---

Rioting in Grid D of the Iaconian half of sub-level 5 at the Tarn border had left ten elite guards dead and fifteen injured. Sideswipe himself had entered the fray and gone through four spare arm modules alone.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the planet, dissident terrorists had blown themselves and the entire workforce of a power plant into space when they detonated explosives intended to break into Seisor's locked chamber. And at the centre of the city, a peaceful protest had boiled over when Security officials increased the gravity to suppress them calmly, but which resulted in the deaths of over 100 Micromasters, unnoticed by the team.

Greatshot put down the datapad, his optics sore from the constant stream of figures and data. Statistics were boring him stiff.

No sooner had he prepared to sip his tall skinny energon, his communicator broke out in a succession of bleeps somewhat reminiscent of the Anthem for the Legion of New Cybertron. Other patrons of the Oil House tutted, while several others put theirs away, satisfied that it hadn't rung.

Greatshot spoke in an annoyingly loud voice, a gift he employed wisely in his role as Star Saber's orator. But really, thought Gut, in person it did tend to grate after a few syllables.

"YEAH...SURE...NO, NO I WANT IT ON MY DESK BY...RITE OF AUTOBRAND MY AFT. NO MORE BLOODY EXCUSES."

Primus, he thought to himself. Never a moment's peace. And that bloody monitor in the corner of the bar was far too loud, far too bright, far too noisy...just far too everything. It had to go.

"Barkeep. Could you possibly turn that down, I'm trying to attend to important business."

"And lose half my customers? Sorry mate, company pays me to show this tripe.
You have a word with them. And don't forget, between the Gambling Dens, bars and Oil Houses, the Maccadam's Oil Company franchise brings in more shanix and trade than any other one business on Cybertron. All the money from the off-world branches...the travelling branches...the subspace branches...all that money goes right back in your pocket. So don't even think of having a go at me, and I know you were, because I sweat oil and lubricant into working for you, so at least do me the favour of allowing me to tow the company line as I have been trained to do. It is my one pleasure in life. As well as..."

Greatshot reigned himself in. He would save his wrath for middle-management. They would pay for this whelp's insouciance. He cleared his throat.

"At least tell me what this rubbish is then."

"Well, it started in our Junkion branches, and proved so popular we set up receivers in all branches. Then, since we opened our Earth shops, we decided to set up our own advertising company. Essentially, this is constant, all-cycle adverts."

"Mind-numbing slag if you ask me." Greatshot pulled a stim-stick from his subspace pocket and prepared to light it. He needed it.

He heard a cough and looked up. The barman was pointing at a sign of a stim-stick with a bar over it. Greatshot gathered his things with a flourish and stood face to face with the barman.

"If I had my way, fascists like you would be shipped off-planet! Preferably downsized for economy, so we can cram you on a small, Earth-like world, and with no memory of your real homeworld. Because at least then I wouldn't have to put up with ridiculous rules like this!"

He stormed out into the lower-level "rain' - the sewage from the wasteful upper levels.

Gut shrugged. The day that'd happen is the day a monkey'd lead the Autobots.

---

"Greatshot, can I have a word with you for a second."

Greatshot cursed for the umpteenth time that day. What did the old bore want now?

He backtracked down the corridor and entered the office's open door. It was large and spacious. The wander-windows currently displayed an image of New Cybertron in its prime. Gorgeous view, but pixellation ruined the detail, he noted with disdain.

Seated at a desk, in his medium-sized robot form, was the most powerful robot on Cybertron. He looked like a generic knock-off. All garish reds and royal blues. Like someone had painted a hunter-seeker in Optimus Prime commemorative colours. Tacky, he noted with satisfaction.

"I've been going over these figures you sent me in your lunchbreak. They reminded me of a problem that's been nagging at me since I set foot in these offices."

For Primus' sake, thought Greatshot, not another motivational speech.

"It's those bloody rioters, Greatshot. They'll be the ruin of us all. Already we're losing trade in riot hot spots. These...unruly citizens...require dealt with. And as your figures show, conventional methods (murder, assassination and vicious beatings) just aren't working. It's not like the Empire any more, Greatshot. These Cybertronians are spoiled with peace, a peace most of them haven't even fought for."

Greatshot had heard this tedious and obsessive rhetoric a thousand times. He wondered if he could transform to gun mode and shoot Star Saber before his larger body, currently in battle station mode, could respond by disintegrating him. The thought amused him, and he played it over in his head, adding beards and moustaches where necessary, while Star Saber prattled on.

"...And I don't know what low-grade lifer shat out half of the poor specimens of Transformer I've seen recently but..."

Star Saber's head exploded in a shower of rose petals, and his base shot party streamers. Galvatron burst in and hugged Greatshot, producing a bottle of Chablis from his subspace pocket. Grimlock played an old Lou Reed number on his guitar, which then exploded, showering Greatshot in...

"...spunk."

Greatshot looked up from his daydream.

"Someone like you, Greatshot, and that's why I'm reassigning you to Project: Soma. The original director had a nice streak of brutality in him, but none of your...sense of humour. Your current priorities are to be reassigned to Plasma. Any questions?"

Would you like to dance?
Care for a crepe?
Don't you think your cloak's a bit naff?

Greatshot brushed aside the more interesting possibilities in his numbed head, and then shook it slowly.

"'Together: Everyone And Me.' T.E.A.M. I expect you to work closely with a suitable associate of your choice, and don't hesitate to lodge queries with the relevant departments. In a team, we all help each other, is that understood?"

By the time he got to his office the malaise had sunk in. He had been demoted! And so he could focus on what? Crowd control?

He kicked the photocopier, which transformed and retorted snottily.

"Shut up and bring me a hot cup of oil, Office Slave" spat Greatshot as he sank into his leatherette chair. He lit a stim-stick and called up the old Operation: Soma file.

It was old - very old. Half of the methods initially rejected could easily be implemented with today's technology. Of course, that didn't guarantee their success.

Hang on, he thought. That looks fun.

It was a vid cap and terminal report of an isolated community subjected to population suppression tests the previous director, an Imperial psycho by the name of Borax, had formulated. This particular colony was suppressed with syk.

Although initially successful, turning the loose "community' (of stragglers and violent criminals) into a doped up, passive population, things turned sour when the demand began exceeding the supply.

Eventually, the sensually numbed Transformers performed a suicide raid that succeeded in killing all
the guards. When quarantine officials turned up with big flame-throwers to torch the place, they found the syk maddened Transformers, most of them limbless, some even headless, running around uncontrollably as their body began burning more fuel than it required as it craved the drug.

Big failure, but a lot of fun to watch, reflected Greatshot.

Supply would always be the problem with a drug suppressant. One day, the energon would just run out, and no more syk. And most likely no more Cybertron shortly after.

Other less interesting attempts involved curfews, rigorously enforced by security officers. These had to be stopped when Pretenders lodged a complaint arguing that they had just as much right to be on the streets at night as any other Transformer. The annoying fleshies weren't even considering the welfare of their fellow Transformers, considering all the organic terrorists operating in Iacon at the time.

Still, someone would always find a way to be a victim and rile the population. No, forcing the population to be quiet required far too much manpower, and manpower was proving a valuable resource that didn't need to be wasted beating up a bunch of skinny fleshies from Little Earth.

No, what he needed was something that would convince the population that there really was nothing better to do, and no point doing it. Something that would hook them with an initial interest, and then suck them into a world of startling mediocrity. A gravity well of addictively passive...entertainment.

But that had been done. Deceptikombat had worked while it lasted, but the whole thing had just gone down the waste disposer when Decepticon involvement was suspected. And to tell the truth, it would be impossible to have tournaments all year round. Although it might be a good way to just
thin out the population...

The idea of Deceptikombat was sound - catharsis through the violence depicted by the "metal gladiators' (as a press release called them), as well as it simply giving them something to watch instead of meeting in secret cells and plotting to overthrow the planet.

This needed to be able to reach people in their hab-units though. Force them to stay in them, except for work and essential maintenance. It could be anything. That bar...those infernal monitors....Greatshot saw one in every hab-unit, pumping out a constant and ugly stream of obtuse "entertainment' and onanistic propaganda. Vote Star Saber! Vote Code Reform! Vote Project: Oracle! Vote to commit suicide and do me a favour...

Now if only he had the technology. The workforce to build a network, the know-how, the experienced operators. Then it dawned on him...the place to go...

The photocopier arrived with Greatshot's oil, only for Greatshot to stand up with a flourish and knock the cup from his hands, showering him in...

"...Junk!"

Greatshot stormed out of the office, heading straight for the skyhook elevator.

To be Continued-