The Recruitment Office

"You can't do this to me!"

Steelwing glanced up from her book to see a mechanoid being dragged out of the recruitment office, struggling against the grip of the two generic Decepticon grunts who were "escorting" him from the area.  With a sort of grudging admiration she noted that neither security mech so much as flinched or spared their charge a glance, even when his frantic thrashings resulted in feet to the shinguards.  Riptide chose her security team well -- big and bulky, tough as nails, and not much in the way of looks in order to avoid losing her good guards to flirtatious femmes.  And though most of them gave the appearance of being dimmer than a sack of scrap, she knew from painful experience that these mechs were more intelligent than they looked.

She spared a curious glance at the mech being hauled out of the building.  Hmm... could have passed for Hot Rod, except this one lacked a spoiler.  Come to think of it, this one lacked any sort of kibble whatsoever save a pair of shoulder-cannons.  She gave a little snort before returning to her novel.  She knew this type, and most of them had the inexplicable ability to assume a dozen or more different alt modes despite having no obvious kibble.  Magic, she supposed, or that handy but overused excuse of "stowing the extra parts in subspace."  And possibly some sort of super powers to go with those many alt modes -- incredible strength or psychic abilities...

Though she supposed she couldn't judge.  For all she knew, he was a perfectly ordinary mech whose alt mode just wasn't apparent at first glance.  Though perfectly ordinary mechs weren't often bodily thrown from the building...

Someone snorted on her right, and she turned to see Stagecoach watching the guards and their victim depart with a scornful air.

"Pathetic," he sniffed.  "It's Gary Stus like those that give the rest of us Originals a bad name."

Steelwing chuckled and set her Dean Koontz novel aside.  "Come now, Stagecoach, there are those who would call you a Gary Stu simply for having an unusual alt mode and a loner personality."

"True enough."  The tall, lean mech shifted in his seat to get more comfortable -- a task generally difficult in these chairs for anyone larger than a carbot.  "Though I guess I have it easier than you.  No offense meant, of course."

"None taken," she replied.  How could she be angry with the message courier Autobot when he was simply stating a fact?  For all mechs had a difficult time of being accepted when they weren't Canon Characters, femmes -- especially Decepticon femmes -- found it almost impossible to avoid the brand of Mary Sue.

The door to Riptide's office edged open.  "Next!" shrieked an annoyed, slightly gravelly voice with a slight New York twang to it.

Stagecoach smirked.  "You're up, 'Con."

"And you're after me, 'Bot," she retorted.  She softened the jab with a slight smile as she got up and headed for the office.  The limo-former watched her go with a steady gaze before turning his attention back to his magazine.

Riptide pushed the door shut with her foot, as if unwilling to contaminate her hands by actually touching the handle, and went back to her desk with her characteristic waddle.  A seagoing minibot whose body design was so close to Seaspray's she could have been a repaint (though it was unlikely that many would complain because nobody remembered Seaspray anyhow), she sported a seafoam-colored paintjob and walked rather like a Terran penguin due to joints and servos that constantly locked up due to long exposure to seawater.  Evidently her creators had never constructed a water-mode Autobot before and had used components unsuitable for such an alt mode in her construction, though why she didn't just get those parts replaced was anyone's guess.

Steelwing fought the urge to sigh as she stood before Riptide, awaiting inspection.  Ironic that Riptide herself, as a recruiter trained to spot the slightest bit of Sue-ishness in an Original, was herself an Original who bore some Sue-ish traits, albeit ones that weren't nearly as significant as, say, inexplicable long and gorgeous hair.

"Siddown, ma'am," Riptide ordered, gesturing toward the room's only other piece of furniture -- a chair that looked as if an Insecticon had been taste-testing it.  Though knowing a few of the Originals she'd probably interviewed over the years, that was probably pretty close to the truth.

Once Steelwing had taken her seat Riptide hauled herself onto the stool behind her battered steel desk, flipping open a small computer console and jabbing a few keys.  "Name?"

"Steelwing," she replied.

Riptide glanced up from the screen, arching an optic ridge.  "Interesting name for a non-flier."

There were probably a few smart comebacks for that -- she was Decepticon, after all, and robot-mode flight was par for the course there -- but she was trying to impress the recruiter, not slag her off.  "I have wings," she said in reply, twitching her doorwings slightly.  "In a fashion."

Riptide gave a sharp nod and returned to her computer.  "Faction?"

"Decepticon."

"Function?"

"Infiltrator."

Riptide looked up again, optics flashing.  "Explain."

"My function is to infiltrate Autobot task forces by impersonating one of their number," she replied.  "Once I have been accepted as one of them, I do all in my power to turn the troops against each other and break the company up from within."  She gave a humorless smile.  "I have a fairly high success rate."

Riptide stabbed at a few more computer keys, as if trying to jab the keyboard to death with her fingers.  "Alt mode -- or modes, if you have multiple?"

"Just one.  Earth-style automobile, Datsun Fairlady."

"Same as Bluestreak's."

"Yes," she replied, slightly annoyed.

"Guess that leads right to the next question -- you a repaint of a Canon Character?"

She sighed.  "Yes.  Prowl/Bluestreak/Smokescreen body type, with slight modifications."

"Explain."

"Slightly slimmed-down limbs, less prominent chevron, feminine facial features."  Though thank Primus her creator had decided to forego the facial markings mimicking human makeup that so many femmes were cursed with.

"Body colors?"

"You're looking at them."

"Har har.  Answer the question anyhow, I'm required to ask it."

"Black and metallic gold, red chevron, purple sigil."

"Optic color?"

It was tempting to just say "red," but withholding information to prevent herself from seeming Sue-ish would only make her look bad.  "I have double-phase optics -- they can be red or blue depending on their polarity.  It aids me in my infiltration missions."

More semi-violent typing.  "Do you possess a cloaking device or similar invisibility powers?"

"No."

"Enhanced speed or strength?"

"No."

"Holographic abilities?"

"No."

"Time-altering or time-traveling capabilities?"

"No."

"Telepathy?"

"No."

"Teleportation abilities?"

This was getting ridiculous.  "No."

"Any sort of supernatural powers, including but not limited to psychic ability, magic, witchcraft, super-talents granted by Primus, or unexplained powers?"

"No."

"Any other special abilities not covered by the above?"

"No."

More typing.  "Weaponry?"

"Standard-issue laser pistol, energy dagger, and shoulder-mounted EMP cannons."

"Special talents, knowledge, and hobbies or interests that may or may not aid you in your missions?"

"Extensive knowledge of temporary external modifications," she replied.  "It helps to have multiple disguises in my line of work.  My hobbies include stunt driving -- though I'm definitely an amateur at it -- and human literature of the 'thriller' genre.  Dean Koontz is good."

Type type type.  "Let's discuss your background, then.  Who are your parents?"

She arched an optic ridge.  "Vector Sigma and the Digilex factories.  I was one of a set number of Decepticons created with Autobot-style body shells for espionage and infiltration purposes.  I did not have a single set of creators."

"So you are of no relation to any Canon Character."

"No, ma'am."

"Are you suffering from any form of amnesia or brainwashing?"

If I were, how would I know? she thought wryly.  Aloud she said "No."

"Are you an orphan?"

"Vector Sigma and the factories still exist, so no."

"Are you the sole survivor of a devastating attack that destroyed your entire hometown or homeworld?"

"No."

"Over the course of your lifetime have you ever been kidnapped, captured by the opposing faction, tortured, raped, undergone a forcible mind-scan or similar procedure, mutilated, reformatted or reprogrammed against your will, and/or suffered an assassination attempt?"

Another sigh.  "No, almost, no, no, no, no, no, and no."

"Have you ever switched factions or gone neutral for any reason?"

"No."

"Are you romantically involved with any Canon Character?"

"Slag, no."

"Have any children, legitimate or otherwise?"

"No."

"Are you a human, alien, goddess, demon, mythical creature, or any other non-Cybertronian being, organic or otherwise, who was turned into a Transformer?"

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Answer the question."

"No."

"Are you a member of a previously unknown or forgotten 'third race' who fled Cybertron during the great war?"

"No."

"Have you ever experienced a major upgrade or overhaul for any reason?"

"No, only minor upgrades as necessary."

"Do you suffer from a debilitating handicap of some sort -- blindness, deafness, missing limbs, difficulty or inability in transforming, irreparable damage to internal components, or anything else of that nature?"

"No."

"Would you describe yourself as a loner or an outcast?"

"An outcast, no.  A loner, yes, though by my own choice.  I work best alone -- having a partner on a mission only gets in the way."

It was a wonder the keyboard didn't crack under Riptide's fingers.  She glanced up, her blue optics locking with Steelwing's currently-red optics, and the Decepticon could have sworn she saw a smirk on her face despite her mask.  "Got hair under that helmet?"

Steelwing screwed her face up in disgust.  "Ick.  No."

"Had to ask," Riptide said with a chuckle, clearly enjoying having unsettled the infiltrator.  "And have to get my kicks somehow."  She glanced back at the computer, then punched a final key.  "That's all the questions applicable to you.  Dismissed.  And send the next one in on your way out."

"Yes, ma'am."  Steelwing stood and left the office, relieved to have that over with.  A few new questions this time around, it seemed.  Hopefully that didn't bode ill for her.

"You're up, Stagecoach."

The limo glanced up from his magazine.  "Already?  That was rather quick."

"They've been flooded with applicants lately -- guess they want to weed through the new recruits as quickly as possible."

Stagecoach extricated himself from the chair and strode toward the door, the usual grace of his stride spoiled as he had to duck to enter the office.  Primus, Riptide was going to have a field day with him -- tall mechs got on her nerves, and more than one had lost knee joints to her when they'd made snarky comments about her own status as a minibot.

She considered returning to her seat, but decided against it when she saw that someone else -- or rather, two BIG someone elses -- had claimed her chair.  A blue, gray, and yellow Dinobot, slender for her kind, was perched on the back of the chair, her clawed hands gently cradling and patting the head of the much larger gray-and-yellow Dinobot who occupied the seat of the chair.  The smaller Dinobot's head jerked up to give Steelwing an irritable glower, but her expression softened when she recognized the Datsun.

"You Steelwing have good interview?"

"I don't know, Stab," she replied, settling for leaning against the wall.  She could better view the entire waiting room from here anyhow.  "Have you had your turn yet?"

"Me Stab had mine long time ago," she replied with a snort, patting her companion's head gently.  "Him Stomp just got out from interview.  Him convinced it flopped."

"Me Stomp stupid!" wailed Stomp, leaning forward to cup his face in his hands.  "Me messed up all the questions!  Them think me Stomp stupid Gary Stu now, never let me in!"

"You Stomp stop being stupid," Stab chided gently, rapping the side of his helm with her knuckles.  "You not Gary Stu."

"All 'new Dinobots' thought of as Mary Sues," moped Stomp.

"Are not," snapped Stab.

As much as Stab tried to comfort her friend, Steelwing knew the morose Dinobot had a point.  Any Original who was created as "the newest member of a pre-existing gestalt or special team" risked the Mary Sue label.  Never mind that neither Stab nor Stomp had been created by Wheeljack like the other Dinobots, they still bore that stigma.  

The door to Riptide's office was flung open at that moment, and Stagecoach limped out, one hand rubbing his helm and the other on his aft, a pained scowl on his face.  Riptide stomped out just behind him, muttering angrily and as darkly foreboding as an aqua-colored hovercraft minibot could possibly get.  Despite being a Decepticon and a good deal taller than the recruiter, Steelwing found herself snapping to attention at the sight of her.

"Recruits, front and center!" she barked.

The mechs crowding the waiting room immediately tossed aside bookfiles and magazines, hefted themselves out of chairs or off the floor, and formed a precise line before the recruiter.  Riptide continued to glower at the assembled would-be recruits a moment, then began pacing before them, rocking side to side slightly in her usual waddle, hands clasped behind her back.

"All right, factory freshes," Riptide snapped, "let's get one thing clear.  I'm not out to get you here."

"Yeah, right," scoffed whoever was to Steelwing's left.

"Unplug the vocalizer, Mr..."  Riptide's voice trailed off as she glanced down -- an action she was obviously unaccustomed to -- at the speaker.  Said speaker returned the stare defiantly, and Steelwing wondered who had let the thing into the recruitment office in the first place.  It wasn't any make of Transformer she was familiar with -- it looked more like a half-organic, half-mechanical rat that had been pieced together with junk collected from the dregs of a scrapyard.

"You," barked Riptide, recovering from her momentary discomfiture.  "Name."

The creature grinned.  "DeathBlade the Sparkrender."

Stagecoach snorted, and the helicopter-femme beside him -- Rotal, if Steelwing remembered correctly -- muffled a titter behind her hand.

"Try again," Riptide ordered, folding her arms in front of her.

"Ultratron?" the rat-mech attempted, a hopeful note in her voice.

"The name in your records," Riptide requested sharply.

The rat sighed.  "Squeak."

This time Rotal gave a full-out laugh, earning a reprimanding glower from Riptide.  

Once she'd quieted down, Riptide turned back to Squeak.  "Unplug the vocalizer, Squeak, while I'm talking.  I don't care if you're the daughter of Megatron or the next-in-line to be Prime, you'll stay quiet unless spoken to.  Am I clear?  Good."  And she stalked back to the other end of the line, ignoring Squeak's plaintive "But I AM the daughter of Megatron!"

"Like I said, I'm not out to get you," Riptide went on, continuing to pace.  "If you've made it this far, it means you've passed the preliminary rounds.  You've managed to avoid falling into most of the typical Mary Sue traps and are ready for the next stage -- ready to enter the battlefield and prove yourselves among the Canon Characters."

Smiles broke out on many faceplates.

"That doesn't mean it's going to be a walk in the park, newbuilts," Riptide said shortly.  "You're not Canon, remember?  Your adventures so far have been limited to what your creators have placed before you.  As fan characters, you're going to be facing a lot of prejudice out there.  You're gonna get a lot of flak from Canon Characters and the general public simply because Hasbro doesn't specifically own your aft."  She paused in front of Rotal.  "And for a lot of you, that prejudice is going to be worse simply because of your protocol programming -- or what humans would term gender.  Not a lot you can do to change it, so just get used to it."

"Yes, sir... um, ma'am," Rotal replied.

"Or for some of you who happen to have an unusual past," Riptide went on, pausing now in front of Jpeg, a light green femme with a motorcycle alt mode.  "Some of you who might have once been human, for example, and became a Transformer by science or magic or whatever-the-frag plot device your creator chose."

Jpeg ducked her head shyly.

"Or maybe those of you who happen to have a relationship of some sort with a Canon Character," she continued, now coming to a halt before two dark-colored femmes -- one black and gunmetal, with a sports-car alt mode and a smirk that could only belong on a Lamborghini, the other dark gray with wicked claws and a familiar bucket-shaped helm.  "Whether a romantic relationship or a teacher/mentor one... or perhaps family ties, such as daughter or sister."  She cocked her head at the gray femmes again.  "Refresh my processors -- your names?"

"Shadowrunner," the carbot femme said softly.

"Gladia Deus," the jet replied.

Stagecoach snorted.  "A Mary Sue name if I ever heard one..."

Gladia's reaction was immediate -- one moment she was standing at stiff attention, the next she was on Stagecoach's chest and doing her level best to claw his lasercore out.  Stagecoach howled in terror, flapping his arms wildly and staggering as Gladia snarled and slashed at his chest.  Riptide's bellowed commands went unheard over the din, but evidently she'd been calling for backup judging by the security mechs that hurried forward to pry the femme off Stagecoach.

"Stand down, Gladia," Riptide snapped.  "Stagecoach, zip it or next time I'll just lock you two in a room together and you can work out your differences yourself."

Gladia gave Stagecoach a glower worthy of her brother -- Steelwing knew the femme fairly well, and besides it was no secret among the Decepticons that Megatron had a sister.  Then she subsided with a sneer, examining her claws and picking bits of paint out of them.  Stagecoach backed fearfully away from her and resumed his stance at attention, his immaculate white paint now criss-crossed with slashes where base metal showed through.  Shadowrunner, for her part, hadn't moved an inch during the debacle but continued to stand at attention.  Steelwing couldn't suppress an amused smile -- definitely not like HER brothers, then.  Sideswipe and Sunstreaker would have either jumped into the fray themselves or just pointed and laughed.

"Anyhow," Riptide continued, "my point is you're gonna get a lot of harassment, a lot of accusations... and never mind that there are Canon Characters who share similarities with you.  Never mind that precedents have already been set for six-changers, with Sixshot."  She paused and glanced up at Advocator, who nodded acknowledgement.  "Or bounty hunters, with Devcon."  She stopped in front of Afterburner, who gave a rather frightening grin.  "Or mechs of a common body-type -- repaints -- with Thundercracker, Bluestreak, Cliffjumper, Nemesis, and too many other examples to count."  Here her gaze rested on Wirejack, and the Seeker shifted his feet and smiled sheepishly.  "Originals have taken a bad rap lately, what with our kind and our history and mythos becoming more and more popular among the fans -- inevitably, when something becomes popular, Mary Sues proliferate... and the truly Original Characters take a lot of the heat for it.

"You've made it this far -- now it's time to see if y'all have the struts to go the rest of the way."  Riptide stopped now and pivoted on one heel to face the recruits, fists on her hips.  "You're going out there into the thick of the war -- some to Earth among Optimus Prime and Megatron's cadres, others to Cybertron to assist the war efforts there, still others to the far reaches of space to colonies, battlefields, and who-knows-where.  And you are going to prove to everyone -- both the Canon Characters you'll fight alongside and the fans who'll witness your battles -- that you are worthy of the titles of Originals... or prove you're a Sue after all and slink back here in disgrace.  Your choice.  Now, y'all think you're up to it?  Or am I staring at a bunch of sparklings instead of soldiers?"

"We're ready!" exclaimed Wipeout, pumping his fist enthusiastically.  "Let's go hit the powder!"

"When do we start?" asked Sunflare, smiling eagerly.

"Hold your horsepower, factory-freshes," Riptide admonished the snowmobile-former mech and the jetformer femme.  "You need your assignments first..."

The doors opened again, and Steelwing felt her sensors crawl as... something flooded the room.  It wasn't light, not exactly, and not a gas or odor.  Perhaps a vibration, or an energy.  But whatever it was, it had every sensor and circuit in her body buzzing on high alert, recognizing the danger on a basic programming level.  Gasps and exclamations sounded as recruits began turning to identify the intruder.

"Fraggit, bunch of newbuilts," Riptide snapped, pushing between Wipeout and Afterburner to get a look at the intruder.  "Attention spans of turbognats... oh slag."

Steelwing finally turned to see who had entered... and felt her fuel congeal.

The femme standing in the doorway was beautiful, slender and lovely-faced, her plating red and gold with black accents, her optics a soft lavender color and tilted at an exotic slant.  A pair of golden wings, trimmed in black and decorated with strange runelike symbols, swept back from her shoulders -- not the angular wings of a Seeker or Aerialbot, but sleekly curved like those of a falcon.  Her body bore no vents, stabilizers, wheels, animal heads or limbs, or any other sign of her alt mode apart from her peculiar wings, but remained sleek and shapely.  Her helm, oddly spired like Optimus Prime's, was tucked underneath one arm as she walked, leaving her head bare to allow her silver-white hair to cascade down her back.  Upon her chestplate -- a chestplate that was curved in all the right places to suggest breasts -- shimmered an Autobot symbol, not painted like most mechs but inlaid in ruby.  She positively gleamed in the waiting room's artificial lights, and when she offered a bright friendly smile to the assembled mechs, her dental plates shimmered with a whiteness that was almost impossible for any mech to achieve.

A deep, threatening growl rumbled in Steelwing's audials, and it took her a second to realize it was coming from her own vocalizer.  She wasn't alone, either -- on her right Shadowrunner's face took on a deadly masklike quality, and on her left Squeak's fur and plating bristled, making the once-comical-looking cyborg-rat look unexpectedly sinister.

"Oh, am I in the right place?" asked the femme in a bright, cheery voice touched with an implacable accent.  "This is where Original Character recruits meet, right?"

"And who are you?" asked Riptide suspiciously.

The femme dropped a curtsy.  "Forgive me my rudeness.  I am Titania Prime, former Elemental Master of the planet Etheria, now leader of the Autobots in the stead of my lover, Rodimus Prime, and sworn to avenge his death and defeat the Decepticons..."

The grinding and whirring of transformation cogs overrode Steelwing's snarl, and she glanced over sharply to see Stab, Stomp, and Advocator had all assumed alternate modes -- Stab and Stomp were in their Velociraptor and Anklyosaurus modes respectively, while Advocator had chosen his winged lion mode out of his possible modes.  Titania abruptly stopped talking and donned her helmet, tucking her hair back beneath it with an astonishing ease and a golden mask snapping into place to cover her mouth and olfactory sensor.

"Stay back," she said, her voice still lovely despite its suddenly stern tone.  "I don't want to hurt any of you, but I'll use my Elemental powers if I must to defend myself..."

It was Afterburner that sounded the cry, Afterburner who spoke what was on everyone's CPUs:  "Kill the Sue!"

It was like turning a pack of wolves loose on fresh meat -- every Original in the room converged on Titania Prime with weapons drawn.  Laser fire and EMP blasts filled the air, blades and claws flashed, static and ozone and smoke filled the air.  Steelwing herself powered her shoulder cannons up as high as they could go and opened fire, and just beside her Stagecoach activated his own cannon to blast plasma bolts at the super-powered femme.

Titania didn't stand a chance, despite her claim to Elemental powers -- whatever those were -- and the powerful armor typical of her kind.  She fought valiantly, but it was only seconds before the mob was upon her.

Riptide, for her part, simply backed into her office, flicked on her holographic "Do Not Disturb" sign, and closed the door.  True Mary Sues rarely made it as far as her office, but it was never pretty when they did dare poke their helms in here.  It was best to simply let the Originals take care of it and deny responsibility if asked.

***

"Freeze, Autobot."

The message courier froze at the feel of a gun muzzle pressing against his neck strut, and he wisely made no move as his captor circled to stand in front of him, keeping her pistol trained on him.  He didn't speak either, even though a hundred questions sprang to mind when he saw her face.

The Datsun femme raised an optic ridge upon identifying him.  "Stagecoach?"

"Steelwing," he replied.  "Fancy meeting you here."

"So you made it here as well.  You received an assignment."

Stagecoach chuckled slightly.  "I think everyone present that day did.  There's rumor of a policy that any Original that aids in the destruction of a blatant Mary Sue character automatically passes all inspection and gains an assignment."

Steelwing snorted.  "An urban legend, if you ask me.  Though I must admit taking down Titania Prime was most satisfying."

Stagecoach just gave what he hoped was a charming grin.  "For old times sake, ma'am... say you never saw me here?"

Steelwing gazed at him a few moments longer, then lowered her gun.  "For old times sake, you get one free pass, Autobot.  You have ten seconds to get the slag out of here."

He took the hint, transformed, and bolted.