Notes: This is the result of an RP which has been polished and edited. Co-authored by MightyMegatron.

Disclaimer: Own nothing. Own nooooothing.

It was just about the turn of the millennium, a time of rough production and rough builds, and a scourge was sweeping Cybertron. Ethanol, a low-cost fuel cutting chemical, had been outlawed completely. Rumors flew about the reasons why. Some bots pinned it on the xenophobia of the council, others on the difficulties of taxing a product that came from off-planet. Others whispered that it was to keep energon prices high, so the owners of energon mines and production plants could line their subspaces with the extra credits.

Bumblebee didn't know much about why. He wasn't paid enough, and as a result didn't eat enough, to care about why. Minis like him were made for fuel efficiency and small tasks. He was built to be a newsbot, and that was about all he could bring himself to do. He only just had the energy to sell the papers he picked up in the morning, much less casually read them. He usually only gave them a quick look-over so he could shout the headlines and get people to buy, and mechs weren't buying.

Even now, as a femme crossed the bridge, he mustered up enough for a yell. "Extra, extra! Investigation turns up traces of ethanol in suspected arson case! Police suspect connection to off-world ethanol smugglers-"

The femme brushed him off. "Shut yer yap, kid, everymech knows the manager hit an energon vein tryin' to bury his booze in the basement. Your story's all wet."

Bee looked over the paper as she passed. He wasn't sure if it said that anywhere or not. He skimmed it again, picking out the same sentences he had turned up at the beginning of the day. That wasn't what the article said at all! But it wasn't the first time he'd been told his paper wasn't accurate. He'd been hearing it for months as better-dressed, better-fueled Minis slowly muscled him off his old stomping grounds and onto this little dead end of a road. Nobody casually crossed a heavy-duty rusting bridge over the shipping canal during the daytime, much less at this downcycle time of night.

But, Blindside sold him papers, and he made enough to eat for most of the week, and so Bee kept shillin' the Sundays. He sang out one little tune, gently cooing along with a ditty he'd heard on the radio. His optics shuttered, blocking out the blaringly bright light that was rattling in his head.

"Come buy a paper now, come buy a paper now. I told you once or twice to just pay me once and read it twice, come buy a paper now~"

This was life in Kaon, a hard city in a dark corner of Cybertron. Kaon didn't have the polish and politics of Iacon or the cool and unquenchable work ethic of Praxus. It was a city that turned out fighters, whether they were soldiers or speakers or brawlers or bankers. It sunk below where other cities rose high, dropping ships into canals and floating cargo further along production lines and out into the Rust Red Sea. It gripped its meager businesses by the throat and kept them all tightly within the city limits. Those that didn't fight for their place fell into the cracks, forgotten.

Those that fought against it filled those cracks, and reaped the rewards from its rich seams.

It was a fight Megatron was winning. He strutted down the street, dressed to the nines in a hat and three-piece, a slot cut in the tailored suit jacket for the massive cannon on his arm. Normally, no one dared walk alone at night in this town, much less advertising their wealth and weaponry, but the crime boss was a force of nature and a celebrity rolled in one. Low-lives loved him or owed him, police couldn't touch him. He couldn't be safer if he was in his own home and besides, he was celebrating.

Last night had gone remarkably well, after all. Not for Swindle of course, but when Swindle wasn't happy, it was almost always good news. The grubby dealer had been getting a little too comfortable in a city that belonged to someone else. Competitive business was fine, it was a free planet after all, if the council was to be believed. But, when it started taking away from his own business, it became personal. When it came to Megatron, that usually meant much worse than a little arson. Swindle had gotten off easy; as far as the underground king of Kaon was concerned, he'd done the mech a favor by letting him live with a warning. Swindle had graciously apologized, the police were investigating the wrong people. A good night, for the Decepticon Syndicate.

A little tune caught his audial, and he glanced down to the minibot selling his papers. Well, look at that, Blindside's rag…

Leaning down, Megatron squinted at the front page. Blindside needed to learn to mind his own damn business. "Hey, how many'a those you got?" He pulled out a thick wad of shanix, five times what the pile was worth.

"I want them all."

When Bumblebee opened his optics, it was to a mech so massive he blocked out the street light. Light shimmered off the back of his fine cloth suit so bright that his silhouette shimmered at the edges, while his red optics glowed out from a core drenched in shadow. Out in the still night, that quiet little ruffle of tightly packed money under the mech's thumb rang out like a symphony. He shook his head to wake himself, pulling his one little article of clothing- his tweed newsmech hat- back onto his horns.

"Paper's a deci-shanix apiece, mac. What're you gonna do with a whole stack of the one rag in town that don't sell? It ain't like the city's beatin' a path to the bridge."

"I know the price, an' it's not worth half that. This is for you, fer having to sell it." Megatron pressed the shanix into the newsy's hand.

Bee waved his one loose paper out in front of the mech. He shouldn't be talking down his product, but after an entire day of no company and the rest of society puttin' his paper down? He needed something to talk about, and a somebody to talk to. "Hey, mac, my would-be customers keep sayin' that the stories ain't linin' up. Blindside nearly writes this whole thing by himself, and what he says is goin' on don't match the other papers. And you want the whole stack? You must keep a hell of a lot of pigeons."

He couldn't stop eyeing that money, though. He crinkled it in his hands and shuffled it between his fingers. It was more than enough to buy him tomorrow's bundle, as well as three square meals and maybe a hot shower at the Y. He could even treat the guys down at the paper depot to breakfast in the morning. Who was this mech, flashin' that kind of money at a night-newsie Mini at the aft-crack of midnight?

This was someone who had cash to burn, someone who could drink the dregs of Kaon and call it high grade. This was someone who knew he ruled the world. "Heh, somethin' like that."

Megatron smirked, taking the free paper from the minibot. He put it on top of the pile, stood straight and warmed up his cannon, aiming it at the stack.

"You might wanna stand back." In a bright blast of plasma, the entire stack of papers was incinerated, leaving a smoldering hole on the sidewalk.

Bee must have flown back a few feet, not from the blast but from the shock! There went all his day's lack of work in one flash of light with nothing left of it but a hole straight through to the water below. He stuck his hand into it just to be sure. The heat from the plasma singed his paint even from a distance, and it sent a shudder up his struts.

The cannon cycled down, and the suited mech tipped his hat to the newsy. "Much obliged. Have a good night, mini." Folding his arms behind his back, Megatron continued walking, enjoying the muggy night air and the fact that no one would be reading about his exploits tonight. He was out of sight in a matter of moments.

Who was that mech? Why was he so well dressed and well armed? Bumblebee transformed, money still clutched tight in his hand, and made for his sleeping spot in the alley by Blindside's printing place. His CPU was spinning a mile a minute. Speaking of Blindside, what did the guy have against Blindside's paper? He didn't have a single one to sell back to the mech, and selling papers back to the printer was a decent share of his income. His fingers ran along the bills. He just wouldn't tell Blindside. There was no law saying he had to know. Bee had already paid for the papers, so what sliver was it off his plating if he didn't bring any back? The shanix sat heavy in his hand, the ache in his tanks driving him forward. He'd made it to breakfast, eat as much as he could of whatever he liked. He would, and that was a fact tonight. It was still night, though, and the thoughts in his head were starting to muddle. He'd work it out all orderly-like in the morning.

Blindside ran a small paper out a two-story office in an older die-cast part of town. His place was smack in the middle of the building, with a suiting service on the left side and an energon parlor on the right. Bumblebee barely knew the front steps; that was the entrance for customers and mechs doing proper business. Bee went around the side alley. He usually picked up his papers in the back, but it was the dead of night and even the streets were sleeping now. He hunkered down in his cardboard hut and shut the flap behind him. He'd need a little rest or he'd be too burned out to wake up in the morning, and money in his hand or not, he still had work to do. He slept on top of it, clutching it as he slept, and his mind raced with images of red optics framed in the night.