Author's Notes: Oh look, a drabble, haven't any of them in like years. But anyway, the homie Shatterpoint introduced a Hunger Games simulator thing to me, which naturally I dumped TFM characters into to see who will survive! Events are copied from the simulator, with little bits filling them in here and there.

Combatants are, in pairs due to respect districts from 1 to 12; Jazz + Wheeljack, Bumblebee + Grimlock, Hound + Kup, Ratchet + Evac, Cliffjumper + Hot Shot, Warpath + Arcee, Starscream + Nighttrace, Airachnid + Slipstream, Grindor + Sideways, Soundwave + Barricade, Onslaught + Blast-Off, Swindle + Brawl. Let's begin immediately!

Day One:
The Bloodbath: Airachnid stays at the cornucopia for resources. Onslaught takes a handful of throwing knives. Bumblebee grabs a backpack, not realizing it is empty. Swindle clutches a first aid kit and runs away.

Kup shoots a poisonous blow dart into Barricade's neck, slowly killing him.

--

He doesn't hear much over the sound of battle, and maybe that's why he doesn't hear the whistle of the dart before it strikes into his neck. He yelps in pain, screeches 'fragger!' and yanks it out, but even as he continues to retreat, he suddenly feels a pain in his body.

He only just realises what is wrong before the pain increases tenfold and has him falling to the ground, flailing in utter agony as a deadly cyber-venom courses through his valves.

No-one cares, leaving the self-proclaimed Reaper screaming and writhing in the middle of the field to die painfully.

--

Arcee kills Blast-Off as he tries to escape.

--

Blast-Off was not so foolish as to stick around for the Bloodbath. Already, he was preparing to fly away and prepare better strategies. He ought to stick to the trees, try and snipe people, and then-

A blur of movement, a faint inkling of pain, and then Blast-Off falls to his knees as his mutilated head falls off his body, rolling away as the rest of him slumps over.

Arcee slows down, her burst of super speed more than enough to catch the jet, and she snidely remarks: "Up, up and away, jerk."

--

Hound spears Nighttrace in her abdomen. Slipstream takes a handful of throwing knives. Sideways and Warpath fight for a bag. Sideways gives up and retreats.

--

Wrestling with someone more than five times your size was not a good idea, the bike realised, as he was flailed around still desperately clutching the bag he and the tank had gone for. Realising his futility, Sideways released the bag, flew through the air, and crash-landed on Blast-Off's corpse. Squealing with disgust, he jumped up, transformed and drove off.

Warpath watched him flee, as Nighttrace crashed down behind him with a spear in her abdomen, musing: "For a bike, he flew pretty good."

--

Ratchet, Brawl, Starscream, and Wheeljack track down and kill Soundwave.

--

"There he is!" Wheeljack cried, aiming the group towards the fleeing Lamborghini. "That fragger accused us of being Bayformers! Murder him!"

"That piece of slag ain't getting away!" Ratchet hollered, pulling out his gel cannon and firing it, catching the poor car by the legs and gluing him to the ground.

"No! Please!" Soundwave cried as the quartet advanced on him. "I was just joking! I didn't mean it!"

"Sorry, Soundwave." Starscream sneered. "But it looks like your soundwaves are off the air!"

"That was terrible."

"I know, I know."

They then proceeded to stomp Soundwave to death.

--

Grimlock kills Hot Shot in a fit of rage.

--

"OH PRIMUS WHY?!?!" Hot Shot screamed as the frenzied dinosaur violently shook him around in his mouth, eventually biting him in half, stomping the corpse into pulp and setting it on fire.

--

Cliff forces Grindor to kill Evac or Jazz. He decides to kill Jazz.

--

"Do it, you pansy!" Cliffjumper screamed, holding his gun to Grindor's head as he forced him to look at the injured Evac and Jazz, both of them struggling to crawl despite bullet holes in their legs. "Choose one! Kill one! Do it!"

"Why?!" Grindor cried. "Why do this?!?!"

"Because Arcee never loved me! NOW KILL ONE!"

Grindor reluctantly went to Jazz, who pleaded pathetically for his life, and whimpered: "I'm, I'm sorry."

He took Jazz in his hands and tore him in half.

"Is that enough for you?!" Grindor sobbed, crying into Jazz's corpse. "Is that enough, you monster?!"

"No." Cliffjumper whispered into his skull. "It's never enough."

--

The Aftermath: Warpath scares Cliff off. Sideways scares Screamer off. Grindor chases Brawl.

--

"Get away from me!" The tank cried as he fled from the Trojan. "Get away! You killed the Lieutenant! You're crazy!"

"I did kill him!" Grindor screamed manically. "Now I wanna kill more!"

--

Bee is pricked by several thorns while picking berries. Airachnid daydreams of home. Evac makes a wooden spear. Slipstream and Grimlock work together for the day, Arcee tries to sleep through the entire day, Onslaught daydreams of home, Swindle daydreams of home. Ratchet receives a hatchet from an unknown sponsor.

--

"Well now." Ratchet purred as he hefted up the hatchet, examining the sharp edge of the weapon. "Isn't this appropriate?"

--

Hound camouflages himself in the bushes.

--

"I love holograms." Hound sighed contentedly.

--

Wheeljack defeats Kup in a fight, but spares his life.

--

"You suck, bot." Wheeljack taunted, standing over the defeated Kup. "And they call you the greatest of Wreckers. Ha! No-one can match the Wheeljack!"

"Then kill me, you damn dirty tow truck." The weakened truck spat.

"Normally I would." Wheeljack replied merrily. "But I'd rather leave you to the worms while you lament how terrible you are. See you in the Pit, loser."

And he walked, leaving Kup to murmur: "I hate that fragger..."

--

Brawl, Airachnid, Grindor, and Bee sleep in shifts. Wheeljack and Grimlock tell stories about themselves to each other.

--

"And that's how I cured Erector's dysfunction." Wheeljack finished. "You got anything good?"

Grimlock replied: "Grimlock killed Hot Shot."

"Grimlock, you're doing Primus' work. Good job."

--

Onslaught, Hound, and Ratchet discuss the games and what might happen in the morning. Cliffjumper falls into a frozen lake and drowns.

--

"I must kill more, until Arcee loves me." Cliffjumper murmured as he wandered around. "I must, I- Oh crap!"

He had not realised he had walked onto ice and promptly fell through it into the water!

"Help! Help! I can't swim! I can't-.... Wait, I 'm a robot. I don't drown! Silly old me."

Then the Sharkticon found him.

--

Slipstream tends to her wounds. Arcee, Warpath, Sideways, Screamer, and Kup crowd around their fire. Swindle passes out from exhaustion. Evac tries to treat his infection.

--

"Damn." Swindle sighed. "It sure is exhausting being as fantastically smooth and charming as I."

He collapsed.

--

Day 1: The results:
Deceased: Soundwave, Blast-Off, Barricade, Nighttrace, Hot Shot, Jazz, Cliffjumper.
Survivors: Bumblebee, Grimlock, Wheeljack, Ratchet, Evac, Kup, Arcee, Warpath, Hound, Brawl, Starscream, Airachnid, Swindle, Slipstream, Sideways, Grindor, Onslaught

--

Day Two

Bee receives medical supplies from an unknown sponsor. Airachnid tries to sleep through the entire day. Arcee camouflauges herself in the bushes. Warpath practices his archery.

--

"I don't know why I'm doing this." Warpath muttered as he aimlessly shot arrows around. "I'm a damn tank. Pow."

--

Evac receives fresh food from an unknown sponsor. Wheeljack receives medical supplies from an unknown sponsor. Swindle makes a wooden spear. Onslaught beats Grindor to death.

--

Revving slowly, Onslaught stepped away from Grindor's mutilated corpse, his fists tainted with Energon and metal.

"Sorry, Grindor." Onslaught muttered. "But no-one is comfier than me."

--

Kup runs away from Slipstream. Hound discovers a cave. Ratchet stalks Sideways.

--

"I love the little people." Ratchet sighed happily as he hunted after the silly bike. "They're so fun to punt."

--

Brawl and Grimlock work together for the day. Starscream daydreams of home.

--

Slipstream cries herself to sleep. Jack kills Hound in a fit of rage.

--

"You piece of slag!" Wheeljack howled as he repatedly jammed his sword into the screaming jeep. "I told you never to say that to me again! But what did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?! Well, grenade-on-a-sword THIS, fragger!"

He took a grenade and shoved it right down Hound's throat, leaving him to explode into a mess of parts.

"That's what you get." Wheeljack revved heavily. "I told you, you scrapheap. I told you I'd fragging do it."

--

Swindle tries to treat his infection. Onslaught and Brawl tell stories about themselves to each other. Bumblebee tends to his wounds. Starscream sets up camp for the night. Grimlock screams for help.

--

"Where is Grimlock's teddy bear?!" The theropod howled furiously. "Help Grimlock out here! Where the frag is Grimlock's teddy bear?!"

--

Ratchet looks at the night sky. Kup passes out from exhaustion. Airachnid and Warpath run into each other and decide to truce for the night. Evac and Arcee sleep in shifts. Sideways dies of dysentery.

--

"But I'm a robot!" Sideways protests. "I don't even have intestines!"

He was promptly attacked and dragged underground by an Insecticon.

--

Day 2: The results
Deceased: Grindor, Sideways, Hound.
Survivors: Onslaught, Slipstream, Starscream, Brawl, Swindle, Airachnid, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Grimlock, Bumblebee, Arcee, Warpath, Kup, Evac

--

Day Three

Brawl discovers a cave. Ratchet explores the arena. Bumblebee, Grimlock, and Onslaught search the arena together for other tributes. Starscream diverts Arcee's attention and runs away. Warpath stalks Slipstream. Airachnid accidently detonates a land mine while trying to arm it.

--

"Ooh, this is gonna be great!" Airachnid giggled as she set up a land mine. "Who steps on this is going straight to the Pit!... Now, how do I turn it on-"

BOOM.

--

Wheeljack steals from Kup while he isn't looking.

--

"Ha ha!" Wheeljack hollered as he ran away from Kup, clutching a supply of data chip's containing Barricade's collection of scandalous depictions of mermaids. "Fragging loser!"

--

Swindle is pricked by several thorns while picking berries. Evac receives clean water from an unknown sponsor.

--

Wheeljack climbs a tree to rest. Kup, Evac, and Brawl discuss the games and what might happen in the morning. Starscream, Bumblebee, and Ratchet discuss the games and what might happen in the morning. Arcee goes to sleep. Swindle tries to find other tributes and finds Onslaught. Warpath, Grimlock, and Slipstream sleep in shifts.

--

"Hey Onslaught!" Swindle hollered to his boss. "Loved the way you killed Grindor yesterday, pretty hardcore!"

"Frag off."

--

Day 3: The results
Deceased: Airachnid
Survivors: Warpath, Wheeljack, Kup, Grimlock, Bumblebee, Ratchet, Evac, Arcee, Slipstream, Starscream, Onslaught, Swindle, Brawl

--

Day Four

Brawl fishes.

--

"All I get are Sharkticons." Brawl sighed sadly as he tossed yet another snapping flailing monster back into the lake.

--

Starscream catches Evac off guard and kills him.

--

As Evac watered his spice garden, Starscream jumped upon him out of nowhere, brandishing his knife! He grabbed the surprised helicopter by the throat and sneered: "Time to die, Autobot!"

"No, please!" Evac wailed. "I'm just a rookie!"

"I know. That's what makes it sweeter."

With that, he slit Evac's throat and bathed in the Energon.

--

Ratchet begs for Swindle to kill him. He refuses, keeping Ratchet alive.

--

"Just end it!" Ratchet wailed, in the middle of yet another angst-fest. "My apprentice is dead! He died! What can I do without him?"

"I know what you can do." Swindle snorted. "Suffer."

With that, he turned and walked away.

--

Slipstream stabs Warpath while his back is turned.

--

"So tell me, Warpath..." Slipstream purred as she held up the gurgling tank on her blades. "How does it feel getting taken from behind?"

"It... sucks...... pow." Warpath squeaked.

--

Wheeljack is pricked by several thorns while picking berries. Onslaught dies trying to escape the arena.

--

"I have to get out of here." Onslaught declared as he stood by the edge. "If anyone can do it, I can-"

A Predacon flew down, picked him up and carried him screaming away.

--

Bee discovers a cave. Arcee defeats Grimlock in a fight, but spares his life.

--

"I just can't kill someone who suffers from mental dilemmas." Arcee sighed as she stood over the defeated Grimlock. "The public would fragging hate me forever if I killed a Shokaw reject."

"Frag you."

--

Kup falls into a pit and dies.

--

"Oh Primus why?!" Kup cried as he tripped, fell into a pit and died.

--

Day 4 results:
Deceased: Onslaught, Kup, Evac, Warpath
Survivors: Swindle, Starscream, Slipstream, Brawl, Wheeljack, Arcee, Bumblebee, Grimlock, Ratchet.

--

Day Five

Ratchet injures himself.

--

"WHO LEFT FRAGGING LEGO OUT HERE?!?!"

--

Starscream daydreams of home. Slipstream stalks Swindle. Arcee overhears Bumblebee and Brawl talking in the distance. Wheeljack searches for a water source. Grimlock constructs a shack.

--

Grimlock gazed despondently at the pile of wood he had made.

"Damn these stubby T-rex arms."

--

Day 5: The results
Deceased: None
Survivors: Swindle, Starscream, Slipstream, Brawl, Wheeljack, Arcee, Bumblebee, Grimlock, Ratchet.

--

Day Six

Starscream catches Bee off guard and kills him.

--

"Man, no-one died at all yesterday." Bumblebee mused. "Maybe everyone's finally gotten tired of pointless violence-"

Starscream jumped out of nowhere and tore him in half.

"Oh that felt so good!" Starscream squealed joyfully as he danced around whilst waving the severed pieces of Beetle.

--

Wheeljack receives fresh food from an unknown sponsor. Grimlock receives fresh food from an unknown sponsor. Ratchet camouflages himself in the bushes.

--

"Maybe I should have picked a colour scheme other than bright white." Ratchet sighed as he rolled around in a mud pool.

--

Brawl stalks Arcee. Slipstream and Swindle work together for the day.

--

"I can't reach those coconuts." Swindle declared to his current ally. "They're very expensive and I could make a sweet buck! Can you help get them, and in exchange I'll give you half of the profit!"

"Swindle, we're in a deathmatch. How can you be thinking of profit?"

"Baby, profit is a deathmatch. Now get me some nuts!"

--

Brawl ambushes Grimlock and kills him.

--

"Ever watched King Kong?" Brawl asked the downed Grimlock.

"No... why?"

"BECAUSE THIS PART WAS THE BOMB!" Brawl declared, grabbing his foe by the jaws and snapping his damn head in half.

--

Starscream and Ratchet sleep in shifts.

--

"Wait a sec, didn't you murder Evac?! Why am I sleeping with you?!"

"Who's Evac?"

--

Wheeljack passes out from exhaustion. Arcee falls into a frozen lake and drowns.

--

"I wonder if I'm fast enough to run over water." Arcee mused.

She wasn't.

--

Day 6 results:
Deceased: Bumblebee, Evac, Arcee, Grimlock.
Survivors: Starscream, Swindle, Slipstream, Brawl, Wheeljack, Ratchet.

--

Day Seven

Ratchet overhears Wheeljack and Brawl talking in the distance.

--

"And I said, Striker? I only just met her!"

"Who's Striker again?"

"My waifu. Look, I love tall girls with chest missles okay? Don't judge me."

In the bushes, Ratchet shook his head in disgust. "Trash tow truck. Everybody knows Cherno Alpha is best waifu."

--

Slipstream searches for a water source. Starscream chases Swindle.

--

"Give me those coconuts, you little fragger!"

"Up yours, jet-fuel!"

--

Wheeljack climbs a tree to rest. Swindle and Starscream sleep in shifts.

--

"Thanks for sharing your nuts, man."

"No worries. I love sharing my nuts."

--

Slipstream destroys Brawl's supplies while he is asleep.

--

"Not my Blue-Eyes White Dragon deck! I had to go to a Bronycon for that!"

--

Ratchet falls into a frozen lake and drowns.

--

Ratchet was walking along when he fell into a lake and died horribly. Guess it wasn't hummin' after all.

--

Day 7: The results
Deceased: Ratchet
Survivors: Brawl, Starscream, Slipstream, Swindle, Wheeljack.

--

Day Eight

Starscream and Slipstream work together for the day. Swindle daydreams of home. Wheeljack practices his archery. Brawl collects fruit from a tree.

--

"I have plasma cannons." Wheeljack sighed as he fiddled with his bow. "Why am I even bothering?"

--

Brawl fends Wheeljack, Swindle, and Slipstream away from his fire. Starscream climbs a tree to rest.

--

"GET AWAY FROM ME FIRE!" Brawl hollered as he fired missiles at the screaming robots. "ME FIRE! ME FIRE! ALL FOR BRAWL!"

--

Day 8: The results
Deceased: None
Survivors: Wheeljack, Brawl, Swindle, Slipstream, Starscream.

--

Day Nine

Slipstream injures herself.

--

"OW FRAG! GODDAMN BEES! GO TO THE PIT YOU STRIPED PIECES OF SCRAP!"

--

Wheeljack kills Swindle for his supplies.

--

"Sorry, Swindle." Wheeljack said as he wiped his sword clean of the Combaticon's innards. "But coconuts fetch a high price these days."

--

Starscream runs away from Brawl.

--

"ME FIRE! ME FIRE!"

"Get away you freak, I don't even want it!"

--

Day 9: The results
Deceased: Swindle
Survivors: Wheeljack, Slipstream, Brawl, Starscream.

--

Day Ten

Slipstream chases Brawl.

--

"My fire! My fire! How does it feel, you jerk?!"

"That's not funny!"

--

Screamer begs for Jack to kill him. He reluctantly obliges, killing Screamer.

--

"I can't take it anymore!" Starscream wailed, clutching his head in his hands. "I murdered children! I bathed in their Energon! Please, end my suff-"

Blam! His head blew up.

"Damn, so many pansies in the arena these days." Wheeljack scoffed as he waved the smoke away from his plasma cannon.

--

Jack falls ill from contaminated water.

--

"Oh Primus, karma!" Wheeljack whined, as he clutched his belly with the virus within making his systems boil.

--

Slipstream strangles Brawl with a rope.

--

"YOU THINK YOU'RE SO TOUGH, COMBATICON?!" Slipstream shrieked as she snapped Brawl's damn neck. "YOU THINK YOU'RE SO TOUGH?! NOT ANYMORE! GIRL POWER, YOU PIECE OF SLAG!"

--

Day 10: The results
Deceased: Starscream, Brawl
Survivors: Wheeljack, Slipstream.

--

Day Eleven

Slipstream beats Wheeljack to death.

--

"Tell me something..." Slipstream revved heavily, bleeding yet victorious after a furious battle with Wheeljack. "The fan-combiner poll... which gender did you vote for?"

"I... voted male." Wheeljack wheezed, gazing at Barricade's collection of scandalous depictions of mermaids one last time. "This franchise... is... a boy's toys franchise-"

She stomped his head into pulp.

"Sorry, Jackie. I vote female."

--


Slipstream wins!

 

39: The lost Resurgence

-

"How long have we been here, I wonder? Trapped in this vessel, drifting through the stars with no end in sight? Too long, I wager. Far too long. If Cybertron itself were annihilated, turned into dust by the war that consumes it, we wouldn't know.

We are the crew of the Resurgence, one of the ships that took part in the Battle of Sandokan. We sustained heavy damage, and in our efforts to retreat, our warp-driver malfunctioned, putting us beyond the range of Cybertron's territories, with no hope of rescue in sight. Our engines offline, our warp-driver the only means of escaping planetary impacts, we have been condemned to this state of helplessness.

We have been drifting for a long time. I wonder if we will ever see our comrades or our planet again. Our ship is losing power, slowly but surely, and I wonder if the end is nigh for us. Still, I must hope, at least for the good of my crew, that we will find a light.

I am Kup, one of the last and greatest of the Wreckers, and I send this message to any Autobot vessel who may be in range, to any Autobot vessel who may provide our salvation; we need your help."

-

The message resonates through his processor, as it has since Kup first recorded it and had the ship begin transmitting it every orbital cycle. It's a fairly grandiose speech, far more poetic than simply 'oh scrap, help us, our ship is broken'. Cliffjumper appreciates the sentiment behind making the cry for help sound a bit more eloquent, but it's sadly grown as repetitive as his current thought-track about the oncoming end.

No-one ever likes to think how they will die. It is an inevitable process of life, even for those defined by metal and sparks and Energon, but it is still an unappealing one. Why should anyone ever have to consider it, consider how they may meet their end and join the Allspark? Really, if life was fair, no-one would ever have to think about death until the very last time they closed their eyes.

But life is not fair, and death will not be reserved for the true finality. Instead, it looms above the contemplative Autobot, taunting him with every passing cycle that sees his inner reserves slowly but surely dwindling down to zero. It teases him in every tired creak of his joints, mocks him in every dull whimper in his hydraulics. Even the Energon pumping through his valves feels sluggish, and it's like he's been overtaken by an episode of unending tiredness.

Granted, it will end soon. Just not the way he would have preferred.

"We're going to die out here." Cliffjumper finally says, and he leans back in his seat, closing his optics, as if his very words are a prompt for acceptance. There is no lamentation in his tone, no sadness or fear. It is casual, perhaps even positive. He never was one to really let a situation get him down, for even the worst-case scenarios could still yield some reasonable solution. In this case, death will at least spare him an eternity drifting aimlessly through the cosmos.

"No-one is going to die." Warpath grunts, not even looking up from his fiddling with the main console. As usual, he is trying to find any means of siphoning the last stocks of Energon within the ship to life-support, trying to find how much he can take without compromising the warp driver. Sadly, he won't find any way to do it, but props for trying.

Cliffjumper smiles, and even this meagre change in expression makes his weakened spark ache with exertion. On the bright side, contemplations of death are far more relaxing when they're shared with other bots. Usually, he'd be the upbeat one finding the best in a situation, but low on power as he was, guess he'd have to let the tank take that role.

Of course, Warpath was in a much better position than he was. The tank was huge, and his massive frame had a lot of Energon stores, plenty to keep him going for a long time. Didn't hurt he also had a lot of powerful weapons he could draw energy from, further boosting his chances of survival. Warpath was built to last, and last he would; it reflected in his consistent and fervent dedication to keeping everyone's hopes up, to demanding they all live to see tomorrow.

But alas, his firm determination to keep everyone alive, to try and get the ship running, just won't work. The Resurgence barely has any energy left. There are no stars to draw solar energy from, little radiation to absorb, no stops to refuel at. What energy it has is dedicated to the warp driver, the ship's only means of preventing itself from crashing and burning on a planet, and the transmission of Kup's message. That's all it can do, and it's not enough to let its crew carry on living.

Ciffjumper knows this all too well. All the cycles spent adrift, with the ship all but powerless, is starving him. His Energon stores are emptying even as he thinks, and it won't be long now before his body forces itself into stasis lock. This might keep him around for a few more orbital cycles, lost in hibernation, but even this last-ditch resort won't keep him around forever. Eventually, time would run out.

And he would die.

His optics stay closed, but he knows that the end is coming down to all of them. Slumped against the main console, Hot Shot is already in stasis lock, lain over the smooth metal with arms splayed out, one of his transfusion cables connected to the ship himself. Now, granted, they had actually put Hot Shot into stasis lock before he'd legitimately goen through his reserves. Plan was, if the ship received a response from anyone, the transfusion cable would jolt him awake, and he could put his last bits of energy to good use in calling in help.

Plus, well, it shut him up. Poor rookie had been worked up and panicking through this long, long drift, and the rest simply couldn't bother with it anymore.

A better example of time's encroaching threat would be Kup himself. The old Wrecker, leader of this motley group, was actually kneeling by the front of the control room, his locked-up frame seeming like he was merely basking in the view of all of space. He had succumbed to energy loss soon after they put Hot Shot into stasis lock, and had positioned himself as such as a final display of dignity.

Stood next to him is Arcee, her purple and pink colouring a bright contrast in the desolate grey and black. She too is staring through the observation panels, but she's up and at them, energetic and unfazed. Her body is designed for maximum energy efficiency, keeping her running a lot longer than Autobots of equivalent or larger size. It helped cope with the pressure of hosting a velocity generator, and in this case, it helped cope with the long dry run towards starvation.

She's been standing there for a while, just staring, and Cliffjumper wonders what she may be thinking. She's never really been to one to talk about her emotions, always keeping to herself, preferring to play the loner, but Cliffjumper wouldn't doubt she's probably lamenting the life choices that led her here, or mourning her inevitable death. Or heck, maybe she's actually happy inside, simply glad to be free of the war regardless of where she ended up.

Arcee has never been happy about her Infusion, has never been happy about the circumstances that led her to this life, and Cliffjumper can't blame at her at all. He hopes she is feeling happy, somehow. It's the least she deserved.

So, even with her energy efficiency, she'll soon be joining Kup and Hot Shot in stasis, right after him. And Warpath soon thereafter, even his immense frame running out of juice to keep him going. All five of them, lost in the dark as much as the ship itself, eventually succumbing to it forever. A grim thought, for sure, but Cliffjumper, once again calling on his power to find the best amongst the worst, is least content none of them will be alone.

Amidst all this, he then realizes that he never replied to Warpath. How rude. Well, he has enough power left for a chat, and so he chats.

"Appreciate the optimism. Makes a nice change from the bam, pow, ka-blam, kill them all." He offers, faintly chortling, keeping his body nice and still to devote whatever power remained to his vocal processors. "But let's be real, Warpath. We're all gonna go dark, and from there it'll get darker. The ship just doesn't have enough juice to do anything other than float, warp, and wait for its own power to run out."

Warpath does not respond save for a low and irritated rev. If Cliffjumper had his optics open, he might have seen how the tank minutely tensed at his words, how those crimson eyes narrowed. But he didn't, so he only imagines what Warpath must be thinking right now, still trying to find any hope within the flickering screen projected from the main console. Maybe he's trying to think of a counter-argument. Maybe he wants to say something a bit more poetic. Who knows?

But turns out, he didn't need to respond. Arcee's voice, soft and sullen, drifts over to them: "At least we go out quietly. I must admit, I never was a fan of the methods enforced by propaganda. Die in battle, die taking down Decepticons, die for the Autrio. Nonsense. I never wanted to die for them, and now I never will."

Cliffjumper chortles again. Of course she would say that. Guess he'd been right about her feeling kind of happy about all this; far away from the war, far away from those who pointed her towards bad robots and had her kill them for them. What a fancy sentiment, albeit hardly loyal.

He responds: "Heh, should have put your quotes on the posters. Hey, frag these leader bots, just die for whatever you wanna die for. Fight the system, die showing the system your rear casing, oh yeah! Ha ha..."

"No-one is going to die." Warpath grunts again. He fiddles with the console, and then whatever glitch lay in his vocal processor prompted him to mutter: "Pow."

"Of course we're going to die." Arcee speaks, and now she's gone from sullen to hissing, evidently annoyed by notions of optimism amidst all this rampant pessimism. Cliffjumper hears no movement, though, and figures she's still standing stock-still, not even bothering to look back at the tank as she continues: "We've got no power, no rescuers, no space bridges, nothing. We're just floating, waiting to starve, all because Kup was a fragging deluded glory-hound. So much for the new and improved Wreckers."

Warpath revs a bit more loudly now, and Cliffjumper hears the faint sound of metal crumpling under a firm grip, a clear sign of the larger Autobot cracking the console amidst his irritation. The pressure must be getting to the tank, poor bot, and Arcee's condescending cynicism wouldn't be helping. Alas, whereas normally he'd try and diffuse any tension, the car just feels too worn down to bother. Heck, he's too worn down to even shrug about how much he didn't bother. How sad.

"Well, look on the bright side." He manages to murmur. "At least we all die together, thinking on the last things that kept us going, thinking on how pretty damn good we did while the going itself was good. Autrio or not, I'm alright with this. Dying ain't too bad when-"

"You won't die!" Warpath finally snaps, and he storms around the console right to where Cliffjumper is sitting. A hand grips firmly onto his crimson shoulder, and Cliffjumper hears the hiss of a transfusion cable emerging. Even as he figures what the tank might be thinking, it's confirmed with a snarl: "If I have to pump my entire Energon reserves into you to keep you alive, I pow well will!"

"Nah, bot, save your energy. You'll need it more than I do." Cliffjumper sighs, already having his data chip locked down his ports to prevent such a transaction. As Warpath attempted to override the lockdown, trying to give Cliffjumper as much life-giving Energon as he needed, he manages enough energy to wave him off, murmuring

"Don't you bam say that! You can pull through this! Just let me fragging give you some Energon!" Warpath hisses, and the proximity of his voice indicates he's leaning down right up in Cliffjumper's face.

He's clearly trying to rouse him, trying to coax him to power up via sheer willpower alone. The thought makes Cliffjumper's smile widen. For an Autobot who loved nothing more than killing Decepticons in all manner of violent and viral ways, the tank sure expressed nothing but devotion and loyalty to his comrades. It seemed almost contradictory, the way such a violent war machine could prove so compassionate, but such was the intricacies of processors, the car supposed.

Ah, how he would miss Warpath, always so exuberant, larger than life and as impressive as any of his explosions. How he'd miss Arcee, always so sassy, quiet but introspective, perhaps stand-offish but always there when you needed her. How'd he miss Kup, assuredly zealous but certainly motivating in his grandiose visions and unwavering willpower.

Pit, he'd even miss Hot Shot. Rookie was an idiot, sure, but he had spark. Pity Cliffjumper no longer had enough spark left to appreciate all of this. Guess he better make it count while he still could.

"You're a good bot, Warpath." The car finally says. "You and Arcee. Kup and Hot Shot. It was an honour serving with you all. Glad I could meet the Allspark with awesome bots like you by my side..."

"No, no, don't you fragging say that! You'll pull through this, we all will! No-one is going to die! No-one! Just open up these bam ports! Arcee, help me with-"

Warpath looks up at the other Autobot in a desperate plea for help, only to jolt to a halt when he realizes her whole frame is shuddering slightly. He hesitates, bewildered, and observes how every inch of her body is faintly trembling, as if her gyroscopic system had gone haywire. It only takes a second for him to realize what is happening, and he lurches away from Cliffjumper to attend to the other Autobot.

Processing Memory Blankness Disorder, a rare condition found only in Infused sparks. Simply put, the processor, unable to grasp the sudden aging of the spark, thinks it has memories before the Infusion Process, thinks it lived a life long before its actual life. Usually it was pretty manageable, but in moments of peace, in moments of stress, sometimes its paradoxical delusions caught up with the main thought-process and left the processor reeling from contradicting thoughts. The result

Warpath was not a medic, but only an idiot would neglect researching such a disorder when learning they would work alongside someone who had it. He knew what he had to do when Arcee had her episodes, when her body seized up and her optics saw a life that never happened. What he had to do was to get in front of her, hold her still and firmly tell her what was real and what wasn't real, and so he did.

"Arcee. You are Arcee." He growls, holding her firmly by the sides as he leans down to face her, his crimson optics glaring into her flickering blue. As he steadies her trembling, he continues the rhetoric: "You are an Autobot. You serve Commander Kup. We are on the Resurgence."

"I... I was only going to the park. I was only going to the park..." She whispered, and it's disturbing to him how her voice, usually cool and impassive, seemed to keen like a troubled child. He can't even comprehend what her optics must be seeing right now, staring right through him, and he has to shake off his unease to keep going.

"You are Arcee." He rumbles, louder now, and intensifies the brightness of his optics to try and make her focus on him and him alone. "You are an Autobot. You aren't in that pow life. That life isn't yours. This is your life, here and now. Focus on me. You are Arcee."

Her optics twitch noticeably, as if shaking in their sockets, and then they still, then they focus. She looks at him, and he looks at her, and the tank knows that the episode has passed.

He certainly knows it when she suddenly wrenches herself out of his grasp with an almost bestial hiss, and she stalks away from him as if he were radiating Insectoplasma. She's always a quick mover, and she's certainly quick to put the whole room between them. Folding her arms, engine revving with a deep-rooted self-loathing, Arcee plants herself against the sealed door and grants him a glare so sharp it could cut through a Cutter. Not at all unexpected, but consistently aggravating.

The tank revs loudly, almost tempted to just reach out and knock over the stasis-locked Kup knelt next to him just to vent his intensifying irritation. Even now, at the end, she still rejected any who tried to help? Show compassion? She's always been resentful towards Infusion, towards what it has done to her, but surely, in this unending isolation, she could at least try to welcome assistance? Surely she could move past her own disdain for her perceived flaws just this once?

"It's only a weakness if you make it a weakness." Warpath grunts. He should be more compassionate, he knows. He knows it's not her fault, he knows the disorder is firmly implanted in her processor and that it'll lurk behind her memory core as long as she lived. But frag, he also knows it doesn't have to make her stalk away from everyone who extended a hand of assistance, that it doesn't mean she should just block everyone else out.

Especially now, when there was no-one else. When it was just them, all alone, lost in the cosmos.

Arcee's glare brightens slightly; acknowledging that he is right, but still prideful enough to resnet it. Any other time, she might have retorted to the contrary, but he is surprised when her glare suddenly dims down into sullen lamentation and she simply murmurs: "I know."

And that's it. That's all he'll get from her.

Warpath stares at her for another moment, before he bows his head and shuffles back towards Cliffjumper. Usually he walked with flair, stomping loudly and showing off his impressive frame, his imposing chest cannon. But now, there is only dejection. Even his determination to survive seems shaken by this, by this instance of separation between himself and the other Autobot. Arcee knows it is not rational to let this impose itself upon them, but she's simply spent too long on the receiving end of ignorant pity to truly move past it.

And now Warpath must confront further damnation when he reaches Cliffjumper. Tentatively, he extends a hand to brush against Cliffjumper's shoulder and murmurs his name. The car does not respond, though his smile remains wide and hopeful. Warpath tries again, outright shaking him now, but still he does nothing. Feeling a heavy fear in his spark, Warpath scans the car intently, and finds that his systems have gone still. Cliffjumper is in stasis lock now, shut down in order to preserve what little life he had left, and there is a strong chance he may never wake up.

In short, Warpath has lost another friend.

"No. No-one is going to die..." Warpath whispers, even he falls to his knees and bows his head in defeat, frame trembling amidst his growing despair. His hands fall from the other Autobot, falls limply by his side, and his systems quake with a encroaching sadness that can find no adequate release save for constant vocal repetition.

"No-one is going to die. No-one is going to die. No-one is going to bam die."

He kneels there for a moment, now as still as Kup and Hot Shot, as still as Cliffjumper. His murmuring of the mantra eventually fades to silence, and perhaps now the tank truly comprehends how utterly vast the bleakness of this isolation is. There is nothing here in the void, no-one coming to save them, no way for him to save anyone or even himself. Just a derelict vessel, floating through the vast cosmos, with all of the others either lost to eh stasis lock or lost to their own emotional dilemmas.

He never thought it would come to this. Lonely, dark, sad. There is no glory, no spilt Decepticon oils, no burning fires of warfare to guide him to an honourable end. Warpath does not belong here; he belonged to the carnage of conflict. Perhaps it's only fitting he meet an end utterly detached from everything he had built himself to be...

Only when a hand touches his shoulder does he look up, and despairing crimson meets gentle blue. It is always odd to see Arcee wear a gentle expression; normally she is calm, stoic, careful with her emotions. But now, perhaps realizing this was indeed the end and she could no longer afford to be alone, she gazes him with the tender eyes of someone who has already lost everything and has just one last confession to make, one last chance to make peace with all things.

"It's alright, Warpath." She says, and they both know it's not alright. But it is comfort nonetheless, and he welcomes it, dipping his head slightly to rest it against her hand. As he feels the faint warmth within her limb, she graces him with perhaps the last smile she'll ever give. "I'm here."

She doesn't say anything else. Never was one for truly emotional connection. But she made the effort, and that lightens his despair somewhat. He nods in acceptance, and they remain there, the smaller bot leaning against the tank as they share whatever comfort they have left, contemplating the darkness of the future before them, and yet knowing there will always be light, that all will eventually be one.

The Resurgence floats on, until a passing asteroid coerces its warp driver to teleport past the barricade. It enters a nearby solar system, so far and remote from Cybertron's vast territory. A simple system, really; a single star, circled by eight diverse planets, some with rings, some with storms and one in particular bearing a lovely pallet of blues, whites and greens. A lonely place, perhaps, but a beautiful one nonetheless.

 

Wow! What an awesome drabble to resurrect this thread!

Gotta say, I really loved all the characters here. Granted, I hated Arcee pretty much the whole time, until the plot twist at the end when she actually showed some compassion. I definitely did not see that coming, it hit me really hard. Awesome writing.

Warpath and Cliffjumper are both so great. Cliffjumper, you can tell, is just so level-headed and kind, so different from all the Cliffjumper counterparts we've seen in past canons. In a group of such extravagant characters--the angsty Arcee, loud-mouth Hot Shot, aggressive Warpath--he's the even-tempered stabilizer. His compassion really comes through. As for Warpath, there's such a great contrast between his outrageously grandiose disposition and the amount of care and selflessness he shows toward his teammates. I just love it!

The atmosphere is so potent too. The sense of doom, the helplessness, the false optimism. I feel like I'm taking on what the characters are feeling.

Such a great piece! I'm tempted to write a drabble myself now...wonder what I shall write about...

 

Thanks so much! It was great to do

Yeah, Arcee was definitely the cynic, part of her issues and self-loathing, but it was good for her to step up and prove compassionate

Yeah, he actually usually is pretty boisterous himself, but when holed up with even wackier personalities, he takes up the role of mediator. Someone has to! And Warpath is always one of my favourites for his contrasts; a brutal warrior, yet a caring friend.

I'm sure it will spring to mind  

In the meantime, time for another piece I've been meaning to do

40: The Isolated Moon

-

Per its nickname, Critico stands as the lone moon of its respective planet, a grand gas giant far on the edges of Autobot territory, far away from potential Decepticon invasions and well protected by a large fleet of Devastator-class vessels. Silvery and smooth, the moon is a perpetual wasteland of icy powder, so cold that any Cybertronian who dared stand unprotected on its surface would soon find themselves frozen stiff. Some might consider it beautiful, with how its surface gleamed with even the faint light from the far-off star, but most held Critico with fearful regard. After, it was the Isolated Moon, and the Isolated Moon was the ultimate in Cybertronian prison technology.

Millions of years ago, when Cybertron had just come out of the Thunderous War and its people had wrested control of the planet from the Storm Heralds, this moon was chosen by Solus Prime herself as the final grave for her ancient enemies. With the power of her Forge, the moon was hollowed out, rebuilt, remade, and transformed into a prison beyond all others. Its very core would contain the worst of all entities, and each ascending layer, all seven of them, would hold less dangerous occupants. Every available technology, from stasis cuffs to electrical punishment, was enforced to keep its prisoners detained and subdued, and even if any inmate could escape the security, the many layers, the outside of the moon would finish the job by freezing them.

In short, all who were condemned to Critico would never escape. Only the mercy of their captors could ever possibly let them see outside of its barren climate. Many believed that Critico, alongside the other questionable acts Solus had had to commit to win Cybertron from the Storm Heralds, was what had driven her to exile herself from their future forever.

When Megatron began a new war, one of the Autobot's first priorities was to ensure Critico was placed under their control. Only this super-prison could be counted on to detain Megatron and his worst followers, and so the Primes Optimus and Zeta had personally fought in the battle to lay claim to it, eventually driving off the Decepticon presence. Since then, in the centuries gone past, Critico was used to house the most dangerous and depraved of Decepticons, ranging from the feral Infernocus to the charismatic and manipulative Nitro Zeus. Worse yet, there were even Autobots locked deep down beneath its surface, as helplessly imprisoned as their own enemies and yet just as deserving of it.

And today, Ultra Magnus, one of the Autrio and commanders of the Autobot faction, was paying it a visit. One such Autobot imprisoned here, one that had been labelled a monster beyond all others, had piqued his interest, and so he had come to see if there might be anything to gain from it.

On the third tier of the moon's innards, but two layers above the core itself, Ultra Magnus strides down the plain white corridor, his deep blue optics gleaming with anticipation. His massive frame, steely grey and dark blue in colour, dwarfed the Autobot alongside him, and his hefty torso and prominent shoulder towers only added to his imposing image. They say Ultra Magnus wielded the raw physical power to tear apart an Insecticon Marauder with his bare hands, and perhaps he did, and perhaps he had. He had always been the most battle-ready and physically powerful of the Autrio, and no-one would doubt he had it in him to destroy a Marauder with ease.

The Autobot beside him, the heavy-set and well-armoured Chromia, was amongst those who held Magnus in awed regard. But even she was hesitant about the beast he was being taken to, a monster that made even Marauders seem like mere helio-hamsters. And so, always keeping a firm grip on her heavy plasma rifle, Chromia states: "I know you're set on this, Magnus, but I really can't say I'd agree with it. This thing's in there for a good reason, because he-."

Ultra Magnus predicts her words and finishes the sentence with dry dispassion: "Because he devolved into a bestial fury and slaughtered seven Autobots, alongside the two Decepticon prisoners they had detained. This event cost us an important find, given the Decepticons had information regarding the location of Lockdown. In addition, he has consistently proven violent, uncontrollable, unreasonable and has inflicted harm onto other Autobots before this. Deemed too dangerous to be allowed to remain free, he was sent here. I am all too aware, Chromia."

Chromia seemed bewildered by how much he knew, before figuring the information had been shared to him by Optimus, the one who ordered this monster's imprisonment in the first place. Readjusting herself, the prison guard offers another cautionary statement: "Okay, even knowing all that, you're still considering letting him out? This thing has killed our comrades, our friends, and you'd let it potentially do it again? That's just downright insane."

Some might think it insubordinate to argue against one of the Autrio like this, but Ultra Magnus welcomed any and all complaints, no matter how crude or critical. After all, any commander unwilling to bear the burden of their judgement being questioned was a fool. He merely smiles at her words, and delays his response when they close in to their destination.

They approach the cell that holds the beast he's so interested in, bearing a gargantuan reinforced door so thick that even a gestalt could not break through it. On either side of the door, two massive Wardens, each as big as Magnus and much bulkier, glare at the approaching Autobots with singular pale-blue optics. Their four arms, each loaded with a variety of bladed and projectile weapons, rustle as they regard the two, and only a wave of Chromia's hands makes them stand down. Magnus nods in approval, having always been admiring of the raw power infused into each Warden, before looking to the door. He gestures to the door, and they nod, before standing aside. Chromia approaches the door, her expression sour with disapproval, and she punches in the access code.

With a heavy grinding sound of moving gears and shifting metal, the massive door begins to open, splitting apart and folded aside. The process is slow, given how thick the metal is, and as it slowly gives way, Chromia turns to the taller Autobot and coldly states: "Optimus Prime had him put here for good reason. You know he won't approve of this."

"Optimus doesn't approve of a lot of things. But Zeta and I wield the majority. He'll simply have to deal with it." Magnus replies, and he moves to prepare to enter the cell. The door's are sliding open, exposing the pitch blackness behind him, an enforced darkness that lets no light enter. Even shifting through different modes of vision grants him no sight, and he believes that holograms may be being employed. Regardless, he steps forward, ready to confront the beast within.

He's stopped when Chromia outright reaches out and grasps onto his wrist, clenching his metal firmly enough that his sensors buzz with disapproval. He glances down at her, bemused and curious, and sees how she gazes up at him. Her glare has changed now, into a sombre expression that conveys a deep and innate pain, a desperate plea for him to reconsider.

"Magnus. He killed Hubcap." She murmured, and her voice is as spark-breakingly pleading as her expression. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Yes, Hubcap. Magnus knew how much he had meant, to him and to all Autobots. He was a good friend from before the war, a scientist with much passion and dedication to the biological life-forms in this universe. He had studied so many worlds, provided so much insight towards the organic beasts roaming outside of Cybertron's metal influence. He had been Magnus' most ardent supporter during his days in the arena, and his most appreciated advisor during the rising of the Autobots, during the rising against the Decepticons. He had done so much for Cybertron, so much for the Autobots, and so much for Ultra Magnus.

He had been his best friend.

And so, with all that in mind, Ultra Magnus fixes his optics upon Chromia's and simply states: "Of course it does. But if I am to ever defeat the monsters who started all this, I will need a monster greater than any of them. I will not let his death be without meaning. I will have his killer atone for his sins by making our enemies pay for theirs. That is simply what our war requires."

Chromia looks like she may argue, but he simply pulls his hand out of her grasp and strides through the open doorway into the darkness.

As the door seals shut behind him, he waits in the pitch black patiently. He knows these cells are monitored, and soon enough an overseer will provide for him some light. He need not wait long, for none would keep a member of the Autrio waiting, and in a moment a single light central to the ceiling shines. Its pale blue glow illuminates the cell, forcing back the extensive darkness and revealing the silvery confines of the cell, and at last he beholds that which he has come for.

This beast is quite impressive. Standing on two legs at about twenty-five planes tall, with its the feet composed of three thick claws, it has a bulky horizontal frame composed of black and grey jagged armour. At the rear protrudes a thick segmented tail, ending in a long blade and looking powerful enough to bludgeon most anything to scrap. At the front is the head, heavy-set and supported by a thick neck, and no doubt it wields a devastating maw, and has been known to be the system with which he unleashes his fiery breath. Even the arms, miniscule and scrawny, end in sharp claws that could probably rip apart a Decepticon by themselves. Everything about this Autobot is sharp, dark and brutal, as if physically embodying the foul actions that led him here.

Apparently, this Autobot's design was based upon an ancient predator found on a far-off world, imposed upon him by Decepticon scientists and put to use as a weapon of terrifying potential. Sadly, it had not worked out for them; he had used his new enhancements to break free of his captors and return to the Autobots, filled with fire and violence. It had been good for a time, letting him loose upon his very makers, but eventually his violent actions towards his fellow Autobots proved intolerable to Optimus Prime. Ultra Magnus himself did not approve of such senseless Autobot death, but as he had said to Chromia, the death of the Decepticons demanded extreme measures.

More impressive still is the elaborate system that engulfs and restrains this abomination. A series of reinforced struts and rods protruding from the floor are locked around the legs, preventing them from so much as even twitching. From the ceiling descend large clamps that are locked around the torso and tail, ensuring they are kept in place. The maw of the beast is sealed shut by a muzzle, preventing him from speaking or chomping, which itself is adhered to clamps around his neck. Even the little arms are locked together at the wrists by blocky stasis cuffs. It seems hard to tell where the monster begins and his restraints end, so intensively are they joined together. Clearly, the bots here wanted no chance of him ever breaking free.

And around the captive are a multitude of silvery prods, each glowing slightly and clearly charged with electrical energy, ready to shock the beast at any sign of hostility. Electricity, given its capacity to wreak havoc on Cybertronian systems, is a rarely employed tactic, and once more is testament to the legacy of fear this monster has produced. More gratuitous still is a massive turret adhered to the ceiling, pointed right at the prisoner's head. With its thick frame and barrel composed of jagged struts, it is clearly a Thunder Cannon, one of the last of them, and it must have been specially reserved and repowered just to make sure this monster never escaped.

So much effort put in to restrain this monster; Ultra Magnus wonders if he should be more impressed by the beast himself or the prison.

Still, he is here for a reason. He idly steps closer to the beast, and examines the head just above the encasement of the muzzle. Fittingly, the Autobot has deep crimson optics, as red as any battle-hungry Decepticon, and they seem to burn with an unending fury. Yes, he can see it clearly; there is brutal rage in those optics, an all-consuming and devastating anger, flaring like fire and as brutal as any hunter. It is almost fascinating to behold such unrelenting and primal rage locked within those eyes, locked within a trapped body, and he supposes he can't even comprehend just how angry this beast is.

"Grimlock." he says, quite occupied with the studying the anger in those optics but always professional in his deliverance. "I am Ultra Magnus. I am here to make you an offer."

The glowing crimson optics flicker a bit, apparently looking at him and yet not seeming to care he was here to talk, only that he was a potential victim to maul. They looked like the eyes of a deranged predator, desperately seeking out anything to sink its teeth into and yet incapable of pursuing. They look like a wild beast who is in pain, who is denied its prey, and yet is only the more dangerous and furious for it. The optics flicker again, and there is a faint creak of the restraints as they withhold a clear attempt to shake them off. How infuriating it must be to want to rip and tear, and yet not be able to move anything but the eyes.

Despite the words of one of his leaders, Grimlock does not reply. Possibly unable to, or just too busy thinking of mutilation and dismemberment. Magnus has seen the images of the aftermath of his rampage, has seen how Autobot and Decepticon alike were torn limb from limb and crushed into Energon-stained scrap. He wouldn't doubt that Grimlock would have outright eaten them if he'd possessed the capacity to, given just how many teeth marks and scattered body parts there were. Like an Insecticon, but so much wilder, so much more fiery.

He allows himself a moment just to contemplate the beast's capacity for carnage, before he decides he will not accept silence. So, he continues: "I know whatever alterations were done to you have made you primal, but I do not believe they have made you stupid. Speak to me, Grimlock. Your fate depends on what I decide now."

His words seem to coerce some focus at last. Grimlock looks directly at him now, still enraged and yet capable of comprehending, and Magnus knows he has his attention now. What a conflict it must be, to have to pay attention to words and dealings and yet only desire to bite and claw and mangle. The Autobot leader can only imagine how difficult it must be for the monster to wish to respond and yet be so enthralled by possible spilt Energon. Still, the beast tries, glaring at Magnus with a fervent intensity, perhaps hateful or even desperate, and he gives a rumbling noise that comes off as threatening yet weak. His head shakes, ever so slightly, and it emphasizes the blocky confines of the muzzle upon his maw.

With that motion, Ultra Magnus realizes that the muzzle itself is preventing him from speaking. His jaws beneath are locked together, and he cannot engage his vocal processors without their stimulation. How interesting, and also understandable; he would not reply if he could not reply. What an obvious oversight.

"My apologies. I did not realize this prevented you from speaking." Ultra Magnus says with a faint tone of sympathy, gesturing to the muzzle, before he raises his voice and address the overseers themselves, wherever they may be lurking in the Isolated Moon as they watch this from their screens. “Autobots, unclasp his muzzle. I will hear his response.”

A pause, and then a voice, timid and tinny, speaks over a hidden intercom: "My apologies, Ultra Magnus, but I do not recommend that action. He wields highly advanced jaw structures that can-"

"I am Ultra Magnus." The most physically powerful of the Autrio responds, now lacing his voice with authoritative disregard. "And I will hear him speak."

The voice goes silent, and then the mechanisms around Grimlock begin to shift. From the hefty claps around his neck sprout small spidery limbs, which promptly scuttle onto the muzzle and begin loosening it with faint hisses. The metal places comprising it disengage, and the lower half folds up and around to join the upper half, which is lifted off of the beast’s maw by the arms. At least, Grimlock’s full head is revealed, and as Magnus suspected, it is a pointed thick maw laden with many razor-sharp teeth. Olfactory sensors are upon the tip of the snout, vents line the side of the head and there is a sudden sensation of heated temperature arising from the maw.

With his jaw released, Grimlock gives a shuddering growl, louder and more potent than before. He releases the lower protrusion, showing off the sophisticated heat-proof plates within, showing off just how pointed and sharp these teeth are. Seems the beast could breathe fire after all, if the expulsions of inner heat are any indication. Magnus leans in slightly, interested, and even dares to extend a hand towards that jawline.

It is illogical, absolutely, but part of him wants to see just what might happen if he were to touch the prisoner. Obviously the fire in those optics demanded victims, demanded anything to sink those fangs into. But perhaps that capacity for reasoning may allow him to restrain himself-

And then when his hand is but inches from the jawline, Grimlock outright jerks forward; the restraints give a heaving groan as his massive frame struggles to drag them on, and his jaws snap with a sharp clang mere inches from Magnus’ hand. Of course, Ultra Magnus had anticipated this and easily withdrew his appendage, smiling widely at such raw aggression. Predictable, but impressive in its power.

Alas, the overseers are not nearly so casual. A mere second after the snap, and then the rods surrounding Grimlock promptly extend, jamming the electrified prongs into the beast. There is a hum, a snap, and then the room is flickering with yellow flashes as Grimlock is promptly and brutally electrocuted. He gives a blazing roar of agony as lightning jumps across his body, sizzling and crackling all over his metal, and the restraints shudder as he furiously attempts to fight off the pain. It's practically demented, the way he snaps at thin air, the way his optics flare all the brighter, and still he is repeatedly shocked, an unending cycle of punishing his violence and yet inciting it.

Ultra Magnus is not disturbed by this. He has seen enough horror in this war that witnessing the monster undergo such torment cannot faze him. If anything, he finds himself impressed. Faced with such an electrifying onslaught, most Cybertronians would keel over instantly. But Grimlock, despite a multitude of prongs jammed into him, furiously shocking him with all the force of a Storm Herald, continues to squirm and howl, frenzied in his agony and yet zealous in his fury. If even this electrical torment is not enough to truly subdue him, what could?

However, he is disappointed in the panicky haste of the overseers, how they wield no faith in either him or the confines. Do they think he had been intimidated, threatened? Do they not trust their own impressive restraints to hold the beast back? How foolish. He observes this spectacle for just a moment before he raises his hand and declares: “Enough.”

As it should be, those who watch obey his command and the prongs retract, ending the electrical pain. Grimlock sags a bit, his roars dying out into strained revs, and his optics flicker with an agonising hate as his jaw hangs limply. But despite the pain, he remains firmly set in the brutal anger that resonates within him, that blazes in those crimson eyes. There is a fire inside of him that cannot be smothered; any attempt to put it out only makes it blaze hotter. Ultra Magnus admires that. He will need that fire in the upcoming journey towards finality.

Shifting a bit closer again, Magnus leans down and meets Grimlock optic-to-optic, gazing into that infuriated inferno with impressment. Though physically worn down, tingling with static, they glow as brightly as ever with nothing but anger. Again impressed, he murmurs: “I can’t imagine this is the first time they’ve shocked you. And yet still you feel rage. Still you feel the urge to rip and tear. Have you no self-control anymore? Are you incapable of comprehending anything other than the fires of war?”

And finally, Grimlock speaks. As expected, it is a guttural and snarling sound, more akin to the words of an animal than a Cybertronian. If the ancient predator he was based on had ever been giving voice, it likely would have sounded like this.

“Grimlock… Grimlock struggles…” He wheezes, snarls, growls, a mixture of such intonations as he shudders slightly, metal frame still flickering with the remnants of his electrical punishment. “Hard to think… just want to burn… burn them all.”

“I imagine you do.” Magnus replied, nodding sympathetically. He tilts his head, seeking out whatever remnants of rationale and control might remain within the berserk. Surely there is an inkling in there, lost amidst all that primal anger. If only he could find it, help it return, help it curb this unstoppable berserk fury. He nods slightly, and then carries on:

He reaches out and grasps onto the lower jaw of the beast, feeling the hard sharp metal and feeling the uneasy taste of static buzzing over it. Grimlock squirms a bit, hissing now as he tried to pull his jaw free of the commander’s touch, but Magnus’ grip is unbreakable.

“You know, I admire your power, Grimlock. Your rage. It refuses to let you roll over and give up.” Ultra Magnus states, calmly and cool as his other hand rises up to examine the sharp fangs of the monster. Feeling over each one, imagining how easily they could puncture the armour of even the toughest Decepticons, he maintains his idle commentary: "Such zeal is impressive, especially for an Autobot in your position. But what use of this power if you have no restraint? IF you cannot even stop yourself from harming your fellow Autobots? What is the point in being strong if you cannot hold back from the weak?"

He releases the jaw then, just to let Grimlock reply. It takes a moment for the beast to force back his irritation, his anger, and snarl a response: "Grimlock served... Grimlock obeyed. But they were weak... never doing what needed to be done. Optimus Prime... put Grimlock here... because Grimlock KILLED FOR HIM!"

He elevates into a howl and once again tries to snap at Ultra Magnus. But of course, the commander is quick to avoid the attempt, and he swiftly raises his hand to dissuade any foolish overseer from again trying to shock the beast. He will not allow the monster to suffer any more simply for doing what he had to do. No-one would fault an Insecticon for snapping; it is simply what they did by way of their natures. It was the same for Grimlock now, at least until Ultra Magnus learned how to change it.

He gives Grimlock a moment to simmer down, or at least whatever counted as simmering down for his fiery temper, before he replied: "Optimus Prime put you here because you killed our fellow Autobots. That is inexcusable. And yet, despite your crimes against our faction, I do agree with you that sometimes we seem reluctant to do what is necessary to defeat the Decepticons. Despite all they have done, all they intend to do, we still restrain ourselves from inflicting true retribution upon them. We still refrain from giving them the punishment they deserve. So many think only of their moral standards that they fail to comprehend the greater scope of Megatron's depravity. I must do what I can to rectify this."

Grimlock's optics flicker, and he looks at the commander with something that seems almost like disbelief. Comprehension must be difficult for him, tossed amidst his primal fury, his insatiable hunger for torn metal, and yet it rises up now, stunned by an Autobot who states such things. How often has he heard Autobots speaking of refusing to kill unless necessary, of refusing to slay Decepticons who could not defend themselves, of refusing the pursue them when they fled? All to often, and yet here was Magnus, one of the Autrio, embodying the very brutal notions of retribution that blazed inside of him. Disbelief stunned his fury, if only for a moment.

Once more Ultra Magnus leans in close, and he grips Grimlock's jaw again, forcing the beast to look right at him as he narrows his optics. It is a cold and firm expression, the type used when disciplining the arrogant and foolish, when enforcing the will of the Autrio. For a split second, Grimlock's struggles cease, and so Magnus speaks, every bit as iron as his tone: "This is what my offer entails, Grimlock. You will atone for your sins. You will avenge the very comrades you slew. You will kill the Decepticons for us, you will unleash your rage upon them and let them understand the folly of all they've done. When they see what you've done to their brethren, they will know fear. They will know doubt. They will weaken, and if they do not yield, then you shall destroy them. Fight for the Autobots, fight against the Decepticons, and you will be free."

Grimlock is not intimidated by the coldness in the commander's optics, by the steel deliverance of his words. But he is surprised, for it is nothing like Optimus Prime, or even Zeta Prime. This is something hard and unrelenting, like his fiery rage and yet so much more refined, so well-controlled. It is quite intriguing, and quite inspiring. His primal notions believe in destruction, in burning retribution, and with Magnus conveying and embodying it, there is at least a degree of understanding.

And understand he does. To obey Magnus is to fulfil his dreams. At last, he will be allowed back into the carnage of war, and he will have every Decepticon crushed between his jaws, crumpled beneath his claws, aflame from his breath. He will destroy them all, as they had once hoped he would destroy the Autobots.

And so, finding a notion of impressment rising inside of him, Grimlock waits for his jaw to be released before he gutturally hisses: "Grimlock... will obey. Let Grimlock free... and they will burn."

Ultra Magnus then gives a sharp laugh: "Yes, I'm sure you will. You obey so you can be free, but is that truly obedience? No, that is opportunity. When I free you, you will have much to learn. You will need to respect the chains of command, you will need to work alongside others and you will need to curb this temper."

Grimlock snarls then, irritation and anger rising beyond the brief flicker of hope, and he snaps: "You think... Grimlock cannot be... what you want Grimlock to be?! Grimlock is changed... Grimlock, isn't Grimlock anymore! All Autobots know this, and they fear Grimlock, as Decepticons do... But, but Grimlock can still... can still be... more than Grimlock is now."

Now that was interesting, and it gave Magnus pause. Was this another facet of Grimlock's rage, another motivation for this bestial fury? Was it more than just Decepticon reformatting, than just anger at all around him and a violent desire to burn and rend? Did Grimlock hate himself? Did he have self-loathing for what he's become, what other Autobots declared him to be? Intriguing, and rather inspiring; the only thing that sparked a stronger fire than hate for others was hate for oneself. Ultra Magnus knows now he has truly found a monster worth taming.

So, he speaks with more tactfulness: "I know what you have become, and I do believe you can regain yourself. But it is not so simple as to just release you and throw you at our enemies. I unleash you upon them because they grow more confident with you locked away, when they should instead be fearing the very monster they created. But, as Optimus decreed, you are still a murderer of your own kind. I must teach you restraint, control, before you could ever be allowed to work alongside our comrades. Even then, I doubt you will be able to handle re-joining the main ranks. Too many to cope with, too little opportunities to find the destruction you crave. Fortunately, the solution is simple; you will be instead devoted to outlying missions beyond our reach, to smaller crews that you must become more familiar with and thus less hostile towards. And so you shall, for our new endeavour requires it."

Grimlock listens with surprising patience, and then curiosity flickers in his optics, a stark contrast to the storm of anger he had seen before. Already his infernal rage seems to be dialling itself back, allowing more and more rational thought to rise up, to contemplate. So, this is what simmers down his flames; the promises of letting them do as they please. Ultra Magnus makes a note of that, before he continues: "The Decepticons are growing more desperate. Their war machine needs fuel, and they must seek it out wherever it lies in the universe. So do we, and so I hope to quash two Insecticons with one stone. When they send their Decepticons far from their empire to find energy, we will follow. When their Decepticons find a world to raid, we will be there. The energy available will be put to use by our faction, and their faction will only have the mutilated remains you send back to them. This is what I will ask of you, Grimlock, once I have helped you master your own rage."

He leans in closer still, their heads side by side, and Ultra Magnus whispers lowly, dangerously, enough that even Grimlock feels just a faint inkling of caution: "The ambition of the Decepticons will be their undoing. High-ranking commanders will be all too happy to lead such far-off missions, to please their Lord Megatron. But when they do, I will have you hunt them. And you will kill them."

 

Oooh, what an intense, atmospheric one-shot!

It's very interesting to see Grimlock before the events of TFM. Since one of his main arcs is the character foil with Bumblebee, it's sometimes hard to remember how brutish and notorious he actually was during his stint on Critico. Even though it's reiterated often enough in the main canon, sometimes his friendship with Bumblebee makes him come off as more docile than his history would otherwise insinuate. Sometimes I'm guilty of forgetting that he's a character separate of his best friend. But here, it's made more than clear that he's beyond a force to be reckoned with--he's what others clearly see as a monster. It solidifies the discrimination that he deals with on his own team and accentuates the tragedy of his life and how that plays into becoming friends with perhaps the only person that didn't see him as a fearsome beast.

Seriously, loved getting this perspective. I'm a stickler for prequel-esque content and character insights. Also, we got a glimpse at Ultra Magnus, one of the Autrio! He came off as a rather brusque, even pretentious character in this story; but when you're as influential as he is, I guess that's natural. To think that he and the other Autobots would treat some of their own kind the way they treat the prisoners of Critico is thought-provoking, because it detracts from what the audience would normally conceive as "Autobot characteristics." Yes, even the Autobots have their dark corners; their cruelties and their secrets. Poor Grimlock appears to get the blunt end of that stick.

Anyways, I'll stop rambling now lol. It's awesome to see this thread updated after so long. One of these days in the near future I'll have to contribute something myself!

 

41: Mirage's New Student

Note: Another crack fic. Been bouncing around in my head. Takes place some time in the future when the team has, for whatever reason, left their post on Earth and returned to Cybertron. Somewhat AU-ish, but not really. I seem to like killing Hound for some reason. Also: I'm probably grandiosely exaggerating the difficulty of hologramming, but that's for Plot Purposes™. Enjoy.

Mirage always felt as though his armored shoulders were weighed down with an explicable abstraction—an intangible anomaly akin to guilt, or something or another. He only started feeling this way a long while after the war had started and, slowly but surely, his position in the ranks was elevated to among the most respectable levels. But if he ever sat down to contemplate this frustrating feeling, he was never able to pinpoint what he should feel guilty about, or even if that was what he was saddled with. Regardless, he seldom dwelled on it; he simply had no time. As perhaps the most renowned and reliable espionage agent under the entire Autobot command—taking orders directly from Optimus Prime himself—he was in no position to be distracted by recurring existential crises. He quickly learned to block it out, as he assumed many soldiers did.

The war changes people. It changed him. And he had no other choice but to be alright with that.

On an extraordinarily prosaic night that he hadn’t anticipated would become as interested as it was fated to be, Mirage sat at a desk in headquarters, thumbing through documents. They were reports from subordinates, taken from missions across enemy lines to spy on the Decepticons, most of which yielding next to nothing useful. That was typical. It was only every once in a while that one of his many underlings, whom he tried his best to train, were able to obtain legitimate information after reconnaissance. This was how the pecking order eventually arranged itself; Mirage’s espionage team reported to Mirage, and then Mirage reported to Prime. Granted, Mirage was still very much a field agent himself, but mostly on missions of supposed utmost cruciality. Just as well, he thought. He was getting old anyway.

All these thoughts were interrupted when his sixth sense alerted him to a presence approaching him from behind; he supposed he forget to close and lock his doors. It was late, all was quiet, and he hadn’t anticipated anybody visiting him in these afterhours. Nonetheless, he couldn’t be bothered to politely address the new person, whomever it was; he could only assumed that it was one of his many officers there to deliver more useless data, or another grievance that was not under his jurisdiction to do anything about.

When the gait—the light and tentative sound of wheels—stopped a few paces behind him, Mirage didn’t miss a beat; without looking up from his documents, he said, “Go away. I’m busy,” in a low, disinterested voice.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Mirage’s posture suddenly erected, his brow furrowed in confusion and vague surprise. That voice—it was a youthful, yet wayworn vocalization—was entirely unfamiliar to him. Stranger still was the odd remark; clearly, Mirage had the displeasure of receiving an unanticipated guest with whom he had no acquaintance. Instinctively going into defense mode, he turned around rapidly in his chair, keenly observing the strange presence.

The Autobot before him—he could clearly see that it was an Autobot, immediately alleviating some of his defenses—was indeed one that he had never seen before in his life. He was small, a good six or seven feet below Mirage’s height at least, and had huge round optics that glowed a dull, yet somehow youthful blue. He stood braced at the other end of the office near the entrance, his facial expression (hard to make out as his form was darkened against the backlight) an intense mixture of melancholy and determination.

“May I have the honor of knowing who’s speaking?” Mirage stated, his deadpan inflection disguising his genuine curiosity.

The small yellow Autobot tapped his chest with a fist. “Bumblebee,” he quietly replied. “I need your help.”

“Sorry,” Mirage said, perhaps too quickly. Whatever fleeting interest he had was almost immediately extinguished. He was already a busy officer and had no interest in some random stranger soliciting his assistance with whatever problem he was dealing with. “I’m not sure how you got in here, but I’m not interested. I’ve got a lot to do and I can’t comply with the requests of just any bot who walks through my door.”

With that, Mirage turned back around, certain that his point was well made. But, to his dismay, he sensed that the presence was still standing there, even moments later. Bumblebee soon after spoke again;

“I understand that you have priorities. But I came far to find you. I believe you’re the only one who can help me.”

Mirage rolled his eyes, his impatience steadily increasing. Turning back around toward the young bot, he said, “Look, kid, either you can leave now, or I can drag you out myself.”

“I have friends in high places,” Bumblebee suddenly said, a marked increase of dark insistence embellishing his voice. “who wouldn’t take kindly to aggressions toward me.”

Mirage blinked, amazed that anybody had the audacity to come into his office (unannounced no less), demand his help, and then proceed to threaten him. “Is that right,” he said, unfazed. He was certain that the bot was bluffing.

Bumblebee himself knew that his farce could easily fail him, and it was clear that Mirage was a wizened officer, lacking any amount of gullibility. He might have had a strong moral compass, but his desperation superseded any reservations he might have had about stretching the truth of his connections; in reality, he hadn’t informed Jazz that he would be soliciting any help from Mirage. He mentioned it to Grimlock and a few other friends, but knew that he had no intention of using his Jurassic friend against anyone regardless of the outcome. Yet, he had no qualms about trying; morally sound as he might have tried to be, he was good at lying, good at deception. He always had been.

“Perhaps the Lieutenant could persuade you to entertain my offer?” Bumblebee tried, running out of options.

Two things struck Mirage about that remark; the young bot’s insinuation that he had some kind of connection to the notorious Jazz, Optimus Prime’s right-hand man, and that he was willing to incite a bargain of some kind. The latter didn’t persuade him any, so much as it piqued his interest; as a matter of fact, the former hardly persuaded him either, convinced as he was that Bumblebee was merely attempting to beguile him. But the mention of the Lieutenant led him to a certain realization.

“Wait a minute,” he said, tapping his fingertips together as he pondered, “Bumblebee…from Lieutenant Jazz’s line-up…aren’t you Hound’s pupil?”

Mirage had been good friends with Hound, before and during the war. Over time their communications dwindled, especially after Hound had informed him that he would be joining Jazz’s team for a mission on a foreign planet, a long way from Cybertron. But their camaraderie would never extinguish due to long distance and resultant silence; Mirage was an infamous hologrammer, and the only other bot he had ever known to match his skills—perhaps even exceed them—was the former biologist Hound. The two had endless respect for one another and had collaborated on countless missions before both of them moved up in the ranks. Many came to think of them as a sort of unofficial duo. If this young Autobot was indeed Hound’s student, well, that complicated things.

There had been a strange pause, and Mirage knew that a certain inexplicable tension weighed down the atmosphere between them. But after a moment, Bumblebee, tipping his head down somewhat, said “Yes,” and offered no other explanation.

Mirage, his voice a little more benevolent now, unhesitatingly said, “Well, what could you need me for? Certainly, your mentor could provide any conceivable assistance. ``That’s what they’re for.”

“Hound is dead.”

The statement hung in the atmosphere, dead and dangling as if from a noose. Mirage’s previously curt disposition disintegrated into something ambivalent and indecipherable. His fingertips continued to tap together, independent of Mirage’s volition; he only looked through Bumblebee for a minute, mouth pursed, processing a strange mixture of remorse, and cold familiarity with the disappointment of death in war.

After a pause, Bumblebee thought he might have heard Mirage mutter “oh my,” but he wasn’t sure. He only waited anxiously for the elder Autobot to break the silence.

Eventually, Mirage failed to disappoint. “Well,” he began in low volume, looking as if he were contemplating the equation to unlock the universe’s mysteries, “That is…a shame.”

Bumblebee, while trying to keep face, allowed his gaze to slip to the floor.

He looked back up when Mirage spoke again; “What is it exactly that you need help with?”

“You’re a hologrammer,” Bumblebee pointed out. Obviously the statement was unnecessary, but Mirage suddenly felt as if he knew where this was going. “…and they say that Hound was the best of the best…perhaps except for the famous Mirage.”

“So, you want me to teach you.”

Bumblebee only gave a single nod.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Mirage said, gesturing with an unfounded measure of genuine condolence, “It is tragic that Hound has lost his life…but with the work I’m assigned, I simply can’t take any students right now--“

“I’m not looking for a mentor,” Bumblebee interrupted, holding his hand up, “All I ask is a few days. Even a single session if that’s all you’re willing to offer me.”

“If you want me to teach you hologramming, it’ll take much longer than that. Just like any tactical skill, it takes repeated practice to become good at—“

“I’m a quick learner.”

Mirage sunk back into his chair, feeling—not defeated, but challenged. More to his own dissonance than to Bumblebee’s heroic persistence. As it was his long-standing habit, he continued to tap his fingertips together as he thought, intensively mulling over the situations, the pros and cons, in his processor. On a subliminal level, there was something about Bumblebee that made him unusually persuasive; although, the added knowledge that he had once been under the charge of Mirage’s good friend in all likelihood had something to do with it. But, no, there was something more—something about this kid that the hologrammer was under the impression he saw something in, something strange.

With that, a question suddenly occurred to him. It was strange enough that he had entertained an unannounced rookie for this long, being the obstinate and busy officer that he was. But that inexplicable magnetism got the better of him. “Wait a minute—there are other hologrammers out there, plenty. Yet you exerted some marked amount of effort to find me in particular. Why is that?”

Bumblebee’s answer was simple. “I need to become a master.”

“…I suppose there’s some imminent threat that demands pristine expertise in the field of hologramming?” The question was obviously facetious, almost rhetorical.

Bumblebee was thrown off by it. It was difficult to explain why he wanted to become a master hologrammer, as Hound had been, so desperately. He had, of course, begun by teaching himself immediately after inheriting the technology—but quickly found that it wasn’t as easy as his former mentor had made it seem. The images he projected were almost exclusively static. They flickered, failed to last any substantial amount of time, and sometimes weren’t the exact visuals that he intended to create. His was horrible at energy conservation and even what feeble accomplishments he had to his endeavors left him almost drained sometimes. Needless to conclude, his newly-found possession of a projector in the wake of Hound’s demise was all but useless to him in combat.

“Well—Hound was the only hologrammer on our team—“ Bumblebee stated, fishing for some response to articulate, “and—somebody should succeed him. It’s an important component.”

With a hand gesture, Mirage quickly dismissed this explanation. “You don’t want to become a master for the sake of your team,” he said, once again catching Bumblebee noticeably off-guard. “The real reason is, you want to do good by your mentor.”

Bumblebee’s optics fell once again to the floor. Mirage had said what he had been afraid to say, what he had been afraid was too sentimental an explanation. All the frustration, all the desperation was truly at the heart of his fear of failure in the wake of his mentor’s legacy. He felt strongly as if he still had to make Hound proud; and to prove to others that a better teacher never existed.

Bumblebee internally fumbled for a response, but Mirage spoke up again before he could offer any; “I’ll teach you.”

This caused the young scout’s head to jerk up suddenly, his wide optics staring right into Mirage’s. “You will?”

“Hound and I were good friends. He saved my aft a couple of times back in the day. I suppose now I can sort of repay him.”

The explanation was quiet, almost contrite. Bumblebee hardly heard it.

“Thank—“

“Don’t thank me yet,” Mirage said, holding up a hand. “Show up here tomorrow morning, 0600, sharp. We’ll have three days. That’ll be enough time for me to hammer in the basics. No payment of any sort necessary. After that, I want you out of my hair. Sound good?”

Bumblebee, still looking like a deer in headlights, could only nod emphatically.

“Good. Now get out of my office.”

--

Cliffjumper was the only one in the rec room; after a tough week of back-to-back assignments, everyone was starved of rest and recharging later into the morning than usual. Granted, it was still relatively early, but normal protocol would have the entire base up and running around at least an hour before.

Today was one of those rare days where the hustle settled down; Cliffjumper was as prone to fatigue brought on by over-work as anybody else, but he had gotten up early on his own volition, simply out of habit—and because he wanted some waking time without any other teammates running around, yelling and arguing with one another. Much as he cared for his cohorts deep down…he would be lying if he didn’t admit that they could wear him out like nothing else.

And so he sat on one of the rec room sofas, mindlessly fiddling with some small object, letting his mind wander and revel in the silence. Some uncalculated amount of time past when his attention was called to the entrance; another presence came ambling in, putting him on his guard.

He relaxed after a short moment. It was only Bumblebee.

“Hey, small fry,” Cliffjumper greeted, smilingly using a bit of derisive lingo he had learned from his stint on Earth. “How was your first day of hologrammer boot camp?”

Cliffjumper had been one of the few friends that Bumblebee had told about his interest in temporarily studying under Mirage to kink out the problems he had been having. Everybody was more than keen to his deep frustration with his new “ability,” but for the most part, Bumblebee kept quiet about his dramatic expedition to find a solution. Cliffjumper assumed that he didn’t want anybody to try to dissuade him—and he probably wanted it to seem as though he could hologram well on his own accord, without additional assistance.

Supposedly Bumblebee knew that Cliffjumper didn’t care enough to try and talk him out of it for whatever reason. As the yellow Autobot entered the rec room, perceptibly exhausted, Cliffjumper followed him bemusedly with his optics. The smaller of the two collapsed face-first onto the sofa perpendicular to the one Cliffjumper was using, sinking into it motionlessly.

“I take it went well?”

Bumblebee turned his helm sideways so that his voice wouldn’t be muffled by the furniture. “Mirage is a slave driver.”

“Yikes. So he whipped you pretty bad.”

Bumblebee slowly sat up now, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Cliffjumper was surprised at how defeated he looked; over time, he certainly matured to an extent and it showed in his increasingly controlled disposition—but he was still the enthusiastic and chipper old Bumblebee. It was strange to see a deflated version of him. The only other time anybody had seen him that way was when Hound had—

“I’m just no good at this, Cliffjumper,” Bumblebee lamented, interrupting the red Autobot’s train of thought. “No matter how hard I try, I just can’t get it to work for me. I don’t get it.”

“You’re new to it. It takes time, just like anything else.”

“I doubt that Hound was this bad, even in the beginning.” Painful reminiscence at the mention of his mentor sunk Bumblebee’s posture even more. “I’m just not cut out for it.”

“So you’re not a natural. There’s nothing wrong with that. But anything comes over time, with practice.”

Bumblebee exhaled. So you’re not a natural. That’s almost exactly what Mirage had said. When Bumblebee floundered under his discretion, he said “Clearly this doesn’t come naturally to you. You’re skilled, but you’re not talented. There’s a difference.” It wasn’t meant as an insult, only a painfully honest mentor-like observation. But it still stung. The small scout always learned pretty quickly via observation; but this new skill was relentlessly kicking him in the aft.

“I guess so,” Bumblebee said, feeling defeated.

Cliffjumper got up and headed for the exit, thwacking Bumblebee on the back of the head as he passed. “That’s not like you, Bee,” he said, inflecting like a reprimand, but meaning it good-naturedly. “Maybe some sparring will cheer you up. Want to go to the training room and shoot some targets with me?”

“Thanks, but I’m spent,” Bumblebee said, waving Cliffjumper off. “By the way, has anybody else gotten up yet?”

“Grimlock is still recharging as far as I know, if that’s what you’re really asking,” Cliffjumper replied, just as he disappeared around the doorway. Bumblebee heard him say “catch you later” as he made his way down the corridor.

The scout liked Cliffjumper; he was intuitive, if not a little brusque. But of all the other bots on Kup’s team, he was certainly the most level-headed and easiest to converse with. The two had become friends probably because Cliffjumper always had the most patience for Bumblebee’s energetic idiosyncrasies early on—and probably because he was the only one who didn’t condescend him into the dirt.

Ah, whatever. He supposed it was nice to have somebody to vent to, but he saved his more detailed woes and recollections for Grimlock, his chief confidante. Bumblebee wasn’t afraid to jostle Grimlock out of his sleep if he were desperate enough for somebody to confide in—of course, anybody else who tried to do that had a death wish—but he was tired enough to just wait for him to wake up on his own accord. Plus, it was obvious that everybody on base was exhausted, even Grimlock not being an exception, and Bumblebee didn’t want to rob him of much-needed recharge.

The small yellow scout slumped back into the couch and close his optics for a moment, reflecting on the harsh training session. He expected Mirage to be tough on him, but even his active imagination underestimated the outrageous regime. The next couple of days were going to be rough.

He tried to prevent his processor from going to darker corners. One time, during a particularly trying discourse with his dinosaur buddy, Grimlock had intuitively said, “You don’t need to try so hard to prove yourself, Bumblebee. Hound is proud of you.”

Hound is proud of you. Those five words should have meant the world, but they weren’t as reassuring as he wished they could be, not with how badly he wanted to believe their veracity—and not with hard it was for Bumblebee to believe them.

Hound always reassured Bumblebee that he was proud. But the apprentice scout had a harsher estimate of his own character, which worsened with experience, and took a nose-dive after Hound was killed—long before Bumblebee felt he was ready to lose a mentor. Not to mention, he would never be ready to lose the closest person he would ever have to a parent.

Bumblebee shook it off. He hated thinking about it. With a huff, he heaved his tired form off the sofa and headed for his quarters, eager to catch whatever last bit of shut-eye he could before Cybertron’s sun came fully up.

Mirage’s words from the training session continued to echo in his head as he slumped down the corridor; “I’ll give you this, you’ve got resolve. Use that.” “Don’t get discouraged. One of your biggest problems is losing focus; self-loathing will only make it worse.” “Control your thoughts, Bumblebee. It’s all in your head.”

It’s all in your head, he had said. Everything holding him back, all illusory. He would try to remember that tomorrow, he thought. After an extra bit of sleep.

 

42. I Don't Care.
-

"You're moping."

Sometimes, Barricade is visited by strong and powerful urges. Urges that ran through his whole neural network, filtered through his processor and buzzed to the very tips of his claws. Such a strong and powerful desire, such a potent and enthralling urge. The inconceivably potent desire to do nothing more, nothing less... than to punch a fragger right in their stupid ugly dumb moronic face.

Once again, he is visited by this almighty urge, and only a truly powerful sense of restraint keeps him from doing so as he turns from the console to glare at Soundwave. The navy-blue pile of tactless tasteless scrap is standing just by his side, blocky arms folded and yellow visor somewhat narrowed in what might be contemplative musing. But for all Barricade cared, his visor could emit anything from ecstasy to outrage; what really mattered is that the sonic-loving sonic-abusing piece of sonic-garbage was interrupting his extremely important and vital research.

"For your information, Slagwave, I'm not moping. Moping implies I'm feeling sad or some scrap, and I don't get sad. I just get proactive about carrying out my endeavours. Endeavours, by the way, you're rudely interrupting, you worthless smog-sucking Insecticon spawn."

Barricade would have hoped that maybe his fearsome and imposing tone might have insinuated that he was in no mood to put up with this kind of nonsense today. Alas, it was too much to ask for the Lamborghini to take the hint and leave him alone. He considered himself Barricade's closest comrade on this whole dumb ship, and while Barricade may suppose it was true that he hung out with him more than anyone else, it didn't mean he had the right to just barge on Barricade's incredibly important affairs and start mouthing off like a damn procologist. He'd had his fair share of those mind-probing idiots, thank you very much.

Ergo, Soundwave, rather than going away, just stared at him, in that vacant and processor-less way of his, as if he wanted to remind Barricade just who was the stupidest car in the whole universe. But then, sadly, he saw fit to deflate Barricade's brief sense of cruel entertainment at thinking him the stupidest car in the whole universe by saying the one sentence that no-one should ever say.

"It's alright, you know. We're all worried about Slipstream."

Sometimes, Barricade is visited by strong and powerful urges. Urges that ran through his whole neural network, filtered through his processor and buzzed to the very tips of his claws. Such a strong and powerful desire, such a potent and enthralling urge. The inconceivably potent desire to do nothing more, nothing less... than to punch a fragger right in their stupid ugly dumb moronic face.

This time, he does not restrain the urge. He outright turns in his seat and flings out a clawed fist that strikes Soundwave across the mouth-plate, jolting loose one of the weird mandible things framing it. Soundwave sways a bit, but otherwise keeps his footing, doesn't even change his visor's composition, as the Mustang sharply and dangerously hisses: "Don't fragging talk to me about Slipstream. I'm not worried about some idiot medic who got herself captured! I'm just disappointed that the one 'Con who built me a new arm was dumb enough to fall for Autobot tricks. I wouldn't have fallen for Autobot tricks! I'm not that stupid! She was that stupid, and that's stupid of her!"

Usually he's not that quick to react; oh, he's always quick to insult and to demean, but outright lashing out is somewhat uncommon. But right now, he's just in no mood for this kind of slag, especially with life being what it is right now. Regardless, Soundwave's demeanour changes in an instant, shifting from casual enquiry to a defensive edge.

"You are absolutely worried about Slipstream." Soundwave said, straightening out his mandible and now enforcing a cold sense of firmness into his mechanised tone. Now holding his arms by his side, possibly ready to strike back if the shock trooper tried to hit him again, his visor narrows as he continues: "You can deny it all you want, like you deny everything that comes close to actual emotion within that degenerate processor of yours, but the truth is, you're as concerned for her as the rest of us are."

Barricade has never been fond of being told what he felt or what he should feel. Who the frag knew what he felt except him?! All he felt, all he should feel, was what every Decepticon needed to feel; the unending burning anger necessary to slaughter the Autobots, reduce their entire worthless race to molten metal, and the ambition needed to show every other species who was strongest. That was it, nothing more, nothing less, and he did not like being told otherwise!

"If I think I'm worried about her just 'cause I went to rescue her that one time, then you're wrong! I only took you and that pretentious moron Grindor to save her idiotic aft because she was building me a new arm! But now I have an arm, and she was dumb enough to get trapped again, so whatever! I don't care! I'm not worried, not one bit!"

Soundwave just revved, shaking his head as he responded: "I'm only trying to sympathetic here, but as ever, you refuse to acknowledge anything beyond your own twisted delusions of being unfettered and invincible. You can tell yourself that you don't care, that she deserved it, that you're above and beyond compassion, but no amount of denial will change that-"

And then he reached out and tapped a button on the console, promptly shutting down the screen and the images upon it, before derisively continuing: "-And certainly no amount of perverse mermaid imagery will change that."

Barricade, irritably and resentfully simmering throughout that whole bout of pretentious idiocy, let out a shriek of outrage at the loss of the images and leapt to his feet. He did not punch Soundwave again, even though the urge burned inside, but he definitely leaned in close enough to practically butt his forehead against the communication officer's as he flexed his claws and growled: "You insolent fragging moron! That was important research for my eventually quest to get the wishes! You're letting that idiot Hound's stupid fragging rookie find them before I can!"

"Don't change the subject. You're only proving my point when you do so." Soundwave says, and his tone is colder than ever, clearly no longer interested in humouring Barricade's shenanigans and attempts to hide his feelings. "You're worried about Slipstream, just like when she was trapped before. You're practically simmering with worry, with fear, that you're not there helping her, that maybe this time she won't be alive when we come for her. Difference is, this time you can't just run to an old quarry and play the hero, pretend that only you had the foresight to rope those 'bots into helping us. This time you have to wait for an actual plan, and you just can't handle not being able to just rush in like you always do, so you just mope around and lash out whenever-

Yet again, the urge for face-hitting rises, and Barricade lashes out yet again, unwilling to deal with this stupid attempts at deconstructing his defences. His head snaps forward, bashing into Soundwave's and finally making the Lamborghini stagger back. Barricade can only take so much pretentious pontificating before fists had to fly, and he is all too ready to do so as he raises his right arm and punches for that obnoxious expressionless mouthplate.

This time, Soundwave really has no more tolerance, and he raises a hand to catch Barricade's punch. Before the Mustang might do anything about it, Soundwave's other fist swings in and hits his mid-section, making him double over. But he's endured far worse than this, and Barricade responses by outright throwing himself forward, smashing his body against the Lamborghini's and sending them both crashing to the ground. Howling with furious denial, Barricade punches again and again at the 'Con trapped beneath him, before Soundwave manages to slam a knee between his legs and disorientate him long enough to roll them over and start walloping him.

Their brawling continues until Starscream himself is there, prying them apart, and only when he smacks their heads together does the Raptor earn their attention. Understandably, the commander of the Darksyde is not at all happy about his minions causing such a commotion when all hands needed to be planning for Operation Harvest and Slipstream's rescue! Reprimands and punishment for unnecessary conflict is swift; both are confined to their quarters for a full orbital cycle, and any attempt to sneak out of them will result in them being dumped at the bottom of the ocean for ten orbital-cycles.

And so Barricade is sat in his quarters, upon his berth, with arms folded and crimson eyes flashing as he glares at nothing in particular. Normally he might have cursed Starscream out for being a stupid prick and sending him to his room, but for once, Barricade actually didn't object. At least in here he wouldn't have to put up with Soundwave. Really, this should be a good thing; no idiots trying to console him or any of that nonsense, no fools whining about poor silly stupid Slipstream and her silly stupid circumstance. Just him, glaring and thinking about how nice it would be to punch Soundwave all the harder.

Unfortunately for him, with no console to look at mermaids, with no Sideways to bully and no Starscream to exchange Shockwave-insults with, Barricade soon realizes he is left with possibly the only thing worse than a probing Soundwave. His own thoughts. And lo and behold, they were focussing on Slipstream.

Despite attempts to keep his thoughts locked on fists introducing themselves to faces, Barricade just can't get rid of the notion of Slipstream left chained up and helpless in a brig, a prisoner with her fate hanging in the balance. Those Autobots had her, and she had nothing to help her escape, help her fight back against them. His neurals buzzed with something akin to outrage that she would be reduced to such a pitiful state, and he revs furiously as he tries to focus on something else. There was a part of him that knew that wasn't outrage he was feeling, however close to it as it may be. It was something more... concerned, and concern just was not acceptable.

Concern did not make a good Decepticon.

He shakes his head, but still his neurals buzz as his sub-processing units continue to draw forth unbecoming thoughts. For all he knew, Slipstream could be being tortured by the Autobots, just like how he had planned to torture the damnable Hound's pitiful stupid little rookie, and that made his very wheels tremble. The idea of Slipstream, she who'd always patched him up, who'd built him a whole new arm, being pained in such a way almost made him feel... viral? No, not quite viral; outright horror-stuck. A growl, and he tries to blot out the thought; no, Decepticons don't pity the helpless. It wasn't their way, it wasn't Megatron's way. He'd only helped her before because he needed that arm!

But then again, wouldn't he have done so regardless? His own muse catches him off-guard, and Barricade again growls as he refuses to comprehend that implication. Alas, it didn't help him, just like now he couldn't help her. The thought of not being there to save her like before made his very plating rattle, and much as he might try to deny any deep sentiment making him wish he could save the medic, he could not stop feeling so... so... worried.

She was stuck on a ship filled with Autobots, from that weird tow truck, who might try to perform some twisted experiment on her, to even that violent brute Warpath, who had a long history of murdering Decepticon prisoners. Much as he might pray he could, he wouldn't be able to go down there and kill them all here and now, to save her, not when he couldn't find her. She was stuck there, stuck on a ship with those degenerates and-

No, no, worse. She was stuck on a ship with Grimlock.

Barricade isn't an idiot; never has been, never will be. He knows that for all of Airachnid's boasting and gloating, for all of the claims of the damage she and others had inflicted, she had not killed the berserker. That wild beast had survived, just like Barricade had once survived, and none of the other worthless soon-to-be-lifeless Autobots could stop the animal from slaughtering an imprisoned Slipstream. That monster hated 'Cons as much as Barricade hated 'Bots, and not even the talentless Lieutenant could keep him from barging into the brig she was kept and sinking those teeth through her, sinking those claws into her, and just biting and ripping and slashing until-

With a hiss, Barricade outright grips his head in his hands, claws digging into his metal with pinpoint pain in an attempt to force the twisted imagery out of his head. No, no! Slipstream wasn't dead, she wasn't! He hisses again, louder and almost frenzied, and desperately forces out the corruptive concepts. She wasn't dead; Autobots were too stupid and soft to let their more violent puppets kill an important source of information. They wouldn't kill her, so he could still save her! He could still help her! He could-

A knock on the door.

In an instant, Barricade composes himself, frees his plating from his claws and resumes his sullen pose of folding arms and glaring at nothing. Few things made him move quicker than needing to preserve his dignity, and fewer things earned a more sharper response than having his me-time be interrupted.

"Screw off."

"Much as I might love to-" A familiar and snide voice dryly states from the other side. "- I have some matters to discuss with you. Mind if I come in?"

Now this peaked his curiosity, briefly freeing him from both the agony of Slipstream's dilemma and the necessity to bury it deep down where he'd never find it. The speaker was none other than Airachnid, prime sycophantic suck-up to that depraved piece of trash Shockwave, and a particularly smug and sassy scraplet if he'd ever known one. Even Crankcase had never been as obnoxious as this scorpion-flavoured Insectoplasma-eater. What on Riva Li could she want from him, whereas before he was nothing to her but another test subject?

He briefly entertains the idea of just telling her to screw off again, but considering he was being loaned the Nodule by her and her dumb one-eyed boss, part of him figured that maybe he ought to be a bit more courteous. He still remembers Shokaw, still remembers Shockwave, and for all of the insults he might think up for the depraved nerdy cyclops, he couldn't deny the big fragger sent chills down his neurals.

So he just grunts: "Fine, sure, whatever."

The door promptly slides open, and Airachnid sauntered in like she owned the place. Considering her connections to a damn Conciller, she probably thought she did. At over twice his height, greyish-green in and colour and outfitted with the attire of a military helicopter, she emphasised quite nicely the Decepticon fondness of sharper features.. From her elaborately horned head, her sharp claws, the rotors curled in like spikes and the spindly spiky legs, she certainly came off as extremely imposing to most. Add in her depraved and twisted fondness of torturous experimentation, plus the aforementioned connection to Shockwave, and it was small wonder that even Starscream, for all of his bluster, was intimidated by her.

But Barricade was no Starscream. He simply maintained his sullen posture without offering any regards to her beyond tilting his glare upwards. As she moved to the other side of the room and leaned against in the wall in a casual manner, he revved: "Can I ask what the frag you're doing intruding on my privacy, or while Shockwave interrogate me for that too?"

Like the rest of the crew, Airachnid's learnt that Barricade's brash rudeness wasn't something to take seriously. She just smiled faintly, expression shifting from her usual smugness to a calmer notion of contemplation. Frag, did he hate expressions of contemplative musing. It meant she was thinking on something other than killing the damn Autobots who stole Slipstream from hi- from the crew, and if she was thinking that, she was probably gonna pull a Soundwave and start talking slag to him. Disgusting.

But to his surprise, she did not start with emotional nonsense. She simply asked: "It's not every day the oh so stoic communications officer gets into a control room brawl. I asked him what could possibly make him resort to fisticuffs, and he said you were being especially obnoxious. And I think to myself, what counts as especially obnoxious for an obnoxious little brat like you? So here I am." She spread her arms as if welcoming a crowd, and her smile widens. "So, what's especially obnoxious today, Barricade?"

He glares at her, revving in frustration at her demeaning belittling little words. Trust Airachnid to try and find the most pontificating way to insult a 'Con. He shakes his head at her, wondering how a moron like her ever got to be Shockwave's right-hand 'Con. Sadly, the way she's smiling down ever so sweetly at him implied she wanted an answer rather promptly, and so he deigns to give her one.

"Soundwave interfered with my research. Got real viral of that idiot constantly messing with my businesses, so I beat the scrap out of him. Someone had to do it."

"Ah yes. Businesses. Observing pictures of mythological mammal-fish hybrids is ever so important." Airachnid purrs, titling one of her claws up to frame her chin akin to a teenage human female condescendingly mocking her cohorts. She tilts her head, horned features emulating the scorpion she could transform into, and her optics brighten with a notion of delighted interest. "But alas, Soundwave did mention there was more to the situation than your odd interest for human myths. He said you were moping about Slipstream."

Of course he did. Leave it to that obnoxious fragger to spout his scrap to everyone within audio range. Barricade would be sure to rescind the idiot's rights to hang out with him after this. As it stood, the Mustang simply darkened his glare towards the helicopter and hissed: "He was talking scrap. I'm not worried about her, not one bit. He's just a stupid moronic obnoxious sentimental idiot, that's all. And you're an idiot too for listening to his garbage!"

Airachnid just keeps looking at him, smiling that viral smile, though the rotors on her back flexed in a manner that might seem tense. And then she revs a little, folding her arms behind her back as she flexed her legs. All of a sudden, her posture no longer seems so smug, so controlling, and her expression no longer comes off as sweet or snide. In fact, she looks rather sombre, and this puts the shock trooper on edge. Nothing made him wary more than when the renowned amoral torturer started acting all sad.

With a faint sigh, the helicopter says: "Maybe I am. I am spending far too much time listening instead of acting, aren't I?"

And nothing made him even more wary than when the renowned amoral torturer started getting introspective. Barricade briefly wonders if she's going to take his proclaimed apathy towards Slipstream's dilemma as offence and outright kill him here and now. He was confident he could take her, but something told him that killing Shockwave's principle lackey would result in very bad consequences. As he contemplates any possible escape from this madness, Airachnid finally enlightens him to something rather stunning.

"You wanna know something funny, Barricade? I feel exactly like you feel right now. I'm worried about her. Matter of fact, I'm terrified for her."

Now that had him bewildered. His glare briefly flickers into confusion as he stares at her, stares right at the sincere sombreness in her optics. Now that was a box of Cutters to intake. Airachnid, worried? Terrified? What the frag? Was she really speaking honestly right now? See, Barricade knew she and Slipstream were close (and he'd written a few drabbles about just how close they were), but he'd never really pegged the helicopter as honestly caring for the jet. Slipstream had always been the eager friend, contrasting the aloof demeanour of the helicopter, and the notion that Airachnid would actually get truly sentimental about her seemed off. But there was no mistaking the sincerity in those optics. Even in Decepticons, that kind of expression did not deceive.

But there's a certain discrepancy about that kind of claim, one that promptly sparks up in his processor. What kind of slag was it for someone like Airachnid to ever profess of legitimate concern and emotion for anything other than satisfying her sadistic desires?

He shakes his head, clearing the confusion, and he grunts: "You really are an idiot. For one, I'm not worried or terrified or any scrap like that. And for two, you're a Unicron-damn torturer. You cut up Autobots for fun, and you record their screams, and you feed them to Insecticons. You do any every twisted damn depraved thing Shockwave asks you to do, and you laugh about it. Viral fraggers like you don't get terrified."

And then her expression goes right from sombre to sadistic so swiftly that he honestly twitches a bit in shock. She smiles like a scorpion would smile before it fatally poisoned its prey, eyes flashing like she'd just seen the most delectable prey, and the way her claws flex is enough to have him tensing defensively. It's a small wonder she didn't outright go for him there and then, the way she emulated the primal hunger of a deadly predator. Barricade did not know fear, but even he knew the inherit wariness for when a bigger 'Con got that hungry look in the optics.

"Oh you're so right." She purrs, again delving into that intense sweetness, like a seductress beckoning you into a parlour whilst concealing a knife behind her back. "I do love my job. Seeing the fear flashing in their optics as the claws come down, seeing the pain on their face as I see exactly what lies beneath the plating. It's like, mm, like taking in the richest and most invigorating Energon. It makes me feel alive like nothing else can. Just knowing everything and anything that can happen to them is decided by myself, and that I can choose exactly how and when it all ends for them. If only Primus can take life, as the Primes love to profess, then what am I to defy the very creator and take life purely for my own entertainment.? Sweet Barricade, their pain is lovely. Their screams are beautiful. Their deaths are enthralling."

And then she's back to sombre, and she sighs with pained lamentation: "But even monsters like me have their soft spots. And mine just happens to be Slipstream. You know we were friends before the war, right? We did everything together, long before we served Blackout, long before she became a medic and I joined Shockwave. No matter the war put us through, we knew we could always go to each other. That never changed, even after five cosmo-cycles; no matter who else fell, no matter what we lost, we still had each other. But now? Now she's gone, imprisoned by the Lieutenant, and I don't know if I'll ever see her again."

Pain flickers across her expression, ever so briefly, but she remains impressively passive otherwise. Barricade's expression, previously perturbed by her twisted monologue, shifts into bewilderment, and he asks: "So.... what? What's that gotta do with seeing me? If you want a damn procologist, go talk to Nighttrace."

"But see, that's the thing, Barricade. This is a personal matter that means something to me, because Slipstream means something to me. And Nighttrace, she just doesn't care like I might want her to. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure she gets on with Slipstream and all, but there's no real connection there. But you? I think you do care, in exactly the way you wish you didn't care at all. And so, I have a rare opportunity to say-"

And she moves forward then, down onto her knees, right before the surprised Mustang and puts such sincerely compassionate optics before his own.

"-I feel exactly how you feel."

He just stares at her for a moment, stares right into perhaps the most sincere face a twisted freak like Airachnid could ever muster. And so he offers perhaps the only response he could ever give in light of such incomprehensible wonder.

"Screw off. You don't know a damn fragging thing about what I feel."

Airachnid sighs and them slumps back, folding her spindly legs as she sits upon her rear. Placing her hands down to support herself, she tilts her head in bemusement and murmurs: "You know, I'm actually trying to emphasize with you here, Barricade. Sounds odd, I know, considering I'm a amoral sadistic torturer who is only a dead Slipstream away from full-on sociopathy, and you're a crude callous thug with no aspirations and personality beyond being a crude callous thug. Can't you at least try to just be a bit more open to your feelings for once?"

"No."

Airachnid laughs at that: "Ah, just like on Shokaw. You don't like giving meaningful answers, do you?"

Barricade finally drops down from his seat and stomps forward to confront her. Even sat down, she's still taller than him, but he makes a point of getting right up to her face as one of his short stature might and points a claw right at her, promptly and sharply snarling: "You want a meaningful answer, you worthless pseudo-bug? Here's my fragging meaningful answer; you're all a bunch of stupid sentimental saps! You keep acting like you all know how I feel, what I should be feeling, but it's pointless! Slipstream's gone, and that's it! I don't care, you hear me?! I DON'T FRAGGING CARE!"

He revs furiously just to emphasize his point, and he glares all the more fiercely at her, daring her to defy him. He is tired, so viral and tired, of all of the other Decepticons constantly yammering on about how worried he must be, how sad and sullen and sombre he must be! It's boring, it's tiring, it's stupid, it's moronic! They always act like they know him, but they don't know him! He is not some stupid sentimental soft sap! He is Barricade, the Reaper, slayer of hologrammers, killer of all Autobots! He'll destroy and destroy and destroy every last one of the worthless faction who opposes him, and when all Decepticons finally understand who he truly is, then they'll never bother him again!

But Airachnid does not back down. Instead, she tentatively extends a hand and puts it on his shoulder. He freezes at the contact, utterly stunned at such audacity, but he does not react otherwise. Maybe it's because she's bigger and tougher than Soundwave that stops him from slapping her hand away. Maybe it's because physical contact unrelated to conflict is just surprising. Or maybe because, deep down, there is a part of him that doesn't believe his own hype. The last thought is preposterous, and he hates it, but still he does nothing.

"It's okay." She says, just nodding slowly. "If you don't want to, you don't have to. I just wanted you to know that I understand. Maybe you don't think I do, or you don't want to think I do, but hey, I do. We'll get her back, if I have to go and get her back myself."

She nods again, and resume her sombre pondering, hand still holding onto his shoulder. Barricade stares at her for a moment, not really comprehending her motivations, not really understanding her at all. This kind of openness from someone like her just did not compute to him. It was like when Nighttrace spoke; unexpected and bewildering. She claims to understand, that she knows exactly what it is to miss someone like Slipstream. It's nonsense, it's plain nonsense. He's not soft like that, he's not moping or anything like that, he's a strong and powerful Decepticon who feels no weakness, feels no compassion, feels... he feels...

But for once, Barricade just cannot muster the urge to retort, or insult, or punch, or anything. For once, he just feels... tired. Tired about these odd thoughts about concern for Slipstream, tired about all of this fragging emotion. He's tired of not having Slipstream around, just so everyone would shut up about her not being around. He's... by Unicron, he's just tired.

He slips out of her grasp and slumps down onto his rear, closing his optics and revving with defeat. With a grunt, he makes sure the helicopter knows one thing: "When you go to get her... I'm coming too. Not like I like her or anything, none of that lame scrap you're spouting. Just figures it'll make everyone stop being such stupid sentimental scraplets."

Airachnid smiles faintly: "From you, Barricade, that means a lot. Thank you."

"Shut up."

 

Great drabble! My favorite thing might just be the revelation that Barricade writes Airachstream slash fan fics in his spare time.  

But ah, I do love a bit of character insight. Poor Barricade is so ambivalently concerned about Slipstream, the love of his life. Er I mean, that dumb medic. Ha ha, yep that's it. I thought it was interesting how this one-shot took two notoriously non-sympathetic characters--one who's a crazed, hell-bent shock trooper whose main goal in life is to kill and main for the hell of it, and another who's employed to torture and kill and ENJOYS it--and gave them a common point of sympathy, the loss of a person they care about. Barricade's rhetoric definitely shows the distinction between Autobot characteristics and Depceticon characteristics, for another thing--concern, after all, doesn't make for a good Decepticon!

My attention was also most definitely grabbed as soon as Soundwave came in to bug Barricade about it. I expected it to be Airachnid, but instead it was Barricade's closest pal (don't lie Barricade, he's your buddy). I just love how those two losers rile each other up. Soundwave came along and interrupted Barricade's mermaid "research." (It was soft mermaid porn, I'm sure of it). I enjoyed visualizing them wrestling on the floor until Dad!Starscream had to come along and break those two up.   Must be hard being the con dad, oh yes.

Anyway, great stuff all around! Barricade sure was relentless when Airachnid was trying to have a conversation with him, but his care and wariness does poke through...every so slightly. Which reminds me, I really enjoy Spider Bitch's (Scorpion Bitch?) characterization in this. She's not quite the heartless quack that we're used to...I mean, still kind of heartless, but, like, she has a lot more personality than I've ever seen her written with. You can tell that she's got a couple screws loose in her weirdly casual and chipper disposition. Makes for fun character and dialogue!

Keep on writing good stuff my friend.  

 

43: Slippery Slope

AN: A quick exercise. I had other cooler stuff planned, but just busted this one out as a bit of brain barf. Vaguely references events in the eighth (I think?) episode, Hounded.

It was around midnight.

The Zeta-1 was quiet with slumber, dimmed of its power and internally resonating little sound other than the occasional pitter-patter of periodic rain showers. The Autobot crew had all slinked off to bed, hours before, following the typical routine: a day of planning, rescuing, scouting, or fighting, depending. Return to the ship when the day’s work was done, the day’s battles were won, and each bot makes his way to his berth after his energy is sufficiently spent.

Jazz hadn’t joined the lot as of yet; when Ratchet asked whether he was planning on getting any recharge, the Lieutenant responded, absolutely, just let him go over a few things first, tie up some ends, make sure that their plans were still set in place, just for his peace of mind. Etcetera, etcetera. The truth was, while Jazz did indeed like to be meticulous in his after-action reviews, he had just discovered an internet phenomenon called torrents and had no intention of allowing such a fascinating anomaly to go unexplored.

Countless music files, and five pirated movies later, the Lieutenant finally decided that his research had been thorough—and entertaining—enough. He switched the monitor from its cinematic displays back to its default, but a random whim overtook him to check the energy signatures of the ship. He didn’t question the impulse; it wasn’t unlike him to recurringly check in on his team at random. In any event, all seemed normal. The little blue dots indicating the various team members glowed dully in their respective quarters—

“Wait, what?”

One was missing.

Jazz reflexively double-checked and found that his optics hadn’t failed him; the Zeta-1 was one crewmember short. Specifically, his own lieutenant’s reading was absent. And he hadn’t been informed that somebody left the ship? Was it becoming a regular thing to not tell Jazz, the appointed leader of the Earth-bound group, important stuff?

Finding Hound was simple enough; Jazz found his energy signature misplaced in a canyon a couple miles off location. Curiosity—and a bit of irritation—piqued, Jazz hopped down from the console and made a stop at Wheeljack’s quarters.

After a soft wrap at the door and no response, Jazz cracked it open to find the inventor exactly how he had anticipated; not on his berth, but slumped over his desk, face in arms, gadgets and tools surrounding him in an irregular mess.

“Wheeljack!”

The tow truck bolted upright, exclaiming some gibberish nonsense, turning around quickly to see his superior officer standing there against the backlight. A piece of paper was stuck to his faceplate.

“I’m going to the canyon two and a half miles west of here. If I’m not back in half an hour, come get me.”

With that, Jazz was gone before Wheeljack was awake enough to process his statement and conceive a reply. Accordingly, the inventor turned back to his desk and resumed his former position, dead-asleep even before his head noisily collided with the tabletop.

Jazz made it to the location in question in short order. Approaching one of the cliff edges, which opened into a wide, spacious canyon—the same one in which Evac and Bumblebee had trained before—he transformed and quietly peered over the edge. As the monitor had shown, Hound was indeed there in the crevasse.

Jazz watched the jeep for a moment with interest. Hound was clearly instituting some kind of intensive training regime; he kept projecting a slew of holograms—mostly seekers or some other generic targets—and shooting his energon pistol at them, randomizing their movements so that he was prompted to be particularly mobile himself. The chief scout flipped, sprinted, and performed melee tactics in a series of swift movements the likes that Jazz had seldom seen him execute with such intensity. His battle-prompted cries of effort combined with the shots from his pistol made for a noisy scene. The various acoustic phenomena echoed off the canyon walls and seemed to stretch endlessly for miles.

After a couple minutes, Hound finally gave it a rest. It was clear to see that he was pretty spent, but strangely visceral. He allowed his posture a moment to sag and cycled his vents heavily, his shoulders heaving up and down with the attempt to catch some much-needed air. But his gaze was still held intensely forward, as if he were genuinely expecting a Decepticon to pop up in front of him.

Jazz took the moment of silence to make his presence known.

“Honey, are you coming to bed?”

Without missing a beat, Hound whipped around with a roar and took aim at the source of the voice. Jazz yelped and threw himself away from the cliff edge, fortunately avoiding the shot.

“Whoa, whoa!” Jazz cried, showing himself once more with his arms submissively waving overhead.

When Hound saw who it was, his face and body went lax. “Oh, for Primus’s sake, Jazz,” he cried, with uncharacteristic vitriol. “You almost gave me a spark attack.”

Jazz finally leapt over the edge and careened on foot down the slope of the canyon wall, leaving a trail of dust upturned behind him. When he finished his descent, Hound added, “Don’t you know not to sneak up on a bot while he’s training?”

“Hound, what are you doing out here?” Jazz asked, cutting to the chase. “It’s in the dead of night, every Autobot in his right mind is asleep.”

Hound sighed and turned around, facing the direction his holograms had been projected. “Just a bit of target practice. How come you’re not getting any recharge?”

“Never mind that,” Jazz quickly dismissed with a wave of his hand. “You know, it’s really unlike you to just leave the ship without informing anybody, especially me. You know how stupid that is, especially with Decepticon presences making this a hostile environment. What if something happened to you and none of knew anything until we woke up to find you’ve disappeared the next morning?”

Still facing the other direction, Hound sighed again. By the tip of his helm, Jazz could tell that his gaze fell to the dusty ground. “I know, I know.”

The Lieutentant placed his hands contemplatively on his hip plates. He looked at his second-in-command with more concern now than curiosity. “What’s gotten into you lately? You haven’t been acting like yourself.”

Hound finally turned his head to glance over his shoulder at Jazz. The expression on his face confused the latter; it looked hurt, or confused. It made it seem like Hound knew the answer to that question as much as anybody else did. The jeep eventually said, “What do you mean?” because he was out of things to say and both of them knew it.

Jazz wasn’t buying it, but he moved the discourse along regardless. “Okay, let me ask you this. When was the last time you got any recharge?”

By now Hound fully turned around to face his superior officer, his energon pistol withdrawn. Just like before, he was at a loss of what to say, which was extremely unusual for him; in times of friction, or in tense situations, he could have always been the first to throw out a word of wisdom, a bit of sound advice, or a listening audio receptor. But his antics were now not only the cause of the dilemma, but he himself was not in a clear state of mind. He hadn’t been for weeks now.

The long pause that Hound took to entertain this train of thought was answer enough to Jazz, who walked up to his second-in-command and looked at him earnestly through his black visor. “You’ve been ‘off’ ever since Evac took you back from that con battle.”

Hound winced. Leave it to Jazz to throw abridgements and euphemisms to the wind with reckless abandon.

Jazz continued. “I can hazard a guess as to what’s been on your mind. But it’d be better if I heard it from you.”

Another pause ensued; Hound had no desire, nor any method for articulating what had been causing him to act up. Even if he had a way of informing Jazz that horrible memories were constantly weighing him down, that nightmares plagued his sleep, that he saw Barricade’s deformed, scarred, demented face every time he offlined his optics, he wouldn’t want to reveal all that. He didn’t need an intervention; while he was certain nothing would ever quell the profound regret and horrifying memories from that fateful incident, he knew that what he needed was closure. And nothing Jazz or any of his teammates could say could give that to him.

“It’s just a bit of stress, Jazz. That’s all.”

Even with the opaque visor, the Lieutenant somehow conveyed an entirely disbelieving expression. But the jeep disregarded it.

“Anyway, you were right. I shouldn’t have come out here without telling anybody. I just hadn’t thought that much about it. Come on, let’s go back.”

As Hound began to walk toward the canyon wall, intending to beat a retreat at that, Jazz followed him with his optics, contemplating deeply. His chief scout was so unlike himself that it was honestly scary; but Jazz knew that there was no way of forcing his demons out of him. However, he said this in a last-ditch attempt:

“You know, Hound, I’ve seen slag.”

This caused Hound to stop in his tracks, but he didn’t look back at Jazz. He knew full well where this was going.

Jazz continued: “You’re not the only one with traumas.”

The rest was unspoken. You can tell somebody who understands, meant Jazz. Keeping it all in would only make it worse. Hound was fully aware of such dogma; but still somehow, deep down inside, he wasn’t sure that Jazz actually understood. He had some idea of his superior officer’s dark past—while he knew no specifics, it was no secret that Jazz had encountered a few dark blots on his record as a prolific special forces soldier throughout the war. Hound had no intention of undermining such demons as these; but a voice in his processor told him that the two situations were too different to reconcile. Jazz faced hardship—but he did at his own expense. For Hound, there was more at stake.

Nothing more was said between the two. Hound considered responding, but only stood for a moment noiselessly before transforming and taking off for the Zeta-1. For a moment, Jazz stood there, perturbed, before transforming and heading after him.

Jazz was rarely, if ever, at a loss. But his second-in-command was on a slippery slope, he knew. And this time, he had no idea what to do about it.

 

Ooh, very nice! I like the brief flickers of humour, from Jazz discovering torrents to Wheeljack's continued prowess at ignoring possibly dangerous situations. And then it gets to the sombre edge, with Jazz finding Hound stuck in an unfavourable funk. Poor bot's trying to vent off the pressure, the stress, of what happened to him, and yet nothing is enough. Good effort for the Solstice to try and emphasize, but alas, Hound's current trauma is a bit too fresh to work off right now. Hopefully he can let it out at some point. Nicely done, Jamocha!

 

44. The Wraith of Kaon
-

A direct summons to Kaon was a rare privilege, and one Starscream had been swift to accept. Leaving his Destroyer-class vessel under the command of his lieutenant, Mohawk, the aerial menace to Autobots takes a space bridge back to Cybertron, right into the heart of the Decepticon empire. None are allowed to bridge into the fortress at its epicentre, the legendary Darkmount, but Starscream emerges close enough to it, in one of the multitude of armoured bunkers that surrounded and protect it. A drone greets him, and directs him down a path that will lead him to Darkmount; simply follow the main corridor until he reached the outdoor hatch, and go on from there.

At forty planes tall and with his wings hanging from his back akin to capes, Starscream cuts an impressive figure as he strides confident through the corridors, out towards a date with destiny. Other Decepticons, whether drone or not, scatter before his size and imposing reputation, and he revels in their submission. All would do well to pay their respects to him; he was the Decepticon who conquered Crystal City. He was the Decepticon who slaughtered the strongest of the Aerialbots, and he was the Decepticon who almost broke through the barricades around Critico. Let them remember his achievements, his power, as he reached the end of corridor and opened the hatch.

The fortress, central to all of the defences, stands as tall as even the largest mountains of Cybertron, its jagged peak unseen amidst the perpetual smog of Cybertron's corrupted atmosphere. Only a gleaming layer of Corrostop upon the purple and black metals keeps the acid rains from eating it away, and as such it still stands tall and proud, an almighty reminder of the Decepticon's power and resilience. To reach it, one must take the transparent tunnels that stretch across the courtyards, which allowed one to keep safe from the acid rain whilst still beholding Darkmount's glory. Starscream takes in the immense spectacle for just a moment, before he changes form into a type-1 interceptor and boosts his way down the tunnel until he reaches the enormous hatch that leads into the fortress.

The first layer of Darkmount is crawling with spidery Knights, guard drones almost as tall as Starscream, each of their spindly legs outfitted with a multitude of blades and saws. At his entrance, they appear as if from thin air, each wielding five crimson optics and a powerful beam rifle on their heads, and only Starscream's confidence in his right to be here keeps him from trembling. He is scanned intensely, asked to verify vocal and optical processing systems, demanded to expose his very spark signature, and only when he passes all of these checks do the drones withdraw and change form into jagged pillars, perfectly identical to the other pillars that decorate the vast hallway. An effective camouflage, though it is highly doubtful any Autobot would ever get here.

Regardless, he heads down to the lift at the end of the chamber, and he is surprised to see who stands by it already. It is a Conciller, one named Hailhydra, and she was supposed to be galaxies away, unearthing any Autobot outposts in the frozen planets that perpetuated one Autobot-controlled galaxy. Her body is well-designed for enduring cold conditions; her blue and white frame is reinforced with thick metals, and he can detect the thermal enhancement core emanating its heat even through such plating. As he approaches her, Starscream thus raises his thoughtful muse with a wide grin and choice puns: "Conciller Hailhydra, this is a surprise. I'd thought you were busy showing snow mercy to far-off Autobot outposts, or did you finally decide to play ice with them?"

All five heads turn towards him, and this is a quirk of hers more notable than her thirty plane tall ice-resilient bulk. Akin to that failed project from Shokaw, Hailhydra's body is a horizontally angled bipedal frame wielding a long tail and bestial heads; specifically, a quintet of serpentine necks each bearing a crested head with jaws and fangs. All five heads seem to grin, and the central one purrs with a tone imbued by icy coolness: "Oh Starscream, how I've missed your notions of humour."

The far right adds: "A clever wit indeed, though maybe not entirely refined."

The near left chortles: "Either way, it's good to see you. How goes your own endeavours?"

Starscream doesn't know if each head has its own personality or if there is some central intellect behind them all. Either way, he keeps his optics on the purple gleam of her central head's own visual processors and replies: "Very well, thank you. We've been driving the Autobots back from Velocitron, and will soon see them permanently expelled from the planet. Am I to assume you too received a summons from our lord and master?"

"I did." The far left head confirms with a nod. "I am curious as to why he's called me back from my extermination campaign. Usually he's content to let me scour the ice at my leisure."

"Though times are changing." The middle head carries on. "And I suspect our master will have us change with them."

"Then let's hope they are changes that bring us closer still to victory." Starscream states with a grandiose gesture, arms wide and claws flexing, before both are occupied by the beep of the lift, having come down at last, and the doors spilt open to reveal the elaborately decorated purple and silvery metals within. He invites her to go in first with a courteous bow, which has her snorting with amusement as she obliges, before the jet follows her in and the two are on their way. The lift can take one to many levels within Darkmount, such as its weapon storage, its power core, its communications hub, but these two are going right to the peak, to the very throne room of Lord Megatron himself.

The lift beeps when it gets there, and the two step out into the small chamber that precedes the throne room. Within this chamber stands a motley of Decepticons. Starscream recognises them all, given they are all commander rank or higher. Onslaught, leader of the Combaticons and currently leading a mercenary force who hunted down notable Autobot targets in exchange for desired supplies. Strika, a lethally efficient tactician who was directing fleets into hunting down Autobot supply chains. Blackout, a well-renowned instructor and conqueror, taking time from the war to train new generations of flying Decepticons. Blackarachnia, a spidery assassin well-renowned for her horrendous toxins. And-

Starscream's expression soured in an instant as he and Hailhydra stepped out of the lift, his optics narrowing and his fists clenching as he beheld the familiar and detested purple frame of the cyclops. Conciller Shockwave, chief scientist and commander of Shokaw. With one massive arm in the form of a hefty cannon, his frame encompassed by bone-like struts and prominent horns atop his head, Shockwave is shorter but no less imposing than Starscream. He stands away from the other Decepticons, simply observing with that cold blank glaze, and then the singular optic brightens with what can only be amusement when he sees Starscream.

The jet will not humour or justify the fool with attention. He turns his head up, pointedly looking away from him, and moves to interact with the other Decepticons. Of the crowd here, Onslaught draws the most interest. Starscream had heard he had abandoned the typical chains of command, gone astray with his Combaticons to become a mercenary unit, befitting their unique nature as a combiner team. His orange visor indeed reflected this new desire for independence, and the jet had to wonder what Megatron must have offered- or threatened to do- to draw the type-4 bombardier back here.

"Onslaught." He greets, moving to stand before the shorter Decepticon. "I thought you were finished with taking orders from Lord Megatron."

"Usually." Onslaught replies with his typical apathy, acting as if nothing here could interest him. "But occasionally he makes an offer I can't refuse."

He goes silent then, and Starscream is well-aware that once Onslaught went quiet, he wouldn't talk again unless outright threatened at gunpoint. The jet shrugs and turns away, only to realize that Shockwave was slowly but surely moving towards him. Irritation flickered through him, and Starscream immediately looked for any excuse to ignore the cyclops. Thankfully, someone else is close by, and so the jet turns his attention to the enormous Blackout, who is currently discussing something or other with Blackarachnia.

"What about you, Blackout? I can't imagine you would be pulled so easily away from bright young sparks desiring to become almighty warriors."

Blackout, ever the courteous Decepticon, does not respond until he is finished talking with the assassin. Only when Blackarachnia nods in finality and moves off does the titanic commander turn to face Starscream and rumble: "I do what our master asks."

Ah, always a 'con who only said what he felt was necessary to say. Starscream supposed he liked that about him, even if it made conversations somewhat lacklustre. Of course, lacklustre or not, he'd rather talk to this blunt brute than Shockwave, who was clearly loitering nearby, ready to pounce upon any opportunity to mock the jet. Forcing down his flickers of anger, he smiles at the larger commander and goes on: "As we all do. I don't suppose you've yet been informed of why our master has summoned us all?"

Blackout merely shakes his head and rumbles: "I am sure we all find out in due time."

And due time came quite promptly. Only a moment after he says this, does the gargantuan door that leads into the throne room suddenly start to move, massive gears grinding heavily as they pulled apart the thick layers of Cybertanium. As one, every Decepticon presents falls silent and silently strolls into the throne room. Starscream makes it a point to quickly put Blackout between himself and Shockwave; no way would he ever be caught have to stand alongside that fool again.

The throne room is enormous, big enough to fit several Drillers comfortably inside of it. Huge pillars circle the expansive black-coloured metal, lit only by the gleam of crimson lights upon said pillars. There are a multitude of doorways around the sides of the room, but at the very back, there is only a grand malleable veil of dark metal, faintly lit by purple lines down its length. There are no sounds in here, so even the tiniest motion of the Decepticons seems to bring out an eerie echo throughout the chamber. It is a foreboding place, and yet almost divine in its sanctity, its notion of divinity within he who rests here. The motley crew approach the enormous veil, and when they are about fifty planes away from it, they pause and line up in front of it. As always, Starscream makes sure he is not next to Shockwave.

No-one speaks, not even to announce their presence. Technically, there is no rule against speaking during this phase. But no Decepticon has ever been brave enough to dare speak unless their master had explicitly revealed himself and granted some kind of permission. So they all stay silent, and they wait.

A moment passes, and then the veil splits in half, retracting itself into the walls around what it hid. Atop a jagged pedestal rests an enormous throne, silver and grey in colour and stretching up along the back of the chamber. It is an impressive construct, a seat of spiked metals, and yet it seems almost meagre in comparison to he who sits upon it. Identical in colour, similar in his jagged composition, the leader of the Decepticons sits upon his throne, reclined almost lazily atop it and with no light to be found in his optics. His limbs are set against the seat, tubules and struts adhered to it, and it is clear that he is fused to his very throne; were the Decepticons before him not familiar with his large and bulky form, it would be difficult to tell where Megatron began and his throne ended.

On his reveal, they all drop their gazes, never even daring to glance up at him. They all know what lies in his optics, and only a direct command could ever coerce them to look into the crimson gaze of their master. Megatron does nothing for a moment, simply remaining silent, impassive. Only when he is satisfied that all he has summoned are present (and testament it is to his perception that he knows they are all here even with his optics shut off), is there a hiss and clinking of metal and he can raise up an arm, a sturdy appendage laden with haphazard plates and even bearing a severed leg curled around the forearm.

As one, every Decepticon falls to their knees before their lord. As one, they reverently whisper: "All hail Lord Megatron."

They remain prostrated before him, until he speaks. It is with a low and creaking wheeze that Megatron's guttural voice ripples throughout the throne room, and even the poisonous Blackarachnia and the cold Shockwave feel an uneasy tremble in their neurals as they hear him.

"My Decepticons... My war has taken much from us. The defiance of the Autobots... it wears down our resources. We are aware?"

"We are aware." They repeat, almost chanting it like they were following the religious sermon of a Prime.

Megatron's arm falls, and there is another clinking cacophony as it re-joins with the throne. He shudders just a little, revving slightly, before he carries on, his low groan reverberating throughout his chamber: "So, what must be done is clear. For my war... to return its favour to us, to bless us once more with unimpeded dominance... we must be ready to seek out resources... wherever they may lie in these blasphemous galaxies. Only then can my war receive its dues... and we receive our advantage."

No-one speaks, simply remaining bowed, still keeping their optics away from him. Megatron revs and wheeze again, before a clawed finger taps against his throne and a jagged tentacle extends from the bottom of it. Like a snake, the tendril slithers over the floor, towards the crowd, and it seems to pause before them, as if determining who it would interact with. Finally, it makes its choice and it rises up to tenderly caress the shoulder of Shockwave.

Resisting the urge to shiver, Shockwave rises up to his full height and puts an arm over his chest, fist clenched right over where his spark would be. Head still bowed, only daring to glance at the clawed feet of his master, Shockwave offers what must be a suitable response to the implications brought forth by the Decepticon leader: "My lord and master, Shokaw works tirelessly to bring advantages to the Decepticon empire. Energy is ripe upon the planet, fuelled by its internal core's heat and tectonic activities, some of which can be diverted to fuel other sections of your army. In addition, our research on Insecticon metallicology indicates that their Insectoplasma, if neutralised of its acidic factor, could potentially be used as a fuel source."

The tendril still caresses his shoulder, and only when he finally does quake a little, perhaps worried his response was inadequate, does it withdraw. It returns to the floor and idly squirms as Megatron creaks out: "This pleases your lord, Shockwave. But I fear... even Shokaw's contributions cannot feed my war... we need more than the blood of pestilent vermin. We need a greater source... to fuel our impending triumph."

Shockwave drops back down to his knees, and now it is Hailhydra who feels the jagged tendril begin to stroke at her, slithering around her left leg. All five heads exchange uneasy expressions, unconsciously attempting to nudge the tentacle off of her foot, she rises up to her full height. With every head looking everywhere except at the throne, she speaks with all five mouths: "My lord, the icy worlds where our enemies hide yield no true energy source beyond whatever forges and power plants our enemies manage to craft. These are rudimentary at best, and unsuited for enhancing our war effort-"

The tendril suddenly wraps entire around her leg, and her whole body quakes with a desperate urge not to cry out in pain as every jagged spine upon it digs into her metal. The other Decepticons flinch at the subtle sound of spikes piercing through metal; in this vaunted chamber, even such a tiny sound seems to echo, casting upon them a symphony of physical pain.

"This displeases your lord, Hailhydra." Megatron whispers, and the other Decepticons shiver as they all but sense the pain flowing through their comrade as she quakes in enduring the agony digging deeper and deeper into her limb. "You shall not displease my war... If even the blasphemers find energy in the ice, than you must as well. Shall you seek to carry out my will... shall you wrest my war's sustenance from our hated enemies... or will you continue to displease me?"

"I, I apologise, my lord." Hailhydra hissed, trying to keep the pain out of her tone as her agonised leg started leaking Energon, the jagged tendril relentlessly in tormenting her. "I will work to overcome this, ah, this disadvantage. I will kill all Autobots in the ice and take all they have built to, ah, to fuel your war!"

The tendrils squeezes more firmly for just another moment, before it finally withdraws the spines and releases her, exposing the multitude of bleeding holes in her limb. As she crumples back onto her knees, forcing down her pained hisses as she promptly, the tendril now turns its attention to Starscream himself. Previously forcing himself to keep calm even as a relatively respected colleague suffered beside him, he has to fight the urge to shiver as the tentacle, dark frame slathered in Hailhydra's Energon start to rise up before him. It takes all of his might not to tremble when it gently caresses the side of his head, feeling the slick fluid of Energon stain his armour, before he rises up before his lord.

Working hard to ignore the tendril's touch, how it seems to enjoy staining his plating with the Conciller's life-blood, he speaks with as much confidence as he can muster right now: "My lord, when the Autobot's are banished from Velocitron, we will have the whole planet to siphon power from. It is rich with powerful electrical storms that, whilst potentially dangerous, could be altered to suit our purposes-"

Before he can go on, the tendril suddenly rears back and lashes out, smacking him across the cheek. Starscream almost yelps at the blow, but he manages to keep it down as the tentacle sways before him and Megatron gives a guttural chuckle: "Dangerous, Starscream? Do you fear the storms, the electricity? Are you hesitant to exploit them... because you fear for your life when they crackle and rumble around you? Would you be so scared of them... that you would displease your lord?"

"No, no, Lord Megatron!" Starscream sputters, painfully aware that he cannot look towards Megatron yet wishing to keep track of the tentacle swaying before him, lest it strike him again. "I fear nothing! Nothing would keep me from working to achieve your goals! All of Velocitron shall be made to serve you, to feed your war! I will build the very lightning rods and power converters myself if I must! In fact, I can do better than that!"

Fuelled now by his desire to prove himself, to show that he was competent and open-minded in how to expand Megatron's power base, he goes on with unrelenting fervour: "I can lead an expedition far beyond Cybertron's territories, my lord, and find energy in places where the Autobots have not even comprehended! I shall secure these uncharted realms for you, so that they may all serve to feed your war!"

His words ring out throughout the throne room, echoing in the potency of his fanatic desire to appease the Decepticon lord. The other Decepticons exchanged subtle glances, both bemused and bewildered. The exception is Shockwave, who simply appears amused, as if he knows something that the others have not yet considered.

This seems to satisfy the Decepticon lord, for the tentacle returns to tenderly stroking around Starscream's head, always sure to keep Hailhydra's Energon dribbling upon his plates. As the jet shudders just a little, his eager zeal and momentum now falling back into nervous submissiveness, Megatron wheezes amusedly: "Such a grandiose concept indeed, such a potent desire to please... I admire such... zeal. But yet, I am also uneasy... for it reminds me too much... of ambition. Do we remember... Thunderwing?"

"We do, my lord." They all murmur, and Starscream, still stood, still forced to endure the tendril's discomforting touch, suddenly gets a notion of dawning horror within his very data chip. His claim to fear nothing is immediately disproved, for now he is confronted by a deep and unrelenting fear of what Megatron may be insinuating with this.

Of course they all remember Thunderwing. He was the head of Shokaw before Shockwave took over. He was in charge of major scientific endeavours and advances, specifically to enhance and create superior warriors. By any means necessary, Thunderwing sought out the means to turn even the most unassuming and harmless of Cybertronians into lethal killing machines. This dedication had created interesting concepts, such as the Ravagers, such as the combiners, and it was what had created the berserker. But it was not to last, for it was discovered that Thunderwing had harboured plans to use such empowered monsters to overthrow Megatron.

He had suffered and died horribly for it.

And now Megatron emphasizes his distaste for ambition when the tentacle suddenly whipped around and wrapped itself around Starscream's neck. The jet immediately yelped in shock as it tightened around his vulnerable metal, spines teasingly threatening to jam into it, as his claws instinctively rose up to try and pry it off. As he struggled with it, the tentacle began to pull him forwards, slowly but surely dragging him towards Megatron.

As the jet struggles against the inevitable, the Decepticon lord amusedly whispers: "Do not resist. Resistance displeases your lord."

Against all instinct, Starscream reluctantly releases the tendril, though he cannot stop himself from quaking, from stuttering, as it pulls him on towards his leader. He tries to keep his gaze away from the Decepticon lord, but alas, the tendril now forces his head to look up right into Megatron's face. Jagged and sharp, vaguely encompassed by a helmet-like design and yet every bit as sharp and haphazard as the rest of him, the eyes are still blank, still empty of crimson fire. But there is no denying the fear they inspired, and Starscream's own optics were wide and bright with terror as he is made to look right at the larger Decepticon.

With a clinking of metal, Megatron's arms uncouple from the throne and grasp onto the jet's arms, pinning them by his sides and ensuring there are is nothing he can do to escape. As the commander quakes before him, finally does light begin to shine in Megatron's optic. Faint at first, but getting brighter and brighter, the crimson glow expands to encompass his visual sensors, and every Decepticon immediately quivers at the sound of their activation. They seemed unfocussed, flashing slightly as they roll around, before they lock right onto Starscream's, looking into him as if they were seeking out his very spark. Up close, they are truly terrifying, as if the rest of his face; sharp, asymmetric, and wielding a prominent maw of jagged fangs that form his mouth. There is even claws that could only have some from a dead Decepticon grafted onto his left cheek.

But all of that is nothing compared to the red eyes.

For a split second, Starscream feels nothing but pure and undiluted terror. These are the optics that could burn through others, that could burn through to the very processor. He remembers Thunderwing's execution as if it were yesterday; a court of Decepticons bundled within the throne room, all watching as Thunderwing, knelt in the middle of the chamber and restrained, screamed for mercy. He remembers the throne hissing as Megatron disconnected from it, stood up to his full height. He remembers quaking with fear, as every other Decepticon did, when claws encompassed Thunderwing's head, forced him to look into Megatron's optics.

And then the lasers had burned out his processor, letting it melt through the ravaged holes where his optics had been.

But there is no burning, no lasers, no pain. Megatron simply stares at him, and he whispers: "My optics gazed into Thunderwing's... and they saw his ambition... the ambition that led him to betray and displease his lord. I do see ambition in yours, Starscream. But... I see also a desire... for approval. You do not wish to succeed to usurp, but to impress... It is akin to a youngling, hoping to do their mentor proud. I shall deem it... endearing. But ensure that this ambition never evolves beyond that... because if you seek to betray your lord, as foolish Thunderwing did..."

And then what can only be a tongue, serpentine and pitch black, akin to the tendril itself in its malleable spikiness, flickers out from the fanged maw of Megatron's mouth.

"Then I will eat you."

And with that, he releases the jet, uncoils the tentacle from around his neck, and Starscream is left staggering back in stunned terror. As the jet flops back onto his rear, utterly unprepared for such an intense threat, Megatron's arms clasp back onto his throne, and the crimson glow fades from his optics, leaving them blank and dark again. He gives a low guttural wheeze, revving slightly as if even these meagre actions exerted him, before he states: "Well then, Starscream, if you are so eager... than you have your lord's permission to go afar. Seek out my war's energy beyond our empire, and provide for it the feast it needs... for us to conquer the blasphemers once and for all. Do forth, Starscream, with a crew of your choosing, and do not fail... to please your lord. You are dismissed."

Starscream does not hesitate to obey. With a final whimper of obedience, he scrambles to his feet and he runs, runs as fast as he can, to the enormous doorway that will let him out of here, and he does not look back. As he runs, Shockwave peers after him, and his single optic gleams with entertainment.

Outside, as the doors seal shut behind him, Starscream finds himself sagging against the wall, optics wide and systems revving with fearful exertion. He has to dig his claws into the wall and try to steady himself, and it takes a few cycles until his systems have returned to some notion of normalcy. Shuddering, shaking, Starscream vents heat from his thrusters, flexes his wings, as if wishing he could just expel the fear he felt from his body. That had gotten far too intense far too quickly; the last time he stood before Megatron, there had been no such threats or fear, simply waiting for the lord to choose a Conciller between him and Shockwave. But this time? No, this time was something he'd never forget and yet would absolutely wish he could.

Unconsciously, one of his claws appraises his neck, just to check if that tentacle had left any wounds there. Nothing except a sensation of terror, it seemed. He feels up his neck, up to his head, and he shakes as he remembers he still has Hailhydra's Energon stained across his plates. He scrapes at it in a utile effort to get the life-blood off, before he gives up and, trembling, staggers to the lift. He needed a wash very, very badly.

And now he needed a crew, to go far from Cybertron and find energy beyond even the Autobot's reach. Normally, such an affair would be considered risky, fraught with uncertainty, but right now? Right now it seemed like the most appealing concept in the universe.

 

Holy God, this is good. You've introduced your version of Megatron with a horror writer's skill, telling us just what kind of monster is leading the Decepticons. And I do mean monster - this isn't a man, not anymore. Everything from the moment the Concillors entered the throne room , from the way the bickering and pleasantries died off to Megatron's aura of intimidation and casual brutality - Hailhydra's punishment, Megatron's casual threat of cannibalism, and the Concillors' terror, even from Shockwave, illustrates that. Megatron being grafted into his own throne, interacting with his Concillors with just a tendril, yet still able to intimidate and kill, is a stroke of genius, as his grafted appearance.

Starscream's reaction at the end is perfectly understandable, even wise. The question he has to ask himself is, does he really want to sit at this monster's right hand?

 

Aw, thank you, Honorbound! With the TFM Megatron, I kinda wanted to make him the opposite of recent Megatrons. He's not some low-down nameless worker turned gladiator who rose up to become an almighty revolutionist turned conqueror. He was once the head of the robot police, keeping peace and order throughout Cybertron's empire, and at some point he simply decided he ought to be the one running the show; from there, his war has ended up destroying all he strived for, and now, five centuries later, he's left empty and demotivated, a mere wraith who only exists out of some meagre hope to achieve his goal. He barely ever leaves his throne these days; he's become disillusioned with his own war, yet he carries it on regardless because he just can't fathom anything else.

He's not a con who rose up against oppression. He's a fool who, despite already having everything a bot could want, ended up desiring more and thus ruined everything for himself and all around him.

Oh yes, that was a fun aspect to write; how he wields such impressive power and fear, even when just a shell of his former glory, that everyone swiftly falls into line. I was inspired by Megatron's intro in Animated; when the dude walks in, everyone immediately shuts up and lines up, and that's what I desired to convey with this one. When faced with his presence, every Decepticon's instinct is to bow down and pray for his approval. They don't even look at him unless told to; not just out of fear of his laser eyes, but also because there is a notion of blasphemy drilled into them, as if they were mere peasants forbidden to gaze upon their emperor.

The throne idea was a fun one; I feel it highlights his power, for even being tied to a throne doesn't stop him being terrifying, and yet it emphasizes how far he's fallen; he's just a sad empty wreck confined to an meaningless symbol of lost power.

Megatron's undergone a lot of alterations over the centuries; he's twisted his own physiology so much that it's arguable how much of him is even his original form anymore. And as he got more and more twisted, so too did his body; he can straight up eat people (which is based on the DS movie game, where Megatron himself repeatedly gloats about devouring sparks), he's become haphazard and irregular in build, and he took to grafting pieces of his victims to him. All in all, this Megatron is the polar opposite of most; he's not a grandiose commander who rules with power, he's a demented monster who rules with terror.

Megatron may be a horrific monster (and I absolutely agree with you that whatever he once was is gone; he's just a wraith now, a spectral freak who only exists to perpetuate fear and appeasement in others), but it's a lot better to be by his right hand, having earned his approval, than to be clutched in his left hand, begging for as mercy as his jaws close in...

 

Thank you for not going down that clichéd route - I've always found those "evil but with good intentions that lost their way" characters to be either fake or, well, whiny. The moderation of their evil dilutes their threat, in my opinion. I remember you posting about your Megatron's history, and I still love it.

I'm also grateful that you didn't go the cliché route of Starscream trying to usurp Megatron - it undermines Megatron's threat as a villain if he's got a subordinate who openly defies him and gets away with it. Animated Megatron handled it best - Screamer didn't try anything in the open until after leaving the Cons, and Megatron didn't take his crap.

I didn't even realize until reading your post and rereading the drabble that this was supposed to be a Megatron that was a shell of his former glory. If that's the case, then what the hell was he like in his prime?

Starscream will probably learn that it's real easy to switch hands, so to speak. Stalin's inner circle learned that lesson real well.

 

Mmm, such delicious drabble nuggets are these! Finally we get the revelation of the Big Bad!

The atmosphere in this was great; obviously TFM has involved some considerably freaky shit before (what with Insecticons and Rollbar getting eaten and stuff like that) but in my opinion, this was the spookiest bit we've gotten. Megatron is more like a rusted old statue than a living thing; almost like a lethal memorial of his former self. It's a unique contrast that he's physically so run down and immobile, and emotionally so absent and distant--and yet, it's this very paralysis that increases the intimidation factor. The extension of the tubule thing with the spikes on it was also very unnverving...imagine being at the mercy of a creepy, slithery snake thing that just caresses you and then pokes holes in you and strangles you...I wasn't Starscream or Hailhydra, but even I felt violated!

Speaking of, quick note that Hailhydra's design sounds really unique and cool. Damn.

Anyways, over all I think this is a very awesome and unique interpretation of Megatron, as you know. Given how spooky and overpowered this mofo is, it's clear to see why he's leading his entire faction by himself and yet the Autobots' leadership consists of three very powerful figureheads. I would love to see Megatron go toe-to-toe with any Autobot hero who was brave enough to dare...I couldn't imagine what he would be like in a fight.

Btw, I like the dynamic between Shockwave and Starscream. Obviously their mutual hatred has a long history, lol. The logical Shockwave may be a calculating individual, but he could never pass up an opportunity to annoy Starscream! lmao. Good stuff my friend!

 

Yeah, I really wanted to emphasize how run-down and twisted he'd become, and yet still he retains this aura and notion of unrelenting power and control. Even a Megatron deprived of his former zeal and inspiration still remains a deadly creature.

I do like her. She's basically a robot hydra mixed with a theropod that turns into a fancy snow plow, ha  

This Megatron fights akin to the notion of a 'super-zombie'; an undisciplined yet indomitable force that just strides on through all kinds of firepower until he reaches the foe and starts biting. Only if he can't employ his preferred tactics of mutilating and fearmongering will he break out his menagerie of weapons.

Why thank you! I do like those kinds of character, if they're written well, but I just wanted to mix it up and make a Megs who went bad for the wrong reasons.

I wanted to mix it up with this Screamer too; he's not as treacherous as others, more intent on proving himself with hard work rather than knives in the back. And also plus the boss he works for is fucking scary as shit.

In some ways better, in some ways worse. He didn't have all his modifications and power-ups back then, but he did wield the charisma and zeal you'd expect of a conqueror. Nowadays, he's physically ultra-powered, but he's just completely rotten inside.


In the meantime, a quick glance into the past;

45: To be Prime
-

Atop the podium, addressing all the loyal devotees before the enormous Cathedral of Iacon, Sentinel Prime spreads his arms wide and calls out, regal and wizened tone alight with jovial zeal: "My brethren, my sparks, today we reaffirm our loyalties to those who fought and persevered to grant us freedom from oppression and control. Once again we gather before our sacred grounds to offer tribute to she who fought the Storm Heralds, to she who brought us the peace and security we treasure so dearly and, above all, to she who enlightened us to the blessings of Primus. Join me, all those who have faith, in raising your voices in honour of our lord Primus, and his herald Solus Prime!"

Before him, the throng of loyalists gathered in the immense silvery courtyard, give a thundering cheer. Their voices are ablaze with passion, with honour to the idol who was immortalised behind Sentinel in the form of a grand crystalline statute. The iconic figure of Solus Prime, immense and armoured, holding up the Forge, a hammer almost as big as she was. Truly she held the respect of all, for it was she, so long ago, who freed the Cybertronian population from the control of the Storm Heralds. Even now, so many cosmic-cycles after that grand war, she still commanded the respect of all.

Away from the podium, upon the balcony of a skyscraper situated next to the cathedral, Optimus Prime watches the cheers with much endearment. He has always admired the passions of Primus' followers, and seeing them all gathered here, having journeyed from all across Cybertron, to celebrate the Day of Primes brought upon a notion of utter pride in his spark. But then again, maybe he had bit of bias towards those here today, being a Prime and all. For most of his life he'd been devoted to the god of all Cybertronians, and it was satisfying to see that devotion be rewarded in the passion and happiness of others. Had he a mouth, he would have smiled. As it was, his mouthplate remained static, and his gleaming optics did the smiling in place of it.

"That always struck me as odd. Shouldn't we foremost worship Solus Prime, she who fought and sacrificed for us, than the god?"

The voice, deep and rumbling, is familiar and yet bemusing, for Optimus knows who wields it and yet has not seen them for a long time. The red and blue Prime turns, and he sees none other than the massive Chief of the Cybertronian Enforcement State stride out onto the balcony. followed by an equally large and imposing Cybertronian. Optimus Prime, at forty planes tall, is not really accustomed to looking up at others, but when faced with these two, both about fifty planes tall, he assuredly must look up. It's almost staggering just how big these two were, one silvery and the other dark grey laced with gold, and the Prime must remind himself that the world is always bigger than one might think.

Megatron is a rare sight in Iacon, given his base of operations was in Vos and he was usually exceptionally busy monitoring the other planets in Cybertron's empire, and Optimus might wonder what had brought him here to witness Sentinel Prime's sermon. Hopefully it was nothing serious, though a small part of him, as ever, is always concerned about the idea of assassins lurking in the crowd. But of course, the Chief had asked a question, and Optimus, befitting a Prime, would always prioritise answering the confused over indulging his own curiosity.

"Ah, that is a concept that often confounds myself as well." He replies, his jovial tone less extravagant than the other Prime far below but still rich with his happiness for the day. "To ease my confusion, I simply imagine it as the notion that Solus would have never embarked on her revolution had she not heard the words of Primus. There can be no motivation without revelation, after all."

Megatron chuckles, crimson optics just as bright as the smaller bot's blue, though always edged with that warrior's preparation, and bumps his fist against his chest, right over where his spark would be. His reply is amused and rather wry: "Revelation is vital, but I hold onto the hope that Solus would have risen up regardless of deities. It has been a long time, Optimus. Still preaching to the converted?"

Optimus returns the gesture, his metal frame clanging as his fist bumps on it, and teasingly retorts: "As much as you boss about the bossed. Indeed it has been long since we last met. If I recollect, it was the annual review of Cybertron's economy at Kaon, with the High Council. Though I can't recall if this fine Cybertronian was there."

He gestures then towards the other massive bot, as huge as Megatron and a lot more spiky around the limbs and shoulders. This one raises a brow, crimson optics nevertheless dull with stoicism, and does not speak. Of course, that is why Megatron is here, for he has always possessed the gift to draw voice from the voiceless.

"Ah, that's because he wasn't there during our last meeting. Optimus Prime, this is my First Lieutenant, Grimlock. Say hi to the Prime, Grimlock."

"Hi to the Prime, Grimlock." The other bot replied sardonically, before he promptly turned on his heel and headed back into the chamber, evidently opting to seek out entertainment more enthralling than conversing to one to Cybertron's most prominent religious figures. Optimus himself raises a brow now, bemused at such a brash individual. One would imagine the Lieutenant of Cybertron's top law enforcer would offer a bit more respect, but then again, maybe it was the position itself that gave him the boldness to be rude. Either way, Optimus wouldn't take it to spark. Primus knows that even petty grudges can bring down a jovial mood.

A moment's pause, just for the two to bemusedly stare after the retreating figure, before they simultaneously shrug and turn their attention to the sermon. Megatron moves to stand beside Optimus as they look down to the podium. Sentinel Prime continues with his speech with much fervour, elaborating on how Solus Prime had battled fiercely against the Storm Heralds and, against all odds, had defeated them once and for all. He too is a rare sight in Iacon, given that he oversaw the Cathedral of Crystal City, but on special occasions the Primes may visit their cohort's places of worship, to maintain the unity that kept them all bound with peace and reverence. Optimus himself has only just returned from a trip to Vos.

There is comfortable silence for a while, Prime and Chief simply watching Sentinel gesticulate as he carried on with such dedicated zeal. With pleasantries and answers attended to, the Prime decides now is the time to indulge his curiosity.

"You never were one for sermons, Megatron. May I ask what brings you here?"

"Honestly, Prime? I'm here for perspective. Look down upon them, how they quiver and shake with excitement over the words of the Prime, over the will of Primus." Megatron replies, and he waves a hand to emphasize how the crowd is eagerly responding to Sentinel. With a small laugh, Megatron then adopts a rather sardonic edge to his voice as he goes on: "Now, forgive me if I may seem disrespectful to your profession, but I am always rather put off by such fanaticism shown towards a deity, a concept and an ideal. They believe so strongly in Primus, devote whole days to worshipping our god, yet they always end up neglecting Solus Prime, a true and real entity who gave us so much."

Optimus considers him for a moment, head tilted in the increasingly prevalent bemusement, before he amiably replies: "No disrespect taken. I can understand how frustrating it may be to put our faith in gods rather than figures, especially one has no belief in what that faith is directed to. But surely you appreciate that such faith is what has us striving to improve, to get ever closer to the ideals professed by the Covenant of Primus?"

Megatron shrugs, and though his tone softens in his reply, the sardonic edge remains: "I do appreciate that, but I have always preferred to follow our ideals by will of our own processors, not by the supposed word of gods. It was not Primus who freed us all from the Storm Heralds. It was not Primus who forced down the Insecticons. It was not Primus who crafted for us this society we treasure so much. Solus Prime, though she believed in our god, fought for us out of her own will and conviction. Can you in turn appreciate that while faith may motivate us, it is the actions of the people, not the gods, who truly decide the destiny of their future?"

The Prime does nod, and his optics gleam a bit brighter as he considers his response. Though others, notably Zeta, would not at all be appreciative of such talk, such perceived disregard for the faith in Primus, Optimus has always welcomed differing opinions. They are challenging, they are intriguing, and they are often inspiring. It would not do at all to never be questioned, for Primus gave all the ability to question. Without questions, there are no answers, and without answers, there is no understanding.

"I believe that we are all connected. I believe our destiny is indeed in our hands, but I also believe that our faith, our beliefs, are what allows us to tighten the hold and ensure we do not lose sight of it all. You do not have faith in Primus, Megatron, and that is fine. In fact, contrary to whatever Zeta may sneer, I believe it is actually good that we do not all believe in the same thing."

Megatron looks intrigued by that response, perhaps surprised at such words coming from the vocal processors of a Prime. Optimus allows a chuckle at such a perplexed expression on the usually cool and serious Chief's face, before he elaborates.

"You see, those with faith strive towards peace and happiness because they believe it is the will of the god. Those without faith, they too strive towards peace and happiness, but it is with their belief in themselves, not a higher being. As such, what seems to be a massive difference nevertheless yields the same result of unity and prosperity. Our differences let us all see the world differently, and yet still we see it as the same; a beautiful place to be preserved. That is why I welcome opposition to Primus, Megatron. It reassures me that we all wield higher ideals, regardless of what motivates us."

A faint nod the taller bot gives, seemingly impressed by the response, before his optics dull slightly and he then revs: "That's very well said, Prime, but I must offer my noticing of a discrepancy. You speak of how we are all connected, how we all believe in something greater, but how could you say that about those who would bring ruin to our peace? We are connected for, in example, the insurgent scum who spread anarchy upon Velocitron? Am I to believe those wretches, who only recently sabotaged a medical centre and condemned 59 innocents to death, are part of your god's grand schemes?"

Now this takes Optimus back slightly. He had heard that an insurgency had risen up on the far-off stormy world, one of Cybertron many colonies and a bold attempt to adjust to a world ripe with electricity. But to go so far and perform an act like that? To make 59 innocents, whether medics or patients alike, die? Quite suddenly, a viral sensation flickers through his neurals, and Optimus has to look away.

He peers down at the crowd below, and he sees how joyful they are, how ecstatic they are to be here on this day, to hear Sentinel Prime speak in celebration of their god and their herald. None of them knew what had happened on Velocitron. Perhaps some here had relatives or friends there, who were now lost to the afterlife. None of them knew a thing, and yet all of them could have been so easily subjected to the same fate. Again the viral sensation flickers, twisting in his very data chip, and Optimus close his optics for a moment just to handle it.

Aware that Megatron is staring at him, awaiting an answer, Optimus Prime steels himself and turns back to face him. As blue optics open to meet crimson, he states: "You may not like what I say, but hear me out. I do believed we all connected, even with such despicable characters as the insurgents you've no doubt been working tirelessly to capture. We are all of the same sparks, even if our will becomes perverted or corrupted, and we all share the same fate. Those who do as you say, they are still Cybertronian, and though they may have sacrificed their morality, they are still akin to us in what they are and how the judgement of Primus affects them."

Megatron just stares at him, looking torn between disbelief and grudging acceptance, before he dully states: "You're right. I don't like that answer."

"Sometimes, neither do I. But please, do not mistake my acceptance for apathy. Had I wielded any power to stop them from taking those lives, I would have. And I do not at all doubt that they deserve your justice. While the willpower our god gave us can allow for bad choices, it also allows for the choice to fight against that injustice. That is how we are balanced, and, again, that is how differences can reinforce our desire for unity."

"The insurgents have no desire for unity, only for fulfilling their own twisted whims and cruel urges. And it will not be Primus who will decide their fate."

"But it at least inspires the desire within the rest of us. And we will all do our part to maintain it. I am no warrior, Megatron; my role is simply to guide and inspire. But you can ensure our peace. I believe if anyone can truly protect this peace we treasure-" He gestures to the crowd below, chanting and chattering to what Sentinel read out from the Covenant. "-And maintain order for us, it is you. As Solus gave so much to free our race, you have given much to preserve our freedom, our right as sentient beings. I am thankful that we have Cybertronians like you who can battle injustice where others cannot, just as Solus did."

It takes a moment for the Chief to respond. He seems honestly amazed by such a compliment, a comparison to his own idol, that his disdain for the insurgents seems almost forgotten amidst his surprise. But when he does, it is with something akin to relief: "That is... very kind of you to say. You know, I always did like you the best out of all the Primes, Optimus. You actually look outside the box, and you don't need needlessly talk down to others for disbelieving. Even if I do not agree with all that you say, I must extend my respects to your introspection."

"I do my best to be a good example." Optimus replied cheerfully, before he switched his tone to mockingly threatening and added: "But alas, I still must condemn you to an eternity burning in the Pit for your lack of belief."

"And yet that would preferable to spending time with Zeta."

Optimus laughs out loud at that, and Megatron joins him, the two laughing ever so brightly at such an end to their discussion. Down below, Sentinel completes his speech on the joys that Primus gives all, and the crowd's cheers echo all across Iacon as celebratory fireworks explode above them, scattering glorious ember of purple and orange all over the sky. Amidst it all, the statue of Solus Prime glitters brightly as its crystalline frame reflects the abundant light, and it might even seem there is a smile upon the face.

 

I love all this historical flashback-y stuff. We've never gotten such abundant insight into the Transformers history of the TFM universe; such are the wonders of mystifying world-building!

To me, the coolest thing about this was Grimlock making an appearance, as what I'm guessing is his original humanoid form. I don't remember if it was mentioned in the main TFM canon, or if you had said anything about it before, but I didn't realize that Grimlock actually worked under Megatron prior to the latter going batshit and trying to take over the universe? That definitely makes me wonder more about how Grimlock ultimately defected to the Autobots, even despite his previous allegiance to the Enforcement State and his violent idiosyncracies. (Apparently he was rather sassy as well). It also makes me wonder if Grimlock committed the crimes that got him thrown in Critico's prison before or after he was transformed into the dinobot we know in the main canon? I lost the Abominus Initiative (I think that's what it was?) somewhere on the time line.

Anyway, how very fascinating it is to get a glimpse at Megatron and his ideology, and likewise Optimus's as well. It's very apparent how the two differ in their personal philosophies and how this plays a part in their ultimate roles in what would eventually become Cybertron's civil war; it's almost biblical how befitting it is that Megatron insists upon the credit being given to Solus Prime, the "true hero," whereas Optimus sees the bigger picture, believing there is more to prosperity of his race than the mere concept of glorifying a heroic figurehead. Optimus looks to abstractions to explain peace and prosperity--Megatron looks to notoriety and hero-worship. Much like the mantle he would later assume for himself.

The warmth and camaraderie in their exchange was infinitely fascinating, as is the religious underpinnings in the concept of the Primes and the beliefs of Optimus, Sentinel, and Zeta. Incorporating religion and philosophical disparagement in the world of Transformers is bold and an interesting way to build the canon that parallels our own culture. And lastly, the irony of Optimus genuinely believing that nobody's better suited to "keep the peace" than Megatron is narratively delightful. Boy, is he in for an unpleasant surprise.

Oh and we got tiiiinnnyyy little glimpses at Sentinel Prime and Zeta Prime. Apparently Zeta isn't fun to hang out with? And I wonder what happens to Sentinel and why he doesn't ultimately end up in league with the Autrio?

Wonderful writing as always!

 

46: To be Prime, once more
-

The crowd gathered within the immense chamber of the Cathedral of Iacon are all united by two things; a deep and powerful sense of terror, alongside a fervent hope that this sacred place may offer them sanctuary. Surely it must; with pictures illustrating divine events across its walls, with crystalline lights shining soothingly above the crowd and a statue of Solus Prime at the end of the chamber, this place is practically alive with Primus' blessings. All huddled together, as if close quarters may provide a shield against the horrors they have all witnessed, they mutter and whimper amongst themselves, some discussing recent events, some concerned with the futures and others merely praying with all their might to Primus for deliverance from this fear.

Of course there is fear. The High Council is dead, and Kaon was now the citadel of the so-called Decepticons. The fanatics had slaughtered all political bodies that opposed them, and even now they were like hunting others who would refute and resist their rule. No-one was safe, not so long as they didn't know where these Decepticons placed them in this new and brutal hierarchy. Most of the these refugees would hope that their status as mere civilians might let them experience mercy from the fanatics, whereas more prominent figures, such as the respected doctor and ardent Council supporter Ratchet, felt the cold paranoia that they would be targeted and killed for their allegiances.

Optimus Prime does his best to quell fears and woes wherever he can, moving from one Cybertronian to the next and speaking lowly and firmly to them. He is their Prime, and whatever fears and horror he may feel himself, he bottles it down in favour of focussing on helping those who need it. It would not do for these terrified people to see a herald of the words of Primus give into terror as easily as they have, and for their sake he remains strong in posture and tone. They ask him so many questions, whether they will live, whether the Decepticons can be stopped, and what will become of their society even if they are. Optimus does his best to answer them all, and he speaks with hope and conviction throughout each one.

Currently it is Ratchet he speaks to, and the doctor's habitual paranoia is certainly aflame here as he uneasily mutters: "We can't hide here forever, Optimus. The Decepticons are spreading across the planet, across the empire, and they'll be looking for supporters in every nook and cranny. What will we do when they come barging in through that door? None of us are warriors! We would have no way to stop them if they just slaughtered all within here! We-"

"Calm yourself, Ratchet. You of all people should know that frazzled neurals will help no-one." Optimus stated firmly, silencing the smaller bot with both his words and a steadying hand upon the doctor's shoulder. He leans down to be better on level with the other bot, and his firmness becomes gentleness as he goes on: "I know we are not prepared for war, but please take reassurance that I will allow no harm to befall anyone in this cathedral. By my own spark, I will not let them hurt any of you."

Ratchet doesn't seem convinced, but he at least nods and calms himself, green optics dulling slightly as he focussed on maintaining his composure. As he did so, Optimus becomes aware of a small hand patting against one of his legs, and he looks around to see what it is.

It is another refugee, and this one is a youngling, barely into the second stage of their spark's development. It looks up at him with soft orange optics, perturbed by fear and yet eased by a youthful misunderstanding of the full depths of this word. It is disturbing for Optimus to see, for it is that cruel combination of naivety and fear that only a child can experience, and that a child should never have to experience. Worse yet is what the little one says:

"Are we going to die, great Prime?"

Words no youngster should ever have to speak, and fears no youngster should ever have to feel. Optimus Prime feels a viral burn twist through his neurals, and he himself must take a moment to focus on his self-control and remain composed. Truly, the depths of the Decepticon's treachery and depravity knew no limits, if their supposed upheaval of society would have their own young feeling such terrible fear. Carefully, he releases Ratchet and kneels down fully before the youngling, whom is only seven planes tall and thus so small compared to him, and looks into its orange optics with all of the compassion and confidence he can muster.

"No-one shall die here, little one. As your Prime, I promise to protect you." He whispers, soft and calm, letting the child see only reassurance in his optics. "I will let nothing happen to you, or anyone else. You have my word as-"

The immense door of the Cathedral suddenly rattles as a colossal banging sounds out.

Everyone is immediately yelping and squealing with panic, immediately backing away from the doorway as it rattles again, another bang echoing through the grand chamber, followed by another, and another. The youngling immediately clings onto Prime with a squeak of shock, and he instinctively embraces it comfortingly as his own notions of horror dare to try and rise up. Even as he forces it down, closes his optics amidst his fierce battle for self-control, he knows exactly what is happening; the Decepticons have arrived.

One final bang and the doorway is smacked open, exposing the starlight from outside, exposing the sight of Destroyer-class vessels hanging in the sky, and exposing the silvery frame of Unicron's very herald. The silvery figure, immense and imposing, flanked by another equally large Cybertronian, flexes immense arms and steps forth into the Cathedral of Iacon, being sure to gesture for the subordinate to close the doors behind them. As the immense masses of Cybertanium are sealed shut, all refugees know full well that there is no escape.

No-one speaks, or even makes a sound, for fear silences them so effectively. All of them, barring the Prime who was still knelt by the youngling, shrink back, optics wide with horror and frames shuddering with terror. All of them, barring the Prime who was still comfortingly holding the youngling, stare with fearful anticipation towards he who had instigated all of this horror. Of course there is fear. Before them stands he who had founded these monstrous Decepticons, he who had declared war on all who opposed him, and he who had personally massacred every last member of the High Council.

Megatron idly observes the terrified crowd, as if he were an Insecticon assessing a potential meal. A moment of silence, perhaps just to draw out their unease, before he smiles almost gently and spreads his arms wide, as if emulating a Prime giving a sermon to loyalists.

"How fitting it is for us all to gather here, in this place of worship, as we all experience the revelation I will bring to you."

He laughs then, amused by his own mockery of their beliefs, and the immense fusion cannon upon his right arm hums in tune with his laughter. Behind him, his lieutenant Grimlock does and says nothing, simply standing there stoically and gazing around the cathedral with dull optics.

Slowly, Optimus Prime releases the youngling and rises up to his full height, his fear having fled and leaving righteous fury in its wake. Slowly, he turns to face Megatron and locks disdainful blue optics upon the gloating gleam of the Decepticon leader's crimson, his unease having fled and leaving immense disdain in its wake. With a few measured steps, the heavy footfalls of his frame echoing throughout the Cathedral of Iacon, he positions himself to stand in front of the crowd, a living shield between them and the murderer who befouled this sacred place with all of the death staining his plating. He locks optics upon Megatron, as if seeking to look into his very spark and find out where Unicron had planted the seeds of evil.

"You dare enter the Cathedral of Iacon, and defile its sanctity with the Energon staining your claws, with the foul corruption staining your mind?" Optimus Prime declares loudly, coldly, his hands clenched into his fists and his optics flickering with a deep anger. "You dare leave the people you've sworn to protect cowering with fear before you, left reeling from the enormity of your depraved treachery?"

Megatron tilts his head slightly, looking rather bemused at the accusations, as he returns the challenging gaze of the Prime. Had he been of mind too, it would have been so easy to raise the enormous fusion cannon and simply blast the Prime into a smouldering wreck. But despite all of the destruction he had wreaked, he still wields some sentiment, for he merely laughs again and jovially states: "Ah, Optimus, you wound me. These insults are meaningless, for I am defiling nothing. If anything, I am bringing greater sanctity to our race. The stagnant ways of the High Council are gone, and now our glorious world can finally expand its influence and bring our brand of peace to all others."

"You murdered the High Council. You have not relieved us of some purported stagnancy; you have thrown our world into disarray, into chaos and violence, and yet you have the audacity to claim it is for the sake of peace." Optimus snapped, tone increasingly sharp with his anger. He knows no fear anymore; it's as if being confronted by such insanity, seeing it before his own optics, has simply left him overwhelmed at the injustice and the fervent desire to combat it.

Really, he cannot believe he is hearing such things, cannot believe the utter delusions that fuel those twisted words. That Megatron, of all people, would have gone so far, and yet still had the neurals to come to this sacred place and make these ridiculous claims, just made Optimus feel all the more viral. And all the more angry.

Megatron, by contrast, remains utterly amused. It's like Optimus' words are merely the prattle of a petulant sparkling, and so he shrugs in dismissal: "Admittedly, I had expected this response from you. Like all Primes, you always wind up bowing down to the old ways, even if you are more open-minded than the others. Well, I have faith that you'll soon see it my way. In the meantime, I should really get to the point."

And so, with all the casual air of one simply asking for an update on the weather, Megatron states: "Give me the Forge of Solus Prime, the last gift of our greatest champion."

Optimus' anger briefly stills in shock, as the crowd cowering behind him give soft revs of surprise. Perhaps some part of him had expected it, planned for it, but it was still shocking to hear. He had thought Megatron had come here purely to gloat, or perhaps to hunt down those he deemed useless to his twisted regime; after all, why bother with a faith he had no belief in? But to come here just to take the Forge? The final gift of their saviour and an icon of Primus? That was a whole new level of depravity.

As such, Optimus regains himself with the sheer will of challenging such blasphemy and he all but snarls: "This ulterior motive is meaningless. Even if we did exist in any demented reality where I would allow a procotic brute like you to take our most sacred relic, you wouldn't even be able to access its full power. Only the true herald of Primus can bring forth the ability to create anything from any material, and you are no true herald. If anything, you have revealed yourself to be the very spawn of Unicron."

Perhaps it was the refusal, or perhaps Optimus' insults were starting to stack up, but Megatron's amusement with the situation was rapidly fading. He absorbs this retort for a moment, simply standing still as his fusion cannon continued to hum, before he spoke with enforced patience: "I am not concerned about wielding the hammer's full power. I only want it to satisfy a simple sentiment to emulate my inspiration. You yourself stated that, as Solus once did, I was the perfect choice to bring about a new glorious era. So, kindly give me the hammer, and I shall take my leave without incident."

Again the fusion cannon hums, but it is louder this time, and the barrel begins to glow pink in growing power. Behind Megatron, Grimlock finally makes a move; he flexes his jagged arms, but it is unclear if he is being intimidating or uneasy, and he does nothing else to back up his commander.

The Prime is not at all intimidated. Optimus' response is fiery in its fervour, for he is now outright shouting: "You dare compare yourself to Solus Prime?! She is nothing, NOTHING, like you! She understood the depths of her sacrifices, she understood that her power was never meant to rule! That is why she left us the Forge, left Cybertron, so that our people could forge their own path, could follow the blessings of Primus than mortal folly! If you had ever believed that I wanted you to become this, this murderous tyrannical despot, then you exist in a more twisted delusion than I had thought!"

Megatron's optics narrow, unappreciative of such disregard for the deliverance he brought, and he too proves fiery as he snarls back: "I do as she does, Optimus; the High Council have withheld and stamped down our potential, just as the Storm Heralds did. In eliminating them, I can truly advance our society to a golden age, where we can prove ourselves the mightiest of all races! I can prove that we wield the greatest of all societies, and we will bless all others with the peace and order we will bring to the universe!"

The Prime throws his arm out, gesturing to the terrified crowd behind him: "Is THIS your peace, Megatron?! Is this your order?! This is not peace, and it never will be peace! There is never peace in fear, and fear is all you have created! Fear is all you will ever create if you continue down this Pit-spawned path!"

The crowd quakes, though they do not know if it is before the might of Megatron or the intensity of Optimus Prime. Terrified, they simply cower together, watching and waiting to see what will happen now. Megatron seems irritated, utterly irritated, at this continued resistance from the Prime, and one wonders if he will simply raise that grand cannon and obliterate him here and now. But he restrains himself, for now at least, and does not fire. Behind him, Grimlock again flexes, and his optics flicker with noticeable unease.

A low rev, and finally the Decepticon leader growls: "I will give you one last chance to justify whatever dwindling respect I have for you. Give me the Forge."

Optimus' entire demeanour changes then. Where he had been tense with anger, outspoken with fury, he suddenly goes still, and his optics simmer down into cold sombreness. All are rather surprise at this; even Megatron raises a brow in bewilderment. What has coerced the Prime to suddenly become so... stony?

His next sentence enlightens all: "The Forge is not here. I hid it the day you declared your intent to wrest control of our planet from the High Council."

Megatron pauses, and something akin to shock flashes across his face. Immediately, he then shifts into cold anger, simmering and seething, as his optics continue to burn with irritation. With a rather forced snarl, he expresses his opinion on the matter: "You are lying."

Optimus is not lying, and he proves it by tapping a panel on his wrist, never taking his cold and distasteful optics off of the former Chief. Behind him, the statue of Solus Prime compacts into a cylindrical form and splits in half. From beneath it rises up an enormous container, transparent with golden line up its length. Within is a dark silvery pedestal, often used for holstering weapon, and yet it holsters no weapon. The immense golden hammer, as tall as Megatron and wielding powers beyond scientific comprehension, is gone.

A glint of satisfaction flickers in Optimus' optics. Megatron's delusions have proven futile before he'd ever even come here.

Everyone barring the Prime stares at this revelation, the majority with shock and one with disbelief. Indeed, one might find the expression on Megatron's face almost amusing, for it is exceptionally clear he had not expected anyone, much less a Prime, to have moved the sacred relic from its resting place. At first he knows only disbelief at the audacity of such a deception, his mouth hanging agape. And then his expression starts to smoulder, and a terrible grimace forms itself. His optics start to shine all the brighter, and his internal systems rev like some wild beast snarling at a rival. In only an instant, any notion of stoniness and restraint and enforced calm vanishes; this absurd display of defiance ignites a fury that had sparked the entire inferno of this uprising.

"YOU DARE DEFY MEGATRON?!" The Decepticon leader howls, and in a motion so fast that it seemed impossible for one of his size, he leapt forward and delivered a backhand that had Optimus crashing onto the ground. The crowd yelps in horror as the sound of metal striking metal echoes throughout the Cathedral of Iacon, and their beloved Prime is laid out on his back, optics rippling and body twitching. After a second of this twitching, the Prime stills, and only the faint revs of pained systems reassured the horrified crowd that he was still alive.

Even Grimlock, stoic throughout all of this, widens his optics in shock.

Optimus just lies there, simply too stunned by the force of the blow to react to anything, his processor ringing with disorientation and his neurals buzzing with pain. His optics seem fuzzy, unable to focus, just too rattled by the force of such a blow. His frame trembles slightly as he tries to get back up, but he simply cannot. He is only a Prime, dedicated to peaceful discussions and guidance; he is no warrior, and so he is utterly unprepared for the ferocity of conflict. The closest he has ever come to such pain was when, in a moment of distraction, he had accidently bumped into the much larger Blackout. But that was nothing, nothing, compared to the blunt pain rattling through his processor, leaving him utterly

But he still has his willpower, and it demanded he get back up and fight back, fight against this Unicron-spawned madness, fight for himself and for the people and for Primus. To stay down would be to give into all of this madness, this twisted power, and he cannot do that. With a groan, he manages to get his hands onto the floor and start-

A firm pressure pushes onto his chest then, shoving him back down, and there is an ominous creaking of metal that sparks yet more pain. Optimus groans in agony as he realizes Megatron's clawed feet is pressing down onto him, quite possibly on the way to simply crushing the life out of him. But the concentrated pain helps him focus somewhat, and his optics manage to readjust and lock onto Megatron, glaring down at him as the larger bot slowly brought his fusion cannon around to aim it right at the Prime's head.

Similarly, Optimus Prime has never come close to death in his time, and now he stares at it, the gleaming purple barrel that could well reduce him to molten slag. It is almost with surprise that he looks into the cannon, before he calms himself and focuses on enforcing calm. If he is to die today, having denied Megatron any chance of claiming the relic for himself, then so be it.

Megatron is revving fiercely, clearly getting his brief burst of rage under control, as he glares down at the Prime pinned beneath him. His whole body quakes with anger, his claws flex with fury and his mouth grinds with infuriation. Only the fact that the annoyance beneath him is the only one who knows where the Forge keeps him from destroying him there and then. Optimus can only be satisfied that Megatron opposes himself as to what he has become; there is no deliverance, no promises of peace and order. There is only a tyrant, craving control and power, and he hopes all here will remember exactly what this fool is.

Megatron needs another moment to control himself back to coherent speech, and when he does, he hisses: "Tell me where it is."

Optimus quakes under him, chest slowly but surely caving in under the clawed foot, but he does not yield. With a fierce huff of his hydraulics, Optimus manages to sneer: "It is in the Pit. Go there and search all you like."

The barrel of the cannon glows brightly, a purple gleam that is almost hypnotising in its terrible power, and the pressure on his chest intensifies. The Prime revs with agony, but he does not give in, does not submit, simply glaring defiantly up at the Decepticon. He does not fear death, and he will welcome it here and now if it means Megatron will never find the Forge.

But alas, the Decepticon himself knows this. Thusly, Megatron hisses louder still, though now it is laced with something akin to smugness: "Hm. I wouldn't expect you to fear death. Your precious Primus would welcome you with open arms. But are you prepared for their deaths?"

And then he raises his arm, and Optimus hears the screams of the crowd as the massive cannon takes aim at them. He can hear them scrabbling and struggling to get behind one another, to not be the one in the line of sight, but it doesn't matter. Megatron wields enough power to raze them all, and he is every position to do so. Fear suddenly floods through the Prime, leaving his defiance crumbling as horror overtakes it, and now the Decepticon knows he wields the advantage.

"With each refusal, I will kill one!" The Decepticon leader thunders with sudden intensity, his optics ablaze with terrible wrath. "How many are you going to sacrifice, Optimus, to preserve your foolish god's sanctity?! How many will you let die before you give me the Forge?!"

Optimus is too shocked to answer, utterly horrified at this cruel turning of the tables. Were it his own life at stake, he would gladly welcome the annihilating blast of the fusion cannon with open arms. But with those innocents now facing the dreaded weapon, with their lives now at risk, Optimus is left utterly helpless. How can he possibly let them die? Even if he must give up the Forge, how could he live with himself if any of them died here and now?

But then a voice calls out, and he recognises it to be Ratchet: "Don't give it to him, Optimus! With the Forge, his influence will be too great!"

Megatron's expression darkens, and he promptly aims right at the medic, right in front of all the others. Ratchet's green optics widened with fear, yet he remained where he stood, now assuming the Prime's prior position of standing defensively before the rest. Alas, Megatron cared not for such sentiments, and as he locked on right onto the doctor's chest, for his very spark, the Decepticon snarled: "Fine then. You first."

The cannon powers up, a horrible churning sound, and the purple light glows so bright, and Optimus tries to beg for the Decepticon to stop, but it's too late, as-

As the cannon is wrenched aside and the massive beam of energy harmlessly impacts a wall, though noticeably cratering the thick Cybertanium. Shocked at such interference, Megatron turns his head to see who would dare make him miss, and his optics widen in surprise. With a stunned rev, he shouts: "Grimlock?!"

Grimlock, just as huge and imposing as Megatron, outright pulls the fusion cannon off of Megatron's arm and tosses it aside. The enormous weapon clatters onto the floor, deprived of its formidable power, and the onlookers are left gasping and stuttering in shock at this turn events. Even as Megatron reels with surprise, Grimlock's other hand reaches into his back to pull out a titanic blade. As the sword glows red with thermal energy, the ex-Cheif's lieutenant roars with an almighty and defiant rage: "NO MORE!"

Only Megatron's reflexes, honed by cosmic-cycles of battle, allow him to duck in time to avoid the swipe that would have lopped off his head. With a screech of outrage, left utterly infuriated by this mad defiance, he jumps off of Optimus and lunges forward to ram into Grimlock, sending him staggering back and knocking the sword out of his grip. But unlike Optimus, Grimlock was just as ready for battle, was just as hardy as his new enemy. With a thunderous snarl, Grimlock strikes back with a claw raking across Megatron's chest, spilling Energon over the floor.

The crowd yells with panic and backs further away as the two titans clash, the enormous brutes howling and screaming like animals as they clawed and ripped at each other. But Ratchet has the sense of mind to take advantage of this fiasco and darts forward to try and pull up Optimus, gripping him by the shoulders and pulling with all of his might. As he struggles to hoist up the Prime, he revs with exertion: "Now, Optimus! Now can we get out of here while they're busy with each other!"

Optimus manages to regain his footing, and as he leans against the smaller Cybertronian for support, he looks up at the furious battle before him. Both combatants seem evenly matched; Energon flies freely from both of them as they repeatedly tear at each other's armour. But it's clear that, though just as large and powerful, Grimlock simply doesn't have Megatron's raw ferocity. He's starting to lose ground in their battle, struggling to keep up with Megatron's increasingly berserk strikes, and it's clear that his loss is inevitable.

Optimus knows that Grimlock has aided this treachery, has helped Megatron bring the Decepticons to power. For all he knows, he may well have also aided him in murdering the High Council and hunting down other oppositions to the Decepticons. But at the same time, he can see how he has turned against his master, has deemed this action unacceptable and fought back against it. Primus worked in mysterious ways, Optimus did know, but right now, the way was crystal clear.

"Take everyone and flee." He says, and his tone takes on a commanding air that Ratchet has never heard before. "I will follow shortly."

"But-"

"Now, Ratchet! Take everyone and run!"

The doctor obeys, and he moves to usher the others past the brawl and escape the Cathedral, Optimus darts over to the side of the chamber. Along the walls of the building are long struts tipped with gleaming crystals, designed to aid an ethereal air to the scared place. But now they will have another purpose; Optimus wrenches one up from the floor, and he dips it forward, crystal at the tip, as if he were wielding a spear.

Optimus has never known battle, never known conflict; he doesn't even have weapons, whether in-built or otherwise. But now is the time for the Prime to take a stand, for him to deliver aid in ways unrelated to merely confessions and peace talks. Now he must be ready for war. Taking aim, he lets loose his own battle cry and charges into the fray. Just as Megatron was about to strike a critical blow against the dazed Grimlock, Optimus strikes from behind and the crystal tip spears into Megatron's back with a twisted cracking sound, piercing right through his armour to the more vulnerable mechanisms within.

Megatron throws his head back and howls with agony as the light dug deeper and deeper into his innards, alighting his neurals with a stabbing pain. Distracted by this intrusion, he staggers back and swipes around at Optimus, intend to claw his face off. But his wounds make him slow, and so Optimus manages to jump back and avoid the hit, leaving his makeshift weapon embedded into the Decepticon. Faced with the bleeding and berserk brute, many would have quaked in terror. But Optimus' terror is gone. With brazen defiance, he then lunges forward and punches Megatron across the face, disorientating the Decepticon and giving Grimlock the time needed to rise up, grab onto his former leader and throw him away.

Megatron hits the floor hard, but manages to roll back onto his feet. However, it is quite clear that this is a battle he can't keep up. Though the inferior between them, Grimlock had inflicted enough damage to give him pause, and now the traitor had Prime to help him. In addition, the light stabbed into his back was interfering with his neural network, making it difficult to focus on combat manoeuvres. With a notion of dark realisation, the Decepticon now realizes that, against all odds, he has lost this fight.

He gives no final words, no final threat. He simply screeches in utter outrage, and reaches around to rip the makeshift spear out of his back. Tossing it aside, he then transforms into his vehicle mode, a type-5 dominator that trundles through the doors of the Cathedral and rockets off, leaving his foes behind.

And at last, the Cathedral is silent.

With the battle finished, Grimlock collapses onto his knees, groaning with pain as he feels the full brunt of the wounds inflicted on him. There are multiple bleeding gashes over his torso and arms, and his jaw has been knocked loose, leaving it hanging at a haphazard angle. For most, such injuries may prove fatal. But he endures, for he manages to heft himself up a bit to mutter: "Thank you, Prime..."

Optimus assesses him for a moment, again considering the discrepancy between he who aided Megatron's uprising and he who fought to protect the innocents. He shakes his head then, decides to focus on the present and slinks himself under Grimlock's arm, helping the larger Cybertronian back to his feet as he replies: "I should be thanking you. You fought for innocent lives when I could not. I am in your debt."

Grimlock manages a low chuckle, optics dulled with pain and Energon loss, before he sullenly responds: "Considering what I've done, let's just say we're even right now. I never knew... that it would go this far."

"We will discuss the specifics of how far Megatron went another time. For now, let us focus on getting you to a medical centre and reuniting with Ratchet and the others."

Grimlock nods, and he staggers alongside Optimus as the two take their leave. But as they reach the doors, Optimus pauses and turns to oversee his Cathedral. It is rather a mess now, its pristine floor stained with Energon, a cracked blast in the wall and Megatron's fusion cannon laid on the ground, still humming, still glowing. And most ominous of all, there is the container at the end, empty of the Forge. Oh, Optimus knows where it is, but it still feels deeply wrong to him to see it absent from this place.

Taking in the damage, Optimus feels a deep unease inside of his spark. This breach of sanctity was a terrible thing, and somehow he feels that it will only get more terrible from here on. But then again, as he shakes his head and carries on helping the larger Cybertronian out of the Cathedral, if those like Grimlock could see the folly of Megatron's tyranny and rise up against him, perhaps there was a chance for things to get better too.

Who could say but Primus?

 

47: Fear is very real
-

"What the frag is that?!"

Soundwave turns at the sound of his comrade's disgusted outburst, and his visor widens slightly in bewilderment when he sees exactly what's agitated the Mustang. Their stroll by the riverside, scouting out possible traces of Autobot activity, had been proven pretty placid; for once, Barricade had seemed more interested in scanning the river for fish (or mermaids, as he claimed) then being an obnoxious scraplet, giving Soundwave precious peace to contemplate his own agenda. But now the peace was gone, all because Barricade was glaring fiercely at the tiny green form of a dragonfly hovering before his helm.

The bewilderment promptly becomes exasperation, and Soundwave tiredly revs: "It's called a dragonfly, Barricade. It's a harmless little insect. Just leave it alone and let's carry on."

He moves to walk away, but pauses when the Mustang gives an oddly overly irritated growl: "I'm not the one not leaving things alone! This little freak is getting up in my face! Why the frag isn't it going away?!"

Again Soundwave turns, and he's about to express further annoyance with the crimson 'Con, when he pauses. For whatever reason, Barricade had not simply just strode away from the bug, or even swatted at it. He just stands still, crimson optics wide and bright with anger, face an ugly grimace as he glared hatefully at the organic critter flitting about in front of him. Yet his plates seem to tremble, as if barely withholding some kind of explosive reaction, and his claws seem far too tense to be simply annoying. Every motion of the insect, his optics follow with what seemed like a wary edge, and for a demented moment, Soundwave thought it was akin to a cautious organic watching a nearby predator.

But that couldn't be right. Barricade was sixteen feet of untampered mechanical rage, and a dragonfly was two inches of pitiful chitin. Why would he be so oddly reactive to it?

"Is it bothering you that bad?" He asks, bemused now, and perhaps faintly intrigued at the possibility of garnering some unique entertainment from this. He takes a step forward, always observing how the frame of the other Decepticon quakes slightly with barely restrained outrage as he continues glaring at the flittering creature. "It's just a dragonfly. It's not dangerous, you know."

"I know it's not dangerous! It's just annoying me!" Barricade snapped, following the motions of the insect with sharply precise reactions. His claws flex again, the doors on his hips wobble and he runs a clawed foot through the dirt in agitation as he goes on: "Fluttering and buzzing like a damn scraplet, getting up in my face! What is wrong with it?! Little piece of rotten organic slag!"

Soundwave revs amusedly; yes, there was definitely something entertaining about this. Most times, anytime Barricade was annoyed was followed by violent outbursts and wild strikes. But for whatever reason, he refused to just walk away from the bug, swat it away or anything like that. He just stood stock still, quivering with suppressed fury, always glaring with cautious anger. The intensity with which he stared at the insect was truly impressive, for it reminded the Lamborghini of times when Barricade would shoot daggers at Starscream or Airachnid or whoever particularly annoyed him, leaving him full of vehemence and yet unable to vent it because the enemy was bigger and tougher and-

Oh. Oh, no way.

With his visor gleaming brightly with sudden excitement, Soundwave reached out and precisely pinched the dragonfly out of the air, holding it firm between two of his claws. The tiny little thing squirmed and struggled in his gasp, but he made sure not to hurt it. After all, he had a good idea. As Barricade blinked in surprise at the intervention, Soundwave's visor narrowed with something akin to insidiousness and he cooed: "Oh, Barricade. You're not afraid of this little thing, are you?"

Quite promptly, he jabbed his hand forward, putting the dragonfly within inches of Barricade's left optic. Almost immediately, Barricade lurched backwards, and then he gave a furious snarl of outrage. He stomped forward and swiped at Soundwave, who dodged with an easy sidestep, before he snapped: "Shut your fragging non-existent mouth, you disgusting blue piece of scrap out of Overlord's exhaust pipes! I'm not afraid of anything, especially not some stupid little carbon-based piece of shelled slag! It's just annoying me, and you're annoying me too!"

Soundwave's mandibles bordering his mouthplate twitched with amusement, and he gave a satisfied chortle as he withdrew the insect, holding it close to his own optics now. It was an elegant little creature, so exquisitely evolved for flight. The four large membranous wings, capable of letting it hover, go up and down and even backwards. The cage-like legs, perfect for catching airborne prey. massive eyes, well suited for surveying its environment at all angles. And the green colouring of its shelled body had a glossy edge to it that was quite nice. All in all, a nice organic to look at, and the Lamborghini was ever so amused that his comrade could be unnerved by it.

"Ah, how could it be annoying? It's a harmless and innocent arthropod. Look how sweet it is." He drawled, and then he held it out again. Barricade didn't flinch back this time, but he still wielded an air of disdain and anger. He huffs, pointedly looks away from the insect squirming between Soundwave's claws, because he doesn't need to look at the damn thing. It was just annoying and buzzing and weird and stupid and

and the smooth shell is exactly akin to the monsters, the beasts that tore Cy-Kill in half. The long wings are similar, the gangly legs are similar, the huge eyes are similar. Everything about this damnable little freak is akin to them, to the Insecticons, to the beasts that killed the Decepticons he worked with, the monsters that tore them apart and ate them alive and devoured and killed and destroyed-

Barricade gives a sharp snarl of anger and he shoves Soundwave aside, stomping off along the river bank. With a furious hiss, he snaps back at the other Decepticon: "You can shut the frag up, you worthless piece of tin trash! It's not sweet, it's just a worthless and pathetic little carbonated scrap on a worthless and pathetic little carbonated planet! Just toss that thing in the garbage and let's go, you stupid scrapheap on legs!"

Soundwave watches him stomp off, before returning his attention to the insect. How could such a tiny thing provoke such a reaction in Barricade? More importantly, what other insects might get him worked up in the same way? It seems that Barricade, for all of his denial, wielded some unease about these creatures, and such a concept paved the way for much entertainment.

"Thank you very much." He purrs to it, finally letting it go and watching it flutter off to patrol the river. "With your help, little one, I think I've found a new game to play with my dear friend, Barricade..."