The Final Fate

Discussion in 'Transformers Fan Fiction' started by thetruephantasm, Sep 21, 2010.

  1. thetruephantasm

    thetruephantasm Member

    Apr 14, 2009
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    The Final Fate
    By Nick Snowden (T.T.P.)

    Death approached…my end finally on the horizon. My days…done. No hope for me now.
    Nothing but an aged claw, waiting to rip out my spark. I sat there in my cell.
    Solitary, death row, maximum security. As far as the general populace are concerned. I don’t exist…ha, it’ll be soon enough.
    I look up at my cell, the dusty metal rivets; the tally count I had etched into the walls painfully with my own claws now stared down at me ominous, mocking. No windows, only one door; a screen of impenetrable blue energy, marked with a deep red glowing Autobot insignia. No way out.
    Ha, seems like only a few megacycles ago the Great War was still raging and I was serving under him, the greatest leader of the Decepticons. Memories. All they seem to be now. Was it late or early? I had lost track of time, coming to terms with your inner most spark does that sometimes.
    The guard, making his rounds for what seemed to be a matter of cycles. An Autobot, of course, delighting in badgering us before our final walk. He came within reach of me, heavily built, dark green epidermis, a large cannon on his shoulder. An ex-soldier, part of the fabled ‘Headmaster,’ project. I remember fighting him way back during the Great War, along with his two teammates. I think one of them now runs Colony Omicron or at least use too, but that was another time, another life...
    “Guard,” I call, focused on the wall in front of me. Anything to stop that infernal pacing. I see him smile out of the corner of my optic.
    “Well, if it ain’t another Decepti-punk on his way to the Pit, I’ve been waitin’ for your sorry skid-plate for so long. Ready to join the slag heap?”
    I glare at him, growl, baring my fangs, “Don’t you have any other prisoners to bore ?”
    “Dead ‘bot walkin’, dead ‘bot walkin’,” he sneers.
    “You and I have one think in common Hardhead…we soon will both about to go offline,” I shot back nastily.
    “How d’ya figure that, Decepticon?” the guard scoffed.
    “With my claws driven through your optic sensors,” Hardhead glowers, smiles, moves on laughing to himself.
    “I’m gonna enjoy your final number, Decepti-creep!” his voice called out.
    Why are all Autobot insults so cheap? The cell block returns to stillness, quiet, cold, methodical. Not a sound. Times like this I wish there was a window in this place, but it's too low down in the bowels of Cybertron for that. I stare unfocused at the barrier of the cell for what seems like hours, unhappy with the fate I've been dealt. I loath it! Loath it with a never-ending passion that rivals the life cycles of a thousand suns! Loath the fact that I can not do more for my brethren; I, a warrior of my calibre, an instigator of the great Decepticon Cause, resigned to sing his swan song here, in this filthy cell!
    My sensors dulled with lack of use suddenly prickle. I whirl around, fangs bared. Something here...

    “How the slag...?” the stranger’s mandibles twist into a smirk, if he was going for ‘mystery,’ with the way he spoke then he was entirely successful. “I…have…my ways.”
    “Who are you? State your allegiance!”
    “I am of…let’s say, no importance, and I am…” he chuckles, the sound like mech fluid seeping from a dying mech's throat mechanisms.
    “Spit it out, stranger!” He remains shrouded in darkness, a cold trickle of unease crawling up my back-struts.
    I take a step back, the light in my optics brightening with disbelief.
    “Then you... are Decepti...”
    “No,” The icon displaced on his body isn't one I recognize. Strange, equal parts skeletal and insectoid, glistening with the same venomous purple tone as my own badge.
    “What do you want?” I can smell his smug self-confidence. He unsettles me, and knows it.
    “Your…allegiance?” I scoff. Ridiculous.
    “My loyalties lie with the true Masters of Cybertron. The mighty and immortal Decepticon Empire!”
    “And what is left of your so-called ‘immortals’?” He spits the words like weak fuel. “A group of pirates and war criminals, the greatest of them offline, executed!” I pause, remember; Soundwave's stoic faceplates. He and the old team; everything I could ever ask for in comrades, and more. The image files sting like barbed icicles: Soundwave butchered, torn apart, my sorrow transforming into hot white rage. Unable to control myself, I lash out at the nearest wall, leaving deep claw-marks.
    “Cybertron is downsizing; a bid to conserve Energon, if you will. My commanders sent me to retrieve you.”
    My gaze drops to a murky corner of the cell, I stared aimlessly into the abyss. What do I have to lose at this point? It would certainly send the Autobots into a frenzy, and that alone I would greatly relish... I bow my head, the dark red of my optics dimming with suspicion. “Even if I did say, ‘yes,’ how do you intend to get me out of here?” The stranger laughs, the sound grating on my audio-receptors.
    “Like I said, I have my ways.”
    “How can I trust you?”
    “You can't.”
    “You're insane!”
    Again that infuriating, raspy chuckle, “So they say.” An exasperated sigh cycles through my vents as I mull over his proposition.
    “Your name...I still didn't get your name...”
    I turn...nothing. Alone again in this silent, desolate cell. A new day, my final judgment at hand. Death approached.”

    Not long before Hardhead and a couple of other guards come for me. They bind me in stasis cuffs. I can practically feel the glee oozing from the seams of their frames. I'm dragged away in a procession of other, ‘war-criminals,’ all being murdered for the Autobots’ so called, ‘rectitude.’ In a small dark corridor I wait; the blaze of the incinerator next door burning solemnly as the empty frames of the dead are shovelled in. I see them, Squawktalk and Beastbox, melting down. I turn away.
    I am thrown onto a metal slab, bound; read the last rites by the resident chaplain. My life flashes before my optics and I wonder if the stranger is going to employ a rather daring escape. No...I'm foolish to trust him. My sensors dart towards the executioner. He looks at me with malicious anticipation. Hardhead.
    Ha, and the Autobots consider themselves lenient, righteous. This is how it ends, then; not with a bang, but the soft bubbling of the smelting pools a weak crackle.
    “Any last words?” He's enjoying this. His rhetoric infuriates me . I look at him, smirk, gather protective oils in my mouth, discharge them over his murdering faceplate. My commander died with dignity, with pride. I would do the same. I muster all the strength I can into what I thought would be my last words.
    “Decepticons forever!”
    I lay back on the slab, resigned to my fate. I welcomed the oncoming blackness, the chance to become one with the Matrix. The barbarous Hardhead was already bringing the ancient claw down towards my torso, its heated tip sizzling, inching closer with every click towards my Spark core. Just as I consider putting myself into stasis, my olfactory sensors detect a familiar scent, my exterior vocalisers curling into a smile. All around us, the fluorescent illumination flickers on and off, on and off in rapid succession. A shadow dances through the interchanging shards of bright light and cold darkness.
    Two more shadows join the first. Streamlined and avian in design, they fight to the tunes of oil-curdling screams. Those terrified death-cries echo through my audio receptors. I happily stored them in my memory banks, music to my ears. My optics adjust to the darkness. I can't see anything. Freezing hands cover my face, followed by a dark stinging sensation before blackness descends.
    I wake. Thins are...different, my optic reception blurred. Figures, shadows, staring down at me. Groggy, unsteady but somehow invigorated.
    Him, the stranger from the cell.
    “Good,” He rasps. “You’re functional.”
    “What in the name of Primus happened?” I grunt, stumbling seeing double.
    A black and scarlet ‘bot, winged, standing next to what appeared to be his bronze twin, chirp up: “We rescued you, old comrade.”
    I turn, and look, can hardly believe what my optic receptors tell me.
    “ Laserbeak… can't be…is that truly you?”
    “Big in life and twice as rotten, old friend!” Buzzsaw squawks, Laserbeak gliding over, patting me on my back.
    “It’s good to see you, we thought you were lost,”
    “Likewise. Couldn’t have cut it any closer could you?” I respond, trying to hold onto my dignity. After all, I am a warrior. I may have been utterly thrilled to see two of my closest friends still functioning, but there are protocols, standards to maintain.
    “Let me show you to the new secret resistance against the Maximals.”
    “Ehhh essentially upgraded Autobots,” he shrugs.
    I'm escorted to a large room filled with around fifteen fellow Transformers, a mixture of old faces and new. Amongst them I notice the renowned Razorclaw, fiery mane framing his beautiful jet black form. With him is methodical Tantrum, stubborn Headstrong, conniving Divebomb, ill-tempered Rampage.
    The feline commander looks across at me.
    “Welcome to the Predacons.”
    Somehow, I'm not surprised. Only a few Decepticons in history would be so arrogant as to christen a new faction after his own personal brigade. My eyes pan around the room, taking in the less familiar figure seated in the corner, his every micro-joint oozing sophistication. A cunning face; high, sharp features, icy blue armour plating. I move to offer him a customary greeting. He looks up, speaks in a voice barely above a hoarse whisper, so reminiscent of Mighty Megatron it's almost chilling.
    “A new arrival,” He observes.
    “Cryotek,” Laserbeak mumbles. I don't recognise the name. Seems I've been out of the loop too long. “Runs the crime rings down in Cybertropolis.” He gestures to comparatively dimunitive figure at the gangster's side. “That's his protege. His name escapes me.”
    “Watch him,” I whisper almost automatically. Part of the Decepticon credo: never trust anyone. The boy set my every sensor on high alert, an agitator, a definite thorn in the future. “He could be trouble.” If the sound of Cryotek’s voice was chilling, the three robots standing to the left froze my rivets. I could not believe it. Galvatron had destroyed them personally.
    “Tell me I am not addressing the Ghennix Assassins…Hook, Li…”
    “We are the Tripredacus Council, advisors to Grandmaster Razorclaw.”
    Someone at the back sneers at me, another whispering something about me being outdated. I snarl, point, but before I can speak I notice my foreleg is gone, replaced by a slender gunmetal silver arm. I pause and look at my paws. Long-fingered hands with sharp claws. Hands! Feeling suddenly disoriented, I turn away from the crowd only to come face-to-face with the mirrored surface of the wall. Staring back at me is a new, intricately shaped visage. The face of a new Predacon. I stroke the symbol on my shoulder, the deep purple insectoid skull. The embossed pattern feels strange, not flat like my old Decepticon badge, but like a real part of my shell. I cast my gaze solemnly to its brother, which is bare. Laserbeak, ever the observant one, picks up the expression on my face and releases a chirping sound. Buzzsaw responds to this, carrying a small metal box in his talons that he presents to me.
    “H...h...he would want you to have this, Sub-commander,”
    I take the box from him, open it. All the feeling flushes from my frame. I become still, numb, as if death has claimed me after all. Oily fluid wells in my optic sockets and leaks down my cheeks. I drop to my knees and the dull ‘thud,’ echoes throughout the chamber. The Transformers standing on every side of me have enough respect to keep their silence. The emblem is slightly distorted from fire and stress but its image hits me like a million thunderbolts to the processor. Dark violet emblazoned against navy blue. I can almost hear his voice the computerised, electronic droning that, for all its calculative perfection, held a warmth that only we shared. A mutual respect. We Transformers have no word for such an emotion. I clutch the sheet of hide and release a long, sad moan, cursing the malodorous, rotting cancer the Autobots have become. I stand, compose myself.
    “Medic. Surgical laser and hang the sedative. Now.”
    The officer approaches me, turning on the thin silver tube.
    “Give it to me!” I command. I don't have to ask again. I switch it on, feel the heat against my bare flexi-metal palm. There, for all to see, I seal the only remaining part of Soundwave to my bare shoulder. Gasps, outraged cries from the crowd. I don't care. This has to be done. The agony still crackles in my circuits to this day but if you were to ask me how it feels now, I would say that it is good, that it reminds me of who I am and what I stand for.
    Decepticons. Forever.
    Razorclaw regards me momentarily, then looks away. “Time we made ourselves known. There are other Decepticons being held prisoner. Shall we... extend them an invitation?” I nod, circle around to face Laserbeak and Buzzsaw, my obvious first choice, then to the purple boy next to Cryotek.
    "So what can you do, youngling?" I ask. He shoots me a look of disgust at the endearment, then in silent response holds out a duel-barrelled customised plasma blaster. Impressive. "All right hotshot, you're coming too."
    A mission...a purpose...
    The munitions room...always the first port of call before an espionage mission. Vortex grenades...essential. Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw favour more specialised equipment; energo-shurikens, monomolecular throwing knives, hand held laser pistols.
    For myself, a rifle loaded with semi-automatic energon rounds. Cryotek's whelp seems enamoured of a towering suit of apex armour, the missile launcher dominating its right hand shoulder unit packing enough fire power to level a small city block.
    “That squirt has to be compensating for something” Buzzsaw exclaimed
    I smile “Well, he certainly likes his fire power, big and plentiful.”
    The bot speaks a single word in reply: “Yes.”
    The dead of night, Buzzsaw and Laserbeak flying ahead, invisible in the blackness.
    Our objective: To free our comrades, use them to swell our ranks. Predacon...a title I'd simply have to endure, for now. I order the sparkling to hold back. His weaponry will be enough to breach the outer walls when the time comes. This close to the Inferno itself a living Decepti...Predacon can tread.
    I rendezvous with the flyers outside the air ducts on the second floor, a secluded area, weak security; the Autobot's weakness and our means of entry. The ice cold metallic wind of Iacon's ruinous Norhtern sector paws at my facial features. Time to get to work. A hundred condemned would be free before the dawn.
    A black metal cover, external access to the building's ventilation. A single kick is enough to dislodge it. Hhhhmmm. I might even learn to appreciate this new body-form's capacities, given time.
    I crawl through, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw following. Dust and filth clog my nasal receptors, the odour foul. I should have brought a technician; disabling the energy barriers sealing each cell would prove....problematic. Slag. Being inoperative for so long had made me sloppy. Too much emotion. I turn at the faint patter of an engine, a scutter and a familiar face emerging from the ducts. The stranger, the one responsible for my release.
    “I still don't know your name, or your function, come to that.”
    “I am a... scientist, of sorts; an experimenter.”
    I notice he's armed; eight miniature sub-atomic machine guns mounted on each arm.”
    “You are prepared... can you over ride the energy shields.....?”
    “Heh, heh, heh...of course.”
    He might be brilliant, but I got the impression that my might be more than a little...unstable. We moved silently, I send Laserbeak and Buzzsaw to raid the guard's ammunition supplies. After all, what's an insurrection without a little fire power?
    Tonight shall go down in the chronicles of Cybertron for generations to come; the revenge of the Decepticons, the ascension of the Predacons... a coup de grace of grand proportions.
    Ahead...the control centre. Four guards? Ha! I'm almost insulted. They're in stasis lock in a matter of nano-clicks.” My companion picks the cyber-lock with a digital acoustic lock, if I'm any judge.
    A phonic tune, an electronic beep, the door releasing with an electronic hiss, the computer console in front was the central database my partner looked at the device and what emerged on his face was what I understand was a smile, awkward to tell with those mandibles on his facial unit. I can trip the doors, but not without setting off the alarms.”
    I chortle to myself. A fight, then. Good.
    “Do it.”
    The subtle tones of the mechanism are like the music, instigating what will soon be a new breed of Decepticon, a new breed of Transformer. Time for battle.
    The alarm it rang, the unyielding vehemence of the sound of the pit roaring in my audio receivers. Time for battle the only seduction I need.
    The alarms sound, a call to war.
    “Stage one complete, security beams off-line.”
    The energy fields flicker, fade. I hear the prisoners stirring, guards responding to the disturbance.” I believe a distraction is in order.
    “Predacons, it seems we need to educate these degenerate Maximals in what it means to be true warriors.”
    Laserbeak and Buzzsaw fly low, dispensing Plasma rifles, Mark II Laser Blasters, Energy Swords, Scrapmaker Cannons. Quite the haul.
    My audio receivers prick at the guards approach. Three hundred in total, coming down from the right and central access strips. They pour in, surrounding us, obviously authorised to use lethal force. A compartment on my arm opens with a clack. Time to even the odds
    I hurl the signal flare to the ground. Smoke swathes us, rising through a small window that is the area's only concession to natural light. From outside, a series of muffled bleeps, then silence. The wall explodes inwards, a whirring, clanking hulk striding through the smoke and flames.
    “Oh yes indeed”
    “Predacons, scramble!”
    A flyer in red shrieks overhead, peppering the room with blasts from shoulder mounted cannons, his partner -lurid in panoply of yellow and black-, darting and diving in an erratic manner, drawing the enemy's fire.
    I make for our transport through the press of bodies, herding those too disoriented or energy depleted to fight. Lasers fly in all directions; I see one escapee impaled on a riot guard's spear, his spark extinguished. I empty two rounds into the guard's optics, finish the job with my claws. Too easy. An E.M.P discharge masks our escape.
    Decepticons forever.

    The Pax Cybertronia...according to Razorclaw, some ridiculous status quo the Maximals sought to impose. It will fail. My new commander congratulates me on a well executed mission. Hardhead eluded me, this time
    I'm invited to a private audience with the self-proclaimed “Predacon Grand Master.”
    “These two pieces have been especially forged, fitting tools for my new covert agent.”
    Covert Agent? An unostentatious title, and one I readily accept. The “Grandmaster” takes out an obsidian box; material mined off-world; a rarity on Cybertron. The lid is black, save for a matt silver Predacon motiff. Razorclaw gestures for me to open it. Inside I find things of beauty; a pair of hand-crafted fire-arms, one decorated with a green stripe, the other purple. The ancient Cybertronian etched into their metal reads: “Squawktalk” and “Beastbox.”
    “There wasn't enough to create new bodies, but I thought you might appreciate the sentiment.”
    Time passed coming to terms with a new body is never easy and after that mission and the bequeathing of new weapons it can all seem overwhelming, however now I can settle an old score, I remember playing the next act of violence over in my head repeatedly, time to instigate it I thought as I ran off in to the blackness of the night.

    The darkness feels sharp against my sensors as I enter the wasteland that was once the Autobot's maximum security prison block. Fragments of broken structure still thrust up through the rubble. I make my way through the cell blocks, the basement levels. Ghostly silence, not a sound.
    Finally after what seems an age I reach the extraction chambers, the carcasses of my discarded kin still littering the ground, awaiting smelter.
    My optics catch glimpse of something under the debris, my spark running cold at sight of it. The Spark extractor.

    I hear the cocking of a gun, feel its muzzle against the back of my head. Covert Agent. I’m getting sloppy.
    “State your designation and rank, answer now and I might consider not shooting you right in your magna fuses.” He glares, lunges forward. I stagger him with a kick. Hardhead.
    “I’m gonna turn ya inta iron filings creep.”
    He runs forward. A strike to the chest drives him back. He comes at me again. My claws open his face plate, spilling fuel and lubricants. My pistols roar, his knee joints disintegrating. He slumps to the ground, spitting curses and lubricant. A kick to the jaw silences him. I consider putting several rounds through his cranial casing. No. Too clean, too honourable a death. I will make him suffer, like he did me and my breathen.
    “Who...who are you?”
    I pluck the spark extractor from the rubble. Hardhead's optics widen in terror.
    Thoughts fly threw my memory banks of my old comrades especially; Soundwave, this next act in your memory.
    “Your worst nightmare, Autobot.”
    His terror, more wondrous than anything I'd ever seen throughout the Great War. I aim the spark extractor at his chest.
    “My name is Ravage.”
    Decepticons forever.
  2. Black Oracle

    Black Oracle Black Convoy's Dark Angel

    Jul 2, 2002
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    truephantasm! U're here! And with your cool Ravage fic!
  3. Anodythe

    Anodythe Well-Known Member

    Mar 31, 2008
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