispered to Quartz. "I mean, they lost the shuttle… but they must’ve lost more than the shuttle."

Quartz nodded, scanning the landscape – looking around more and more frantically.

"Someone’s missing," he said urgently, turning my head in the direction of the Dinobots.

The four Dinobots.

[newsy891]

And now a fresh update: part 5, in which you'll start recognizing things again. (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-hotrod.gif)

***

"Where’s Snarl?" Quartz and I simultaneously asked, as the pilot grabbed Kup by the shoulder.

Kup frowned, casting his gaze downward. "His body’s on the ship," he sighed. "He didn’t survive the crash… went right through the side of the shuttle." He shook his head again. "We couldn’t leave him there… who knows what those creatures would’ve done to him."

Quartz opened his mouth to ask a question; I waved him into silence. I looked again at the surviving Dinobots, doing their best to join in the giddiness of the Junkions and the muted relief of our shuttle crew. Openly acknowledging mortality and loss must have been a challenge, to say the least, for beings as powerful as Grimlock and his friends.

After a few moments of silence, I steeled myself to break the day’s other bad news, wondering if even a ‘Bot as experienced as Kup could absorb the death of so new a leader. "Kup, there’s something else you need to know," I quietly began. "The Decepticons found us, and Ultra Magnus –"

A loud clang-clang-clang from the valley interrupted me. All of us made our way unsteadily downhill to find the leader – Wreck-Gar, I assumed – pounding on a hollow empty container of some sort.

The quirky leader launched into a grand announcement. "Have a nice day! And please, close cover before striking, friends. Breep drit, aw rootie – so say the Junkions!"

Woelffen, rejoining me, finally stowed his weapon. "What’s a breep drit?" he wondered.

"Who cares? Long as they’re not trying to kill us," I replied.

"Where’d you learn to talk like that?" Hot Rod asked the Junkion chief.

Wreck-Gar reached into a compartment in his chest and revealed a small screen, flickering with images that appeared to be from Earth broadcasts. "TV!" he said, shoving the screen into Hot Rod’s face. "We talk TV! You talk some TV?"

"I talk some TV," Kup said, smiling in recognition. "And now the news. Don’t touch that dial."

"That’s my line," I muttered.

As a few of the Junkions resumed chanting the nonsense that passed for a universal greeting, three others ran toward the spot where Ultra Magnus had fallen. Springer lunged to chase them, stopped only by a firm yank on his arm from Woelffen. Wreck-Gar reassured the anxious Autobots: "By George, kemo sabes, your smashed-up friend soon like brand new with ninety-day warranty!"

Moving as one, the Junkions set to work. I took my camera in hand and strained for a better view of the painstaking repair process, one so different from the swift patch-and-weld part-swapping that sufficed for the Junkions… yet one they seemed to learn easily.

"You think they can fix him?" I nervously asked Woelffen, mainly to distract him from his fidgeting. The old tech mech hated to be idle, especially when a fellow Autobot lay injured.

"Well, look at ‘em," he hopefully replied. "They look like they know what they’re doing… and I don’t think he’s dead yet."

Woelffen’s last remark caught me off guard. How could Magnus survive such traumatic wounds? How could even the best mechanics and medics in the galaxy build a functioning Cybertronian ‘Bot from a collection of red, white and blue parts?

And then it struck me. Red, white and blue parts. Not gray. As long as there was color, there was life.

"But… how?" I asked out loud.

"The Matrix," Kup simply answered me.

"That doesn’t make any sense," I protested. "Magnus isn’t a Prime. His Spark didn’t blend with the Matrix."

"Just carrying it around seems to have a shielding effect," Kup explained. "That, plus all his armor… I guess it protected his Spark."

The Junkions’ work progressed. Magnus’ head was somewhat reattached; his left arm and right leg appeared to be back in working order. A pair of mechs labored slowly and cautiously to reconnect the delicate neural pathways in the commander’s neck.

Growing too anxious to watch the continuing surgery on Magnus, I focused instead on the Junkions. Though they appeared very much the same, a closer look revealed that their interchangeable parts were very different in composition. They appeared to come from slain mechs of all races, non-sentient machines of all types… in short, anything metallic that wasn’t living.

Anything… or anyone.

My central processor formed a spur-of-the-moment idea. "Kup… do you know what’s going to happen with Snarl?" I asked.

"That’s up to Grimlock," he shrugged. "I don’t think he’s decided yet."

I quickly turned off my camera and passed it to Quartz. "Hold this," I said, pointing to the record button. "Push that if anything else happens."

"But I –" Quartz stammered, looking at me uncertainly.

"You can handle a shuttle, you can definitely handle a camera," I bluntly reassured him.

As Quartz gingerly handled my camera like one would handle a live explosive device, I sighed heavily and approached the Dinobots’ leader. Death calls, the reporter’s grim duty of speaking to friends of the deceased, are always difficult. This would be perhaps the most difficult yet; ‘Bots as seemingly indestructible as the Dinobots don’t go well with death.

"Grimlock?" I said softly.

"No interviews," the saurian growled.

"No camera." I spread my hands wide open as Grimlock turned to see whether I was telling him the truth. "I just… had an idea. About Snarl."

"Ideas no help Snarl!" Grimlock snapped, stomping at the ground in anger and frustration and unfamiliar mourning. "Him have no Spark. Him… useless."

"I don’t think he’s useless," I gently contradicted the giant ‘Bot in front of me. "He can still do great things… here."

"On strange planet him never see?" Grimlock cast a skeptical optic downward at me.

"These Junkions can repair each other with parts of other mechs’ bodies," I continued. "If you were to leave Snarl’s body here, he could still do a lot of good for injured Junkions who need new parts. He’d still live on… in our friends."

Grimlock nodded slowly, but retained his uncertain look. "Me Grimlock need talk this over with others," he said, turning toward the eavesdropping trio of Slag, Sludge and Swoop.

The surviving Dinobots, Snarl’s closest friends – perhaps the reticent loner’s only real friends – spoke in hushed tones and clipped language that I couldn’t quite make out. I wondered how well they were reasoning in the face of their own mortality and the first loss to impact their inner circle so directly. Maybe their somewhat simpler minds would make such reasoning more difficult because of sheer incomprehension; maybe they would make it easier because of a lack of questioning.

The quartet turned to face me in unison to relay their decision. "We like idea," Grimlock announced. "Him Snarl stay here. Help Autobot allies."

"I’m glad to hear that," I said with a warm smile.

Across the valley, a few Junkions continued working on Ultra Magnus, but the Autobots – and many of the Junkions as well – stopped and fell silent as the four Dinobots entered the ship to gather the body of their fallen friend. Several of us, with Hot Rod and Springer at the front and Kup at the rear still watching over Magnus, formed a line extending from the door of the craft and waited.

The Dinobots somberly emerged, in their infrequently seen robot modes, carefully carrying the lifeless Snarl. Following Hot Rod’s lead, we snapped to attention and saluted, then silently dispersed after a few moments.

Grimlock signaled to his comrades when they reached a relatively secluded spot, still not far from their point of landing. They lowered Snarl’s body reverently to the ground… then transformed into their saurian forms, raised their heads skyward and roared, a poignant and primal expression of shared grief. An unusual funeral as Autobot ceremonies go, and yet considering the circumstance, it was perfect.

A random Junkion’s voice brought my attention back to the group working on Ultra Magnus. "Wakey wakey!"

"You gotta be kiddin’ me," I mumbled to myself, running to get a better view.

"Here," Quartz said, meeting me halfway and shoving my camera back into my hand. "I think something’s happening, but I don’t want to break it."

"Good timing." I quickly pointed, focused and started recording.

Wreck-Gar stood confidently and gestured toward Ultra Magnus – the reassembled Ultra Magnus – who still lay prone and unresponsive on the uneven ground. "Happy motoring!" the Junkion leader greeted his Autobot counterpart. "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Nervously, we watched, looking for any sign of life from the reluctant commander as one of the mechanics closed one final compartment in Magnus’ torso. And finally, a dim blue light appeared in his optics.

A tense moment followed… and then the light brightened… and Ultra Magnus stirred and raised his head.

[Rebelshoe]

awesome work!!!

[Falcadore]

"I'm Particus, and so's my wife!"

Sorry had to re-post that gag. Monty Python Transformers. You knew it had to happen.

The four Dinobots.

Never has a line had such a sense of foreboding.

And I still think justification of Wreck-Gar's moustache should come in the form of either a) dialogue from 'Boogie Nights' or b) in perfect Boonie Doll voice 'Shoooooot." or "Is it time for beers yet?"

Only complaint is a complaint from the movie itself. Once the two shuttles split, far more time seemed to elapse for Hot Rod and co., than it did for Ultra Magnus and co.

So we're off to see big orange, in the words of the smallest orange, "Wheelie say we on our way."



Well OK Grimlock said it. Does it matter that much?

[darkwoelf]

groovie cant wait for next part

[DragonTail]

Fantastic, lady femme.

Headline's "awakening" to the nature of TF physiology is an interesting one... like a true journalist, she's picking up bits and pieces from those she knows and incorporating it into her own range of skills. Good stuff. Good, also, is the way the fanfic cast continue to add to and blend in with the movie continuity without overriding it.

Hot Rod leading the salute's a very nice bit of foreshadowing, too.

[Drivaaar]

Aw man, that is so sad about Snarl.... (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-screamer.gif)
Really well done Junior.

[JLBarnett]

Didn't Snarl show up on a couple of occasions in season 3 though? Like when Optimus was revived by the Quintessons?

[newsy891]

Ah, but are you sure I'm going to be continuing with season 3 as we know it? (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-fire.gif)

(Sorry guys... no spoilers... (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-arcee.gif) )

Part 6 coming as soon as I can get off my lazy butt and write some more.

[darkwoelf]

waiting with baited breath

[newsy891]

Part 6, and the conclusion - well, not so much conclusion as "the next chapter will be under a new title," but you all expect that from me by now. (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-fire.gif)

Special thanks to Rebelshoe and DragonTail, who will recognize their in-joke dialogue contributions, and also to Falcadore, who will recognize a certain mysterious character at the end here. (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-arcee.gif)

***

"He’s alive he’s alive it’s Ultra Magnus!" Blurr chirped excitedly, leading a disorganized cheer of utter joy and relief. Springer rushed to the commander’s side, taking his arm and helping to lift him to his feet.

"You’re… all alive," Magnus said in a blend of confusion and wonder.

"The Matrix…" Hot Rod began hopefully.

Magnus took on a look of deep discouragement. "…Is gone."

"And with it, all hope," said Kup, appearing grim and, for the first time, defeated.

"No!" Hot Rod protested, the youthful warrior’s optics intensifying as never before.

Arcee stopped him. "Galvatron has it."

"Where’s Galvatron? Where is he?" Hot Rod tensed every connection in his body, ready to rush headlong in the crazed ‘Con’s direction.

Wreck-Gar joined the discussion uninvited. "And the answer is… Unicron."

"Then we’ve got to destroy Unicron," Hot Rod resolutely stated.

"Destroy – how the frell does he plan to do that?" I asked no one in particular.

The rest of the Autobots appeared to share my skepticism. Wreck-Gar, though, looked and sounded inspired. "Yes, friends, act now! Destroy Unicron! Kill the grand poobah! Eliminate even the toughest stains!" The Junkion leader jogged toward a control panel that seemed to materialize spontaneously from the ground. "Hurry, hurry, hurry. Sale must end. Step right up and test drive latest model with no obligation."

Wreck-Gar punched a series of buttons, and the ground – if one could call it ground – beneath us began to shake. The new little Autobot, Wheelie, stumbled about and would have fallen had he not come up against Sludge’s leg. I struggled to keep my own balance, spotted by Quartz on one side and Woelffen on the other.

We watched as a disjointed mass of material rose from the ground, dropping bits of trash as it straightened… and fired up its engines.

"Holy slag," Woelffen marveled.

I turned to him and grinned. "I only ever met one ‘Bot who could improvise stuff out of garbage before – and he stuck to weapons."

"I know." Woelffen took a few steps closer to the rust-crusted craft to see the propulsion system up close. "I’m jealous."

Wreck-Gar invited the rest of the Junkions aboard. "New, improved Junkion Planet – this sleek, sexy import with turbo handling!"

"I’d hardly call it sexy," I commented.

"Who needs looks when you’ve got handling?" Woelffen chided me.

A flood of Junkion troopers, perfectly in step, ran toward their ship, chanting Wreck-Gar’s battle orders along the way. "Destroy Unicron! Kill the grand poobah! Eliminate even the toughest stains!"

Ultra Magnus stepped into the doorway of the bizarre corkscrew ship. "Autobots, roll out!" he ordered, waving us inside.

Woelffen turned toward Wreck-Gar before we boarded our respective ships, making a motion that imitated the tipping of a hat. "Happy trails."

Wreck-Gar responded with a friendly smile under his mustache. "Thank you! I’ll be here all week. Tip your servo-bot and try the super unleaded."

We squeezed into the unfamiliar, uncomfortably cramped quarters of our new vessel. Though we were used to military craft, we were used to the more spacious passage offered by an Autobot shuttle. But there was no time to gripe, and even if there were time, there was no reason; we were flying purely for business, not for pleasure.

The control panels in the ship were inscribed in a language none of us had ever seen. Quartz, usually in his element in a cockpit, stared blankly at the gibberish and shook his head. "How in the Pit are we supposed to fly this thing?"

"Leave it to me," Hot Rod offered – no, commanded. I’d never heard him take such an authoritative tone; it didn’t seem to suit him, but what choice did we have but to play it his way? Quartz complied, struggling to fit into what little crew space remained.

The Junkion ship blasted off, shedding bits of planetary debris as it rose into space. Hot Rod, unexpectedly able to interpret the foreign markings on the controls, followed.

Ultra Magnus fumbled rather helplessly with a few buttons that seemed to do nothing of use. Finally, sheepish, he posed the question to the arrogant youth piloting the ship. "Which one of these opens communications?"

"Not a clue," Hot Rod shrugged. Apparently, his interpretation skills only went so far.

Out of other options, Magnus turned to me. "Headline, I need you to contact Bandit on Earth," he said. "We’ll need all the help we can get."

"Yes, sir," I responded, dialing Bandit’s frequency on my own comm unit. "Bandit, this is Headline on Magnus’ orders. Respond on secure channel one-four-one."

The line erupted in a burst of static loud enough to mask any voices from Earth. I tried again: "Bandit, this is Headline on Magnus’ orders. Respond on secure channel one-four-one. Priority one – acknowledge!"

More static… then silence. I dialed another frequency, one even more familiar to me. "Sunstreaker, this is Headline. Come in!"

Nothing.

"Sunstreaker, come in! Priority one!"

A few bursts of static, mixed with what sounded like a distorted voice, briefly raised my hopes – but the line fell silent again, quickly dashing them. "Magnus, there’s no signal," I grimly reported.

"Can you reach Cybertron?" the commander suggested.

I dared not break formality to speak my thoughts to Magnus, but he must have been out of his processor. The two Autobot moon bases were apparently gone, the fate of Cybertron itself unknown – and even if Cybertron remained intact, who was there but Decepticons?

Summoning what was left of my tactfulness, I said, "I have one more idea." I punched in Slamdance’s frequency and expected no answer. "Slamdance, this is Headline – priority one. Come in!"

Unbelievably, a voice broke through the static. "Headline, where are you?"

"Slamdance!" I exclaimed in a blend of shock and relief. "Um – we’re on our way to Unicron – wherever it is. Where are – how the frell did you –"

"I’m in Iacon, in the old HQ," Slamdance interrupted me. "Cybertron’s under attack, the ‘Cons are scattering – what’d you need?"

"Magnus needs you to contact the crew on Earth," I said, as Magnus nodded to validate my answer. "We need everyone to rendezvous with us now."

"I’m on it," Slamdance said confidently, as the sounds of war and destruction echoed around him and the frequency died in a swell of static. I wondered if the static was simply a sign of poor reception, or proof of the demise of the old familiar HQ building on the outer edge of Iacon.

Perceptor, as usual seated in the navigator’s chair, stared blankly at the small radar viewscreen in front of him. The look of befuddlement on the brilliant scientist’s face was likely as unfamiliar to him as it was to me. The question in common language came as even more of a surprise: "Where are we?"

"Isn’t that your job to know?" Hot Rod grumbled.

"Well – ah – yes," Perceptor stammered. "But you see, the previously plotted navigational charts of this sector – which, might I add, are quite complete – show no correlation to the output of the –"

Ultra Magnus interrupted, waving his hands in a gesture of frustration. "What?"

"Here isn’t here, sir," Perceptor said, more plainly. "According to my records, we should be traveling through Lithonian space, but Lithonia is – for lack of a more accurate description – missing."

"Oh, no, it isn’t," Springer grimly corrected him, pointing through a small circular window as tiny, metallic asteroids pelted the exterior walls of the ship.

I recalled a tense conversation on Earth with a mysterious figure from Decepticon Intelligence. "The planet is gone," the operative had told me. "Something moon-sized arrived and consumed the planet. Our only surviving sensor station indicates nothing left, apart from small asteroids."

ConIntel was right. Springer was right. The asteroids… were Lithonia.

As we sped toward Unicron’s last firmly known location – the space once occupied by our own moon bases – I silently tried to convince myself that Cybertron would fare better. After all, the Lithomechs were peace-loving to a fault. They were not built for a fight; they had little, if any, defensive capability. The warlike society that Cybertron had become carried with it some advantages in the area of self-protection. Even with the Decepticons in control – given their militaristic nature, especially with the Decepticons in control – surely there would be more of an effort at defense on Cybertron than on the doomed Lithonia.

But how much defense would be enough against the chaos god himself?

The chaos god. So long an object of myth, Unicron had been proven real – which, I noted uncomfortably, proved ConIntel right again.

And if Unicron was real and active… perhaps Primus was real and active. A sentiment once expressed by Bandit rang in my aurals, so insistently that I felt compelled to repeat it aloud.

"If Primus is real," I said, watching the fragmented remains of the pacifistic planet drift out of optical range, "now would be a good time for him to show up."

[Falcadore]

Might have recognised somebody sure (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-fire.gif)

Hrmmmmm - I wonder then what Emirate Xaaron is up to... Or are you limiting the Unicron tale to only the movie interpretation rather than the comic interpretation?

I like the scepticism of Hot Rod's new found temprament. Something the movie glossed over, allowing perceptions of Hot Rods character to be characterised only by Kup.

Moving some of the quotes around and the re-assembly of the two assault teams will be interesting. Just which ship did the four Dinobots board? Are all the Autobots crowded aboard the Quintessan ship?

And what has happenned on Headline's Cybertron?

But finally... please sir, can I have some more?

This post has been edited by Falcadore: Feb 25 2006, 05:22 AM

[newsy891]

Hrmmmmm - I wonder then what Emirate Xaaron is up to... Or are you limiting the Unicron tale to only the movie interpretation rather than the comic interpretation?

Movie only for now. And then... well... who knows? (Actually, I know, but I already told you I'm not spoiling anyone in the thread, so there! (IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-waspy.gif) )

And you may have some more, when I write some more... on one condition:

Stop calling me sir!
[/Peppermint Patty]
(IMG:http://www.allspark.com/forums/style_emoticons/default/icon-fire.gif)

[Falcadore]

Goody gumdrops.
[/Bricktop]

[darkwoelf]

cant wait i have a feeling mybe woelffen will be going to look for bandit lol cant wait for next chapter

[Drivaaar]

Cool, and an interesting deviation from the movie story - looks like here Hot Rod and the others are aboard the Junkion vessel, not the Quinetesson vessel... Looking forward to seeing more!

[newsy891]

looks like here Hot Rod and the others are aboard the Junkion vessel, not the Quinetesson vessel...

Actually... um... you're wrong there, my friend. Guess I wasn't clear enough with it.