A/N: OH WOW I'M THE FIRST STORY IN THIS CATEGORY O.o

Hello everyone! I'm back again after a rather long hiatus, and this is my latest project (which I fully intend to complete). It's my first time writing a Bots Master fanfic, but I have only good memories of this cartoon and good things to say about it. Unfortunately, since it's so old, there are very few fans out there, and very few fanfics. I wanted to revive the awesomeness that is this cartoon through my story. Although I know no one is going to read this, I'm going to write it anyway because I love this cartoon so darn much.

The rating is for some strong language scattered through the story. The characters from The Bots Master do no belong to me; however, all OCs do, so don't go around stealing them, okay? Thanks.

Special thanks to my beta reader, Delinda Beckett. Thanks for all your support and advice!

Zephyr

Chapter One

In Which I Break My Heart Again

The rain was falling harder that I'd ever seen it do so in my ten years here in Mega City. It seemed like an ironic sign from the heavens, one I wasn't exactly happy to link to today. My insomnia had started up again two weeks ago, and yesterday night, I hadn't slept a wink. It was almost pathetic how I'd managed to drag myself to work. I couldn't keep hiding behind a veil of sorrow and misery. I didn't want anyone's pity.

What I wanted was the truth, and I sure as hell would get it, one way or another.

I pulled my beige overcoat over my head, trying to prevent the rain from further ruining my unkempt, stringy hair. As I walked towards the MNN building (a.k.a. my place of work), I watched my colleagues pull up in their cars or in taxis. I hastily waved at them as I walked into the lobby and let the 3A behind the front desk scan my ID. I'd set out far too early to catch a cab – five-freaking-thirty in the morning – but since my job required me to be present at all hours, regardless of whether I was at a wild party or hanging off a cliff, I swallowed my protests and complaints and got dressed. I've never been an early riser. I'll be the first to admit that I thoroughly enjoy my beauty sleep. However, since I hadn't been sleeping anyway when my phone rang, I guess I had nothing better to do.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. It was, after all, the day that I can confidently say changed my life. I really shouldn't waffle (another of my irritating habits, along with not really brushing my hair and laughing like a lawn-mower).

I was still thinking about what I'd be doing that afternoon when I walked into my office. There was nothing different about the place when I walked in – the same people that had been furiously typing away at their computers yesterday were doing the same that day, the same 3As that zoomed around the office, delivering documents and coffee were doing their rounds, and my colleagues all had the look I'd seen on their face for years now – weary and beleaguered, just waiting for the hour hand on the clock to tell them that it was time to get home for some well-deserved R&R. However, there was a strange feeling in the air. Maybe it just was me. I couldn't put my finger on it, so I just shrugged it off as an effect of just how miserable I was feeling.

I sat down at my desk and booted up my computer, waiting to see what assignment I'd been given for today. But before I could open my inbox, a memo popped up on my screen, informing me that my boss wanted to see me ASAP. That was odd. How could I have done anything wrong if I'd only just walked into the office? (See how my paranoid tendencies emerge? Fun fact: this can get really scary if I'm thoroughly freaked out. Not a good characteristic of a journalist, but since I can keep it under control, it really isn't a problem.) I quickly adjusted my messy hair and, as nonchalantly as possible, walked into Tomas Kipling's office.

Tomas has been a tall, wiry, rather nervous-looking man (his thinning hair only contributes to this image) for the three years that I've known him. However, beneath the façade, he is a tough-as-nails badass who will do almost anything to get a good story to the public, regardless of its repercussions. Today he was sitting behind his desk and typing furiously at his computer, hammering out words with an intensity I'd never seen before.

"Guess what I'm typing right now," he said, not even taking his eyes off the computer screen. I shut the door quietly behind me.

"My…obituary?"

"No cigar, Sharpie, no cigar." He looked up at me with a smirk. "This is a press release that will soon be sent to the presses and aired on the televiewer."

"Must be one hell of a press release. Sir," I quickly added.

"It is." Tomas bent and pulled a huge statuette out from under his desk, which he'd been crudely using as a hiding place. "That's yours."

"Get out."

"It's my office," he growled. "You get the hell out." Then his voice softened. "You, Lisbeth Sharpe, are this year's winner of the Global Media Award for Best Investigative Report."

Now this was true irony. I receive an award on a day that I have been dreading for a year for an investigation into the life of the bastard because of whom I am now in mourning.

Clearly my face betrayed my true emotions to Tomas, as did the fact that I was not going gaga over the award. "What's the matter with you? This is the award that every decent journalist on the planet would kill to win!" He peered at me for some time before an expression of realization dawned on his face.

"Damn," he muttered. "It's Carlotta, isn't it? Damn."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm really happy, I really am – it's just that today, this looks like a sick joke that someone up there is playing on me."

"Look, you shouldn't be here. Why did you even come to work?"

"It's been a year. I've moved on."

"No, you haven't."

"I have to." I must have said this very fiercely, because Tomas shrunk back slightly in his chair and sighed.

"I guess I have no other choice," he replied, after a long silence. "Go home, Lisbeth. For today, you are persona non grata in this building. I will now proceed to call Security."

"You've got to be joking!" I yelped. "What about all my work, my pending assignments, my reports? Bobo the clown isn't going to do them for me!"

Tomas pointed one finger at his door. "Get out, Lisbeth. I don't want to see you here today or tomorrow."

I know Tomas meant well, but as I left the office, the televiewer mounted in one corner of the room, which was tuned into MNN, began to display a ticker tape with the following text: MNN Journalist Lisbeth Sharpe Wins GMA for Zulander Investigation. Noticing this, a few of my colleagues began to cheer loudly, and soon the whole office was clapping.

At that point in time, I wanted to kill two men – my boss, and that asshole, Ziv Zulander.

I suppose I should discuss Carlotta's fate, and how it's linked to the investigation I did shortly after she died. After all, I can now positively say that my investigation is the reason for the chain of events that were to follow my temporary (albeit unnecessary) expulsion from my office that day.

I'd known Carlotta Savoy for years. We'd grown up in the same town, swum at the same pool, had crushes on the same guys, and even been in the same class at school all our lives. So we took it for granted when both of us ended up at the same university, doing the same course, and – by some freaky chance – ended up sharing a dorm room together. When Lottie accepted a job at MNN's newspaper and me as an intern with their news studios, it was a wake-up call to a reality where Lottie and I were no longer joined at the hip. For although we worked at the same company, our offices were different, and we could only see each other on weekends when we were not working, which were few and far in between. Lottie steadily rose through the ranks at work, whereas my progress was a little slower.

She was good – really, really good. Lottie could sniff out a good story from miles away, and towards the end of her days, we'd often meet just to exchange information on juicy stories that we could use in our pieces. It was through these discussions that Lottie introduced me to Lonnie Chang, another reporter who was fast making her way up the ladder of professional success, and who desperately wanted to transfer to my department. The three of us grew close. That's when Lottie told us the good news (well, she believed it was good news then). She was selected to report on a new Krang chip factory, and she would be flying to Dallas with a few other journalists to check it out. We'd toasted her success at the local bar. But, of course, Fate had her little tricks to play, and so intervened.

Lottie was the only journalist who didn't escape in the pod when the bomb that Ziv Zulander planted on her plane blew up. The coffin under her gravestone has no body because the rescue unit couldn't find one. Their theory was that the explosion blew her to smithereens. (Of course, they said it much more politely, but that was the bottom line.) That day, I promised both myself and Carlotta that I would find out exactly what happened and would do everything in my power to get Zulander behind bars. It was in this rage that I set up began my investigation into Zulander and conducted a series of interviews with high-ranking officials in the RM Corporation, including its President, Sir Louis Leon Paradim. During the course of this investigation, I came across evidence of just how violent and deranged Zulander was. And to think that he'd once worked with us, Lady Frenzy told me sadly.

Now, on Carlotta's first death anniversary, I still felt a surge of hatred for the man who'd murdered my best friend in cold blood. I'd been warned that he might come after me. I'd also been warned that he might try something at the memorial service that afternoon.

I didn't care. All I wanted was for Zulander to receive his just desserts.

I went straight home and changed into more somber-looking clothes, after which I killed time watching soppy dramas on the televiewer before setting off for the service. I hailed a cab and reached the cemetery just as people were settling down. I recognized many of them as former colleagues of Lottie's, but others I simply could not place. I saw Lonnie sitting in the last row of the seats under a large green tent that had been set out for everyone. She waved at me, and I decided to sit next to her for some emotional support. (I'm sure Lonnie was looking for the same.)

The service was not very long. Lottie had no family, so her colleagues spoke a few words about how brave and optimistic she was, yadda yadda, et cetera, et cetera. The whole ceremony had an impersonal, orchestrated feel to it that I didn't appreciate, so as soon as it was over I decided to leave my bouquet at her grave and go back home.

When I got up and turned around to set my flowers down, I noticed a man staggering towards Lottie's grave. As I approached him, the rank stench of cheap alcohol drifted my way. The man was middle-aged, with an unshaved beard and uncombed hair. His eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles beneath them. He hadn't even bothered to dress appropriately for the service. My first instinct should have been disgust, but somewhere at the back of my mind, something was telling me that I knew him. I approached the grave cautiously, lay my flowers down slowly, and looked at the man's face. He stared back, his mouth slack.

"Sir, is there a problem?" I asked, wanting to avoid a scene.

"Damn straight," he said gruffly, still swaying. "This is all my fault."

"I don't think you could have done anything about it, sir. Can I help you back to the tent?"

"You don't understand," he said forcefully, grabbing my arm. I tried to pull away from him, but his grip was far too strong. "It's not like you know what happened. She's not down there."

I assumed he was referring to the lack of a body. "The rescue unit couldn't find her, sir. Please let go of my hand."

"You don't get it!" he yelled, pushing me to the ground. "She's not even dead!"

Right there, the world stopped turning. I blinked helplessly. It was probably thanks to the drinks that he was acting out, but what kind of a statement was that? Everyone there was grieving. What made him so damn special?

Fresh tears sprung to my eyes. "Sir," I said stiffly, pulling myself back on to my feet, "you need to go home. Now."

"And you," he spat, "need to listen to me. Lottie said you were the best. Now prove it."

That was when it hit me like a bolt of lightning. "I remember you - you're Lottie's old editor! Martin…something!"

"And it's my fault she's running." Martin Something cradled his head in his hands and sank to the ground. "If I'd just said no to them, she'd be here. But she's not. She's not coming back."

"Carlotta is dead. She isn't running anywhere."

"And you haven't been listening to me!" he yelled. I turned back to the tent, where people were now staring at us. I turned back to him.

"How can you be sure?" I hissed. "Have you seen her?"

"She came to me after the plane blew up. She knew the truth. But I couldn't help it…I had to let them take her," he sobbed. "Please understand…my family…they had my son! I had to!"

I was stunned. If Martin was telling the truth, where was she now? Why hadn't she contacted me? "Where is Lottie now? Please tell me!"

"I can't! The HumaBots…they'll come for me! They killed my family, burnt my house down…don't let them take me! Help me, Lisbeth!"

By this point, Martin was uncontrollably shaking and crying. Someone had obviously called the police, because the next thing I knew, three police bots were at our side, escorting Martin away.

"Are you alright, Ma'am?" asked one of the bots. I snapped back and realized that he was talking to me.

"I'm fine," I said, shrugging him off. I ran after Martin. "Martin! What do you know? Tell me! I'll try to help!"

"The airport! Ask about the plane!" he yelled back. The police bots dragged him away and threw him into a car that had been parked by the curb. Strangely enough, it was not a police van, but a limousine. As the bots threw Martin in, I caught the faintest glimpse of glittering flaxen hair through a crack in one of the windows.

As I watched the car drive away, the stress of the day finally caught up with me. I broke down at Lottie's grave, sobbing uncontrollably, sure that I would never, ever recover from all the heartbreak I'd experienced till then.

A/N: So there you have it - the first chapter! I know it may not seem like much, but I assure whoever's reading this that the fun in only just beginning. Thanks for reading! Please go ahead and leave a review!