Predacon Fan Fiction

Discussion in 'Transformers Fan Fiction' started by Yaujta, Apr 14, 2010.

  1. Yaujta

    Yaujta Broken. TFW2005 Supporter

    Sep 17, 2008
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    Okay, so I'm a huge Decepticon/Predacon fan, and really like where the Botcon exclusive stuff was going with the Razorcalw figure.
    In working on a kitbash/custom of it, I decided to start writing again. Up until now, I'd concentrated mainly on Warhammer 40K and Predator stories. Doing a Transformer one was a challenge, but turned out to be loads of fun.

    The story was also posted at by a friend, since I don't have an account there. She's a great writer in her own right, so check out some of her stuff as well.
    Pred Again, a Transformers/Beast Wars fanfic - FanFiction.Net

    Comments and critiques are always welcome.

    Anyway, here goes:

    Pred Again, by Yaujta

    Phase 1.0

    The roadways were abnormally quiet for mid-day. The metallic sheen created by millennia of travel across the bridge surfaces from both tread, wheel and hover actuators glinted in the reflected light of the overhead illuminators. Just recovering in its own way from the vast reformatting and ‘transformation’ that most Cybertronians underwent following the third Great War, the city of Promelos on the planet Otellon just outside of the main Cybertron system was once again a thriving industrial center. At this time, however, a sense of quiet dread hung over the inhabitants. This in turn, for the past one hundred cycles, made even the busiest hours of the day seem desolate.

    Relatively few of the city’s near million count could be seen walking or traveling the access ways between buildings and hubs. Even then, none seemed to want to stay in the light for fear of being noticed by some unseen force. Optics darted upwards, checking for the possibility of assault by an unknown foe. During the war, the citizens not part of the armed forces were forced to learn stealth and self preservation just to survive until the next cycle. Looking at the fleeting shapes that now darted from bridge to building, it would appear that the riotous conflict that is interstellar war was still present.

    In reality all that remained of that historic event, in which the forces of the Decepticons were finally and forever vanquished by the Autobots, were scattered memorials and honorary statues of fallen Cybertronian and Otellon heroes. In the distance, the top crest of a Prime could be seen on a pedestal honoring the site of resistance casualties. Closer, a statue of crossed rotor-swords stood next to an access ramp for the inner city tram system. It was next to this statue that a lone figure stood, seeming to admire the fine craftsmanship of the monument, almost in open defiance of the cautious actions of his fellow city inhabitants. The observer was of no special design, with basic symmetry and markings, indicating to be nothing more than one of a million other industrial workers. If one looked hard enough, which never happened in these uncertain times, one may notice the nearly imperceptible flicker of eye movement or shoulder tilt that would indicate that the memorial admirer was engaged in conversation with an unseen actor.

    “And your point is?” It was difficult to accentuate the minute amount of intended sarcasm without actually being in contact with the one other ‘bot, but ‘D’, as he was called in these early stages, was able to pull it off. His internal encrypted transmitters scratched for a nanosecond as the other end of the conversation considered the remark.
    “My point, my dear friend, is that drawing attention to yourself at this juncture may not be in our best interests.” The voice on the other end was stern, but in reality, the term friend was truly used.
    D smiled as he tilted his head up to look at the pinnacle of one of the blade handles represented by the monument. He could remember the ‘hero’ that wielded the blade in the past. No, not hero. More like marauding simpleton.
    “Relax. The cloak is working nicely, and no one’s overly interested in an artisan checking the public refuse.”
    “Heh. Still holding a grudge?”
    “Hardly. I’m alive, he isn’t. Anyway, the general area and meeting place are secured.”
    Just to prove the statement to himself, he took a quick glance at the surrounding constructions. Simple, yet full of energy and meaning. The buildings were unadorned save for the producing group and current functionalities. Illuminated directional posts guided unmanned tram cars and workers alike into and out of the facilities.
    D shifted his sensors into the high end spectrum they were meant to be in. He could now see details in the highest resolution possible, in both ultraviolet and electromagnetic wavelengths. His war-trained senses proved his earlier statement that the area was secured.
    "When do you want to make planet fall?”
    Several seconds passed as the information was relayed and considered. Then, with a nearly audible smile, the answer “Once I receive confirmation of the arrival of R, I’ll be in contact. Be careful, brother.”
  2. Yaujta

    Yaujta Broken. TFW2005 Supporter

    Sep 17, 2008
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    Phase 1.5

    The reconstitution chambers of the district of Tyrell were never overly busy. Since the war ended, the facility was mainly used for serious injuries and failing Spark systems. During the war, it was nearly over-taxed with the need to regenerate injured Autobot defenders. At one point towards the end of the conflict, the Decepticons and Predacons had captured the chambers and turned their healing machinery to the task of repairing soldiers and interrogating prisoners. As was once stated by a commanding officer in the Decepticon forces, ‘Nothing gets an Autobot to talk as fast as the threat of Spark removal.’ Since the procedure for repair involved Spark interactivity, it was easy enough for the enemy’s scientific minds to twist the power of healing into one of torture. Many Autobots died here, their Sparks removed before their eyes.
    After the war ended and the reformatting of Cybertron finished, the facility took on a somber aura in memory of the lives needlessly taken. It’s current healing and restorative functions were reserved for the truly needy and honored among the ancients. It was here that a still robust Spark in an age-failing chamber could be implanted into a new, youthful superstructure and be reformatted into a once again productive member of the ruling class. This practice of small-scale refitting and reformatting was one not looked at by the general populace as something to be taken lightly, and in some cases even frowned upon. It granted those with power a nearly eternal life, while the rest of society would suffer the degradations of long life. The voices of dissention were few and quiet, for the fear caused by the momentous events of the past solar century easily staunched the potential protests. Still, the dissatisfaction was there, and would likely not go away.
    Little did the people of Tyrell know that the vaunted healing facility had a darker side, hidden from the light of rebirth. The catacombs beneath the lowest levels housed what was once the main torture chamber of the invading forces. Although the machinery that attached to the chambers above were disassembled and disposed of years ago, the main ‘heart’ of the works was still very much intact. So advanced and complicated were the devices that it was deemed to be in the new order’s best interests to keep the machinery available for study instead of smelting it into so much slag. As it was described, the shame would be to not learn from the fallen brothers that lost their lives to this abomination.
    Due to the added security needed to keep the hidden machinery out of the public eye, the catacombs were also reformatted to become repositories for lower-level Decepticon and Predacon war prisoners. These prisoners, although not higher officers or of the ruling class, were nonetheless war criminals and deemed too dangerous to return to society. Thus, their Sparks would be contained in stasis locks for all eternity. Laser-engraved placards were posted below each tiny window where the glowing Spark could be seen, naming the accused and as way to easily call off names for visiting dignitaries. The reality was that all locks were monitored via a vast control panel, their diagnostics and condition monitored around the clock by a team of medical specialists.
    The daily routine of the facilities workers was rarely, if ever interesting. Occasionally, some visiting Cybertronian Council member would make their sector rounds and attend a restoration, but aside from the normal activities of the chambers above, nothing of consequence was ever noted.
    It was for this fact that when the medical guards returned to their posts after a brief update meeting, they didn’t immediately notice that the time and date stamp on one of the stasis lock monitors was unchanged. The clocks were all calibrated to the nano-second, but for one monitor, time had stopped. If a closer inspection would have been completed immediately, they would have noticed that the glow of the ‘Spark’ in the stasis lock being monitored by the dead control was of a slightly dimmer tint.
    The aberration would go unnoticed for another three clicks before being discovered by a panicked technician. By that time, any residual traces of the passing of an intruder would be completely dissipated.

    Darkness. Boring, mind-numbing darkness. A consciousness aware of nothing but the darkness of oblivion.
    So fraggin’ boring. Even with the sensor stimulus of ages of war and destruction and simple flesh-bag entertainment to draw on, the replaying of those memories was only interesting for a short while.
    Then the boredom set in. The worst kind of hell imaginable for a stimulus junkie.
    How long had it been since he last heard the scream of an enemy or the grating howl of a musical instrument? Too long, and this was to be his eternity, for the last sound he could recall was of the EMP grenade that shut him down. He could remember the sharp crack of the explosion followed by the…
    Pain! Horrible, tearing pain assaulted the remains of his consciousness. It was as if he were being drawn out of this dark hell through the void itself. It was for a split second that he longed for the quiet boringness of eternity.
    Then, it was over, and there was light. And sounds. And feeling. And life!
    Instinct centered his focus almost immediately to his surroundings. He was on his back in a CR chamber, enclosed fully with a small window in front of his face.
    His face! He had a face again!
    Outside the chamber was a darkened room full of machinery and equipment he wasn’t familiar with. All he knew was that he was alive again, yet maddeningly restrained. He tried to pull his arms, his arms!, free, but the restraints held fast. At his struggles, a lone ‘bot in the room outside his cell made it’s way towards the sarcophagus. The occupant didn’t recognize the stranger, but the light of understanding lit in the other’s optics.
    “Please, remain calm my friend. The process needs time to complete. You’ll be free…”
    “What the frag’s going on here? Release me!” The uncomfortable feeling of fright mingled with the pent up rage of a millennia of solitude.
    “Calm down now, or the restructuring will fail, and you will die again. Your Spark is currently housed in an unmarked protoform, and any small deviation will send you back to oblivion. Do you understand”, the stranger asked with a sternness that broke through the wall of frustration. The occupant instantly went stiff and silent at the words, nodding a brief acknowledgement.
    “Very good. Now that we have that out of the way, I can finish the end calculations and you’ll be free.” The stranger, who bore a striking resemblance to…what was his name?…walked back to a control panel and plugged a port into a consol on his forearm. Mechadendrites extended from his fingers and verily flew over the keys and holo-panels of the system.
    The lights in the CR chamber increased slowly until they were nearly blinding. There was a sharp flash, and in that instant, the occupant could feel his body components realign and reform. His optics and sensors were back online but to a higher level than what he had in his former life. His internal systems felt stronger, and the rage of once missing synapses ebbed. Gone were the uncontrolled urges and hyperactive thoughts of his former mind, replaced with an attention to detail and rationalization he’d never before known. Felt…odd.
    With a hiss, the hood to the chamber opened upward, exposing the newly freed prisoner. Tentatively, the upgraded occupant looked down at his arms to see the familiar red and black colors, augmented by an odd, earthlike fur made from silicates and alloys. Instead of the once obvious pistons and actuators of his previous incarnation, metallic tendons and muscle structures rippled between armor plates.
    He looked quizzically at his savior, and was answered by a slight chuckle and a grin. Ancient instinct told him to annihilate the ‘bot, but his new senses and understanding told him to hold back. It was odd for him to not resort to violence before thinking it through, and he wasn’t quite sure yet if he liked it.
    “Please, forgive my brevity,” interrupted the medical technician. For the first time, the patient could get a good look at the ‘bot in front of him. He was of average height and build, with travel belts and wheels formed to his legs and shoulders. The appearance of armor plates, combined with treads and cannon mounts lent itself to a military functionality rather than medical. The dominant color of red/yellow, with purple slashes was muted in the dim light of the laboratory. What was troubling was that the patient’s enhanced optics couldn’t find a Decepticon badge on his body. He looked quickly at his own shoulder to where he had worn his badge proudly to find it replaced with another symbol, neither Decepticon nor Autobot.
    “The changes made to your systems, as well as your appearance, are part of the new Cybertronian order. You’ll learn more of this when you are in contact with your fellows. For now, we need to get you prepped for your newest mission.”
    Before any protest could be lodged, the ‘doctor’ raised his left arm, transforming his fingers and hand into what appeared to be a cannon and let loose with a burst of energy. If he hadn’t just gone through a total reformat, the patient would have made to dodge the attack.
    What hit him square in the face was a concentrated beam of information. Contained in the burst were histories of Cybertron during his absence, war tallies, current active military groups, names…
    His eyes widened in shock as he read some of the names of the dead and living. What could only be sadness was felt at the permanent loss of two of his brothers, to be replaced by happiness at the discovery of the surviving two. Then he noticed their placement on the listings, and became nearly giddy with anticipation. Oh, this would be a good time indeed for the Predacons.

    After a full debriefing as to the current state of affairs in the Empire, the doctor, called Mindpurge, gifted his patient with a cloaking field and a new set of weapons. As the two walked apart to go their separate ways, Mindpurge called back, “Oh, and ‘R’, secrecy is of the utmost concern here. At least for the moment. No scenes.”
    The Predacon looked back, smiled enough to show his adamite fangs, and replied, “No promises.”
  3. Yaujta

    Yaujta Broken. TFW2005 Supporter

    Sep 17, 2008
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    Phase 2.0

    The streets were as quiet two cycles later as they were when D first came to this part of the industrial complex. He could only feign interest in the junk heap of a memorial for so long before boredom would override duty. Instead of following his basest instinct to deface the monument in a colorful yet criminally offensive way, D instead made his way to an area near the industrial center that contained several Energon stands and recharge posts.
    He knew what coming into contact with others was risky due to cloaking disguise not being able to hold up to close scrutiny, but the tedium of waiting was getting to him. In his former life, spying and reconnaissance were some of his favorite duties. Being able to fly above the battlefield, monitoring enemy activities then choosing targets at random were some of the greatest thrills for him. This skulking about in a disguise was not what he wanted to be doing.
    “Oh well,” he thought aloud, “At least I look good doing it.”

    When the time had come for his own reformatting, he had railed against the idea. He liked who and what he was and saw no need for change. He wasn’t on Cybertron itself, so wasn’t part of the large, and in his processor, unwanted transformation to the bio-mechanical. He didn’t understand the need for such a radical change to the very fabric of his race, and at the time was glad he was away from his home world. If it wouldn’t have been for the calming command of his leader, he’d have made a break for it and tried his luck as a rogue. As it was, since his trusted commander said it was the only way to survive and thrive in the new regime, he agreed to the procedure.
    It was with hesitation and not a little fear that he entered the CR chamber. His last sights through his old optics were of the scientist Mindpurge, staring at him through a holo screen. D didn’t overly trust the scientist, but then again, he never really knew a scientist that wasn’t in it for himself. Considering this one’s mentor, he didn’t have much faith that he was any different. The ‘doctor’s’ only redeeming quality, as far as D was concerned was that he retained his Cybertronian form and didn’t get reformatted himself. Then again, that could be considered foreboding to one about to go through the procedure himself.
    As the chamber hood closed, the hulking form of his commander appeared next to Mindpurge, as a silent reassurance to his friend that this was the right thing to do. D knew that he was to be part of the ruling elite, alongside his surviving brothers, and this reconstruction was the first step towards their goals. He was no coward, considering himself as cautious more than anything, but the idea of possibly losing his identity was not one he took lightly. He had gotten used to sharing a consciousness, but completely losing his was unacceptable.
    These thoughts were circulating in his processors as the lights of the CR chamber flashed through their cycles. Energon poured through his systems as the restructuring changed and warped his structure. There was no pain, but an odd sensation of expansion in both mind and body. It was exhilarating, and reminded him of the excitement of flying unleashed over a new warzone.
    One of the changes that came with the reformatting was that his mind was altered to allow full and unrestrained thought. Due to the fact that the Sparks of two of his brothers were forever lost in the third war, the need for a gestalt consciousness was unnecessary. The space taken up by the internal machinery and processing requirements of the combiner systems were replaced with more necessary and higher-end equipment and weaponry. The loss of his brothers was unfortunate, but to D, the loss of the combiner was a gift. Although they formed one of the most feared beings in the Decepticon ranks, the loss of his individuality and reliance on others for his survival never sat well with him. He had always felt vulnerable in that form, but now that the need to join both physically and mentally with four other consciousnesses wasn’t there, he could finally be himself again.
    In place of the gestalt consciousness, his new system had a limited spectrum long range communication array. Basically, he had the standard open communication channels along with a separate sub-space frequency tuned directly to his commander and one other, his yet to be recovered third surviving brother. Almost as a tribute to the combiner technology, this private channel would allow open and free communication between just the three of them.
    He liked this.
    Once the lights of the CR chamber dimmed back down to their original luminescence, the hood hissed open and allowed D to survey his new form. The brick-like hard edges were gone, replaced with flowing angles and armor panels. He was expecting the nearly organic appearance of the new format, but he was surprised just how well it flowed with his avian form. He flexed his wings and watched the flow of light over his metallic ‘feathers’.
    Forcibly drawing his attention away from his new form, D looked up at his commander and at Mindpurge. He now found it a bit odd that the scientist didn’t adopt a new form, but also didn’t really care. His commander’s new form, although forcibly changed and necessary after the Council’s failed assassination attempt, was one of power and raw energy. It would be an honor to once again fight at his side.
    Placing a huge paw on his shoulder, his leader gave an approving nod of satisfaction and camaraderie.
    “It’s good to have you with us, Divebomb.”
    “Thank you, Razorclaw,” he replied. Looking up at his commander, he knew he made the correct decision. “What’s the plan?”
    The Predacon leader looked thoughtful for a second. Divebomb knew what was coming, and nearly exploded with anticipation.
    “Now, you get to test your wings.”

    That was seven cycles ago. Divebomb was still excited about his new existence, and longed to take to the dark Cybertronian skies once again. But that would have to wait, he lamented to himself. The delay was not only due to the immediate mission and Razorclaw’s inevitable return to power, but because of other pressing matters.
    Rampage was back online. This brought both relief and uneasiness to Divebomb. Relief in the fact that a brother from as far back as the beginning of the original Predacon’s lives as an elite strike force was still alive. They were comrades, after all. The uneasiness came from the fact that the warrior was always a bit of a loose cannon, so to speak, being more of a berserker than a true team member. His destructive tendencies often lead him to getting into predicaments in which he needed extraction or backup.
    Would the reformatting have done anything to temper the time bomb that was Rampage’s mentality? Would so many years in the detached isolation of near-death have driven him mad? Those were the questions in Divebomb’s processor when his private com link clicked twice, indicating an incoming communication. He recognized the signal as Rampage’s, and opened the channel, pushing aside his concerns until he could either validate or quash them.
    “D here, go ahead,” he sent, using his call code name.
    “Hey flyboy! How’s the new life treating you?” The jovialness of the communication had Divebomb nearly stuttering to come up with a response. Was this really Rampage, he asked himself. That oaf rarely knew humor, let alone expressed it.
    “Ummm, I’m well. And yourself?”
    “Together, in more ways than one, brother.”

    Divebomb noticed the nearly imperceptible twinge to the voice and inflections that told him that yes, this was his old comrade returned from the dead, but better then before. Relief at the thought of not having “calm Rampage down” duty was a pleasant idea.
    “Where are you located, old friend. I’m not picking you up on my sensors.”
    “Right behind you, old friend.”
    Divebomb jumped straight up, did a perfect spin and landed with his concussion blasters drawn. Sure enough, the smiling form of a disguised Predacon stood casually behind where he was positioned a moment ago.
    “Put those away. Artisans rarely carry such weaponry,” Rampage remarked with a smile as he motioned towards the hand cannons. Divebomb looked at him with open hostility for a moment more, shrugged and tensed the weapons back into their sheaths in his arms.
    “And comrades rarely try to cause their friends to suffer full system shocks,” Divebomb noted with a bit of tension still in his stance.
    “I warned him against it when he told me his plan, but you know how he is, er, was,” interrupted Razorclaw’s transmission. Both warriors, having heard the remark, smiled and grasped each other’s hands in a warm greeting. This was a true reunion of mighty warriors and old friends. Once they both met up with Razorclaw, the triad would be complete, and they could toast their fallen comrades, and the greatness that was yet to come.
    Divebomb released Rampage’s hand and motioned to a local Energon pub with a tilt of his head, it’s name hidden from view, but the lights and sounds denoted it for what it was. Rampage, picking up on his friend’s posture, smiled and walked in the direction of the establishment. Divebomb waited a few moments before continuing after him.
    “So, how many?”
    “At least three, maybe four. Their signatures are distorted, but they’re definitely Tripedacus agents.”
    “I caught the ‘scent’ of three on the way in. If there’s a fourth, then score to you.”
    “Like old times, eh?”
    “Like new times as well, my fine feathered friend.”
    “Oh, we’ve discovered humor, have we?”
    “Amazing what death can do for a ‘bot.”
  4. Yaujta

    Yaujta Broken. TFW2005 Supporter

    Sep 17, 2008
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    Phase 2.5

    Energon. This is the name of the fuel required by nearly the entire Cybertronian race to maintain an operating status and to keep their Sparks strong. Its uses are many and varied, from direct fed into Space Bridges and star cruisers to being refined to power micro lasers and the tiniest slaved operating systems.
    It was discovered that the raw energy of the fuel could be distilled and condensed, even with artificial flavors added, into a digestible substance that was both refueling and slightly inebriating if consumed in quantity. This energy high was the equivalent to a human’s consumption of alcohol, so establishments that sold energon ‘drinks’ to its patrons was dubbed an Energon Bar.
    Many of these facilities have garnered reputations as places where all walks of life could mingle and share a common interest, without the restrictions of faction or status to get in the way of good times. As it is with many of these types of places, there were established times to visit for social gatherings, business discussions and personal liaisons. These times saw many of the ruling class raising a cube with the common workers, two ‘bots forming a lasting relationship or solidifying a friendship, and consolidating business deals toasted over the finest distilled Energon. These were good times, and were also profitable for the establishment’s owner, both in reputation and in credits.
    Generally, these establishments were respectable and clean. But as with all such locations galaxy wide, there was the inevitable tarnished side to the coin. The ability for rival factions and classes to intermingle freely on a common ground could and did lead to some of the most raucous and explosive brawls imaginable. Bar owners knew the risks and hazards associated with running such an establishment, but to keep the clientele comfortable and keep their business, added security could not be implemented for fear of chasing away the hard earned credits.
    Even with the potential dangers, these establishments prospered and flourished. Their names were well known, and their patronage guaranteed.
    It was such a place as this that Divebomb and Rampage headed towards. The name Swoops’ Landing flashed overhead in garish neon and ultraviolet.
    “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Divebomb remarked over the private channel as he noticed the name for the first time, with the stylized silhouette of the famous Autobot next to the letters. He knew Razorclaw and Rampage were as amused as he was at the irony, but somehow it didn’t sit well with him to do business in an establishment named after his oldest rival. He’d scouted the area several times in order to secure a meeting place, but never once made notice of the sign. His concern over his lack of attention was sublimated somewhat when he saw that the sign was new, having just been installed this last day.
    Inside and down two steps the entrance opened up into a large room, with balconies along the back and side walls. There were several long tables surrounded by tiered steps in which multiple energon taps were manned by drones. The steps were tiered to admit all shapes and sizes of ‘thirsty’ Otellons and Cybertronians, and even more than a few off-worlders. The overhead lighting was dimmed and in various spectrums, and if Rampage and Divebomb hadn’t been upgraded, visibility would have been difficult at best. Along with the lights, the sound of musical processors could barely be heard over the din of patrons talking, shouting, celebrating and being generally noisy.
    Rampage made his way past several rowdy smelters apparently celebrating the promotion of a fellow lineman, and found a standing spot next to one of the tap-drones. He ordered a large cube and half-heartedly sniffed at the substance. He took a small swig, decided his new senses didn’t like the taste, and casually set the container on the counter as he pretended to be disinterested in his surroundings.
    This was very far from the truth. As he glanced around, he noticed every detail there was to see, and some that were hidden. He easily placed more than a few concealed blasters and launchers among the patrons, estimating the danger level of each wielder. Most were low-time thugs, but several were obviously experienced fighters. In this observation, he was able to pull out two of the agents that had been following him and Divebomb on the street. Both were non-descript worker class ‘bots, but that just meant their cloaks were as good as his. The biggest telling sign as to their subterfuge was the reaction they both gave as Divebomb entered the bar. Although barely noticeable, both quickly looked at each other then looked back at Rampage’s brother. It was them that gave away the location of the third agent, who was stationed at a window spot next to the far side of the room. A nearly imperceptible head tilt alerted Rampage to the third location, and after a glance of his own, he slowly made his way to the window spot.
    Meanwhile, Divebomb strolled to the bar at the other side of the large room, patting a few backs and grabbing a cube of energon along the way. Taking up the personae of a regular patron, he blended into the crowd rather easily. In fact, it took Rampage a few moments to relocate his friend after the Predacon’s jaunt to the bar.
    “You know these people,” Rampage sent over the private communication channel.
    “Not a one. Well, maybe one or two, but…” His transmission ended abruptly. Rampage was about to turn to Divebomb’s location when the transmission resumed.
    “Sorry about that. I win, though.”
    “What do you… oh, you found the fourth?”

    “Yeah. Look up and to the left.” Sure enough, when Rampage casually hefted his energon cube to take an imaginary swig, the fourth agent was there, standing on a balcony with many other patrons. His give away was that he wasn’t doing anything but observing. In a place like this, at least pretending to have fun was mandatory.
    “Novice. Looks like the Council will deputize just about any ‘bot these days.” Rampage scoffed at the lack of professionalism. During the reign of the Predacons, the original Predacons, he and his team would set an ambush days in advance, and rarely ever be seen until the job was nearly over. Once they were seen, however, the target knew they were dead.
    “Is this place our destination, or were you just thirsty,” Rampage asked over the com. Being in this much of a crowd in disguise didn’t make him feel at all comfortable. If the facade fell at all, he’d have to fight or flee, and he really hated to flee.
    “We were to find an establishment suitable enough to do some recruiting,” Divebomb replied, “and I think it’ll suit our needs.”
    “You’re right. Listen.”
    Both warriors trained their receptors to a larger group of ‘bots towards the left hand side of the room. The conversation, which seemed at first to be nothing of consequence appeared to be heating up. Apparently, side A was for and fully supported the reconstitution of Cybertronians and the defeat of the Predacon ‘uprising’ as it was termed. Their stand was one of peace and unity, blaming the Decepticons and then the Predacons which followed for the deterioration of Primus, stellar peace and for even the Unicron attacks eons ago. They decried the Decepticons as power hungry megalomaniacs, which both eavesdropping warriors had to admit, was true in some instances.
    Side B, on the other hand, stood for a separation of factions, claiming it was the only way for a Cybertronian to truly be free and out from under the thumb of the ruling class. Right now, if a ‘bot didn’t agree with the Council, their voice was quashed and they were proclaimed a separatist. Instead of listening and allowing that ‘freedom is the right of all sentient beings’, the Council and their followers wanted to have total control over not just the planets of the empire, but all that inhabited it as well. Resorting once again to factions was the only way for citizens wanting freedom to go.
    “Watch this.”
    Divebomb casually walked over to the table of side B, holding his drink cube and listening intently over the ruckus of the bar. It seemed as though the dissenters were losing ground to the unification side, so he decided to push them off their perches a bit.
    “So, the only path to a peaceful universe is through total conformity? Sorry, but I like my processors where they are.” At his words, a few of the B-siders nodded and raised their cubes to him. On the opposite end, several of the A-siders shot him nasty glances and made off-hand remarks about the new-comer.
    “Listen, friend, we already covered that. It isn’t loss of self, it’s gaining peace over disorder,” replied a large, older ‘bot. His tall, hefty frame sported the alternate appearance of a bio-mechanical Earth-like green and brown lizard with armored scales and recessed claws. What he was in his former life was anyone’s guess, but Divebomb figured on some slow ground vehicle. He also figured, by the way the ‘bot carried himself, that he’d seen his share of war and death which is what made him long for peace and order by any means necessary. Even peace came that came with the high price of subservience.
    “Look at history. The Decepticons left Cybertron because they were forced to for believing in a way not dictated by the will of Primus. They became militaristic and war-like out of need, not because they were all just ruffians and miscreants!”
    Well, some of them were, the former Decepticon thought to himself as an addendum.
    “No, you’re remembering what you want to,” countered the Maximal spokesman for the A-side. “The Deceps were antagonistic from the start, following Megatron’s ego and shooting anything he pointed at!”
    “But you’re forgetting the years after his rule, and the following factions. The Predacons wanted freedom over elitist laws. What’s so bad about that,” Divebomb continued, and once again, nods of understanding and appreciation followed. The voices of the dissenters were again gaining strength through their shared beliefs.
    He continued, “The Predacons want peace. I believe this to be true! The peace we all as Cybertronians desire, one in which we can make our own choices without having to clear them with some untouchable ‘bots on high!”
    “It’s getting thick in here. I think you’re in the wrong business.”
    “Not now, I’m on a roll.”

    The large once-Autobot-turned-Maximal looked at him with obvious contempt and not a small amount of distrust. He had just about gotten away from this rabble and maybe even convinced a few more dissenters that the Maximal way was better for all until this upstart poked his nose into the conversation. Why was it always this way these days? Everyone with a different opinion on how it should be when the right way was right in front of them! The rules were there for a reason!
    It didn’t help matters that the stranger seemed…odd. His nondescript form didn’t match his bearing or posture. Something wasn’t right here.

    As Divebomb continued with his campaign, Rampage noted that three of the four agents had shifted position and were now more able to make a run at the tables that the argument was taking place at. The fourth agent was still at the balcony, his position unchanged. Odd, but at least a bit more professional. He also made note of those that supported the Predacon ideals and stood with Divebomb. Most were unknown and probably second generation ‘bots, but several were obviously veterans of the old Decepticon army. He didn’t recognize them outright, but he knew their sparks.

    Even though the ideals laid down by Megatron and then Galvatron in those ancient times were, at best, ludicrous, the basic roots of the cause were the same now as it was then. The current restarted Predacon regime took those ideals in the direction they were originally meant to go, with a more unified purpose and agenda.
    Under the banner of peace, the Maximals placed laws into affect that were fair only to the ruling class, the excuse being that strong rulers provided the best order for the general populace. The Predacons, on the other hand, desired a more equality-based system, where the rulers were the strength of the people. Peace such as this could only come through conflict, so it would seem.

    The discussion, which progressed easily to a full-blown argument thanks to Divebomb’s posturing and counters, had drawn the attention of the rest of the bar patrons. The old Maximal let the others around him speak their minds, staying quieter and more observant. Training as an Autobot during the wars had given him the ability to notice what many didn’t, and he knew without a doubt that this newcomer was not what he appeared to be.
    It was then that he and Rampage met each other’s gaze. Both ‘bots had been looking at the crowd, and when their vision crossed paths, they stared at each other for a few seconds before Rampage continued on with his observations. The Maximal knew the ‘bot at the window was with the one involved in the argument. There was no question in his mind that neither of them were common laborers. To test his theory, he shifted his angle slightly so that he’d appear to have a straight shot at the ‘bot across the table. In answer, the one at the window lowered his head, smiled slightly and shook his head in a nearly imperceptible ‘no’.
    This wouldn’t end well. Of that, he was sure.

    “Divebomb, your large friend thinks he knows something.”
    “Yeah, I caught it too.”
    “Should he be an unfortunate casualty?”
    “Not yet. I think it was just a test. Let’s see what he does with his knowledge.”
    “You’re no fun anymore.”
  5. Yaujta

    Yaujta Broken. TFW2005 Supporter

    Sep 17, 2008
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    South Central PA
    Phase 3.0

    The three Council agents in the crowd, having heard ever seditious word and seen the slight exchange between Rampage and the Maximal acted as one, their movements lightning fast and precise.
    Too precise, both Predacons noted. Too refined and hard, leaving no room for error or improvisation. The agents seemed stunned when the two targets put up no resistance, and in fact screamed for help as they were attacked with shock rods. One agent hit Rampage square in the shoulder, sending him crashing back through the nearest window. Divebomb was hit by the other two agents so that his body flew up and over the large Maximal to land in a heap amid some broken tables and scattered bystanders.
    “That almost hurt.”

    The bar erupted into chaos, with ‘bots closer to the attack pushing to get away from the Agents. Being in the middle of a Council action was not where any sane Cybertronian wanted to be. Further away, the patrons not aware of the events took the cue of panic and disorder as an excuse to start an even bigger fight.
    In the mayhem, the large Maximal lost sight of the two ‘victims’. Even he was shocked as to the ferocity of the attack, thinking neither deserved the punishment the Council apparently deemed as necessary.
    As he looked for signs of the two apparently damaged ‘bots, he watched as one agent veritably flew through the broken window onto the street in pursuit of his target. The other two assailants were crouched in a defensive position and making their way to where the loudmouth had landed.
    It was as his concern was rising as to the condition of the two victims that he saw a black and orange flash of a falling form smash into one of the agents, throwing him backwards through the air to collide with the now careening form of the agent being thrown back into the bar through the window he had just leapt through moments ago. Their bodies hit each other with such force that hydraulic and intercostal fluids splashed several of the shocked patrons nearest the calamity.

    The Maximal watched in amazement as the large form of a red and black Earth-like panther climbed through the window and transformed. He stood at an average height, but radiated a ferocity and skill that made him seem huge in comparison to his surroundings. His feline form was obvious even as a ‘bot, with large claws and bristling furs around his shoulders and neck. As the new ‘bot took up position by the window, the black and orange streak from earlier landed with a flourish of bio-mechanical eagle wings. The grace he exhibited was in contrast to the aggressiveness of his general appearance. Transformed, a wickedly formed beak shaped a hood over his head, and large talons decorated his wrists. Each of the newcomers held swords that crackled with energy.
    The last agent drew out a large hand cannon from a leg compartment and aimed at the duo.
    “And what gives the council the right to send agents against innocent citizens,” the winged one asked in a loud voice that caused the din of the bar brawl to ebb into hushed silence. “You have killed Cybertronians for speaking their minds, and for that it is you who are truly guilty!”
    “Oh, you’re good.”
    “Yeah, I know.”

    The agent, apparently calculating his chances as slim when faced with such foes, began transforming into a speeder bi-wheel to attempt an escape. As the process was nearly complete, a large form from the balcony area landed with a great crash next to him, a huge barbed blade impaling the fleeing agent to the floor in mid transformation.
    A stunned silence fell over the patrons. Not a single optic looked away from the newcomer. He stood upright, and as he did, dropped the fourth agent to the floor next to the one impaled one. The sight of the ‘bot was startling in the sheer power he radiated. His optics flashed red as he peered around the bar to study the scene for further agents, although it was only for show.

    In his past life, Razorclaw was the leader of the elite hunter squad known and feared as the Predacons. He and his four brothers, after being reformatted with combiner technology became the destructive force known as Predaking. Few could stand up to that creature, and fewer still survived the meeting.
    The squad fought beside Megatron and Starscream, fought for Shockwave against Megatron, and then fought for anyone that paid the energon for their services. Theirs was a long and violent career, carving a swath of destruction wherever they went.
    Then the war ended, and the Decepticons were defeated. In the final, most viscous battles, two of the five lost their Sparks, and one more was captured.
    Razorclaw bided his time and returned leading a new force of Predacons with only Divebomb at his side from his original team. They once again took on all comers, only this time it was he who directed the armies of Predacons. The goal was to complete the original Decepticon plan of unification under one rule.
    All was going according to plan until what was to become the Tripedacus Council sent an assassination squad to put down the leadership of the rising force of Razorclaw’s power. The day the shock sphere exploded against his head was the day the Decepticon known as Razorclaw died.
    Assuming the assassination was a success, the Council quelled the remaining Predacons and Decepticons and began the Maximal rule of the Cybertronian empire. Shortly thereafter, the entire planet and populace therein was reformatted to fit the new vision of the Maximals. This new vision was not as widely accepted as the Council had hoped for, but that was the way it was to be.
    Meanwhile, Divebomb was able to salvage the lifeless corpse of his leader and take him off-world, to at least properly lay to rest his leader and friend. Lead to a nearby system by a closed-channel call, Divebomb was met with fringe elements of ancient Cybertron, both Autobot and Decepticon.
    What transpired afterwards is only speculated at, but in the end, Razorclaw was born anew, his Spark pulled from the Well of the Allspark and placed in a new body of immense power. Once again, he and his loyal friend set out to bring a new age for Cybertronians. This time, under the watchful eyes of his unseen saviors.
    Together, he and Divebomb along with the former student of both Shockwave and Wheeljack named Mindpurge, were able to recover and transplant the Spark of the last surviving original member of the Predacons. The three of them, Razorclaw, Divebomb and Rampage were to become the new Council of All. Together, they’d bring Cybertron to the verge of destruction to be rebuilt under the banner of unity.

    The figure that stood before the bar’s patrons now resembled very little of the former Decepticon warlord. As with his brothers, gone were the angular and brickish lines of raw machinery to be replaced with the curve and flow of bio mechanical armor plates and alloy fur. A thick mane of ‘hair’ surrounded the protruding lion’s head on his chest, and great raking claw blades jutted from his forearms. He was larger than his companions, but not so much as to scare the general populace. Big enough, as he would say, to be taken seriously.
    “If any more innocent civilians are to be killed by the cowardly Council’s lackeys, please, start with me!” The dare was loud and one full of malice. The call was accentuated by the metallic tearing sound of the impaling sword being pulled from the corpse at Razorclaw’s feet.
    Everyone quietly looked around in fear of seeing another suicidal would-be assassin try to take on this warrior. Hushed whispers could be heard throughout the place, with some of the gathered crowd finally recognizing who it was that stood before them. Divebomb and Rampage took flanking positions beside their commander. The unified trio struck such a sight to the patrons that not one voice of dissent could be heard. Razorclaw knew that this would be the test as to whether or not they would turn on him and his brothers, or welcome them as leaders in a new Predacon regime.
  6. Yaujta

    Yaujta Broken. TFW2005 Supporter

    Sep 17, 2008
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    South Central PA
    Phase 3.0

    “Well, that went smoother than I expected.”
    “You always were short-sighted.”
    “Oh, give him a break Divebomb.”

    The three Predacons exited the bar several hours later, and surprisingly, left no unnecessary casualties or smoldering foundations in their wake. This was the dawn of a new age, and in the days and years to come, the three of them would have to arrange for many more such diplomatic shows.
    Behind them, patrons were leaving the establishment, some in quiet awe and expectant moods, while some thoughtful and distant. Most that remained were those that were too afraid of the trio and their supporters to say anything against them while they were there. In their absence the hard line Maximal supporters, though fewer in number than earlier, began speaking of the harshness of war and the cruel ferocity of the Predacons, both old and new.
    As they passed the entrance porch, the large old Maximal from the bar was leaning against the wall, staring at his hand as if willing it to be clean. He stood unflinching as they passed him, until he slowly looked up and stared Razorclaw in the face. They were of even height, so neither had that advantage.
    “It’s been a long time, Decepticon.”
    “It has. I thought you were long dead with the rest of your group,” Razorclaw responded, but there was no aggression or hidden threat in his words. The once-Autobot looked at him for a moment until he realized the thought was sincere.
    “Yeah, so did I, but apparently coming back from the dead is a bit easier nowadays.”
    “Does this hearken the return of the Wreckers,” the Predacon asked, looking the once weapons-master over with near pity. He knew before he heard an answer that the war had left this old Autobot long before the battles had ended.
    “No, my old adversary, it doesn’t. I just hope your appearance doesn’t bring about the return of a cause bent on genocide, and one that created the Wreckers to begin with.”
    “Heh. No, that one’s long dead, along with his deluded cause. My stand for unity is true.”
    “At any cost?”
    “No, just a fair one.”
    The Autobot thought about this for a moment. A fair price for peace? That was his old cause, before it all went to hell. The three Predacons watched as his decision was made evident and the badge of the Maximal on his shoulder folded and disappeared.
    With a nod, he walked away down the empty street.


    “So, we’re just going to let him go,” Rampage asked, looking back at the diminishing form of the Autobot. He respected the ‘bot from a warrior standpoint, but also saw the possible outcome of letting a potential threat behind.
    “He’ll be of no bother, I assure you,” replied the Predacon commander.
    Divebomb glanced behind him to the bar, now barely visible down the long, winding street. The massive explosion that rocketed into the morning sky took a second for the sound to reach the trio. Alarms and sirens screamed as the shock of the blast was detected by emergency agencies.
    The three watched as the sparks and flames arched into the overhead cloud cover.
    “Sad, isn’t it’” Razorclaw noted, “that the council loads their agents with high explosives?”
    “Sad,” Rampage and Divebomb replied in unison.

    I know that was a lot to read, but if you took the time, then thank you!
    More will be coming, eventually.

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