Born of Risen Apes, Not Fallen Angels
An LLS Production
We were born of risen apes, not fallen angels, and the apes were armed killers besides. And so what shall we wonder at? Our murders and massacres and missiles, and our irreconcilable regiments? Or our treaties, whatever they may be worth; our symphonies, however seldom they may be played; our peaceful acres, however frequently they may be converted to battlefields; our dreams, however rarely they may be accomplished? The miracle of man is not how far he has sunk, but how magnificently he has risen. We are known among the stars by our poems, not our corpses.
– Robert Ardrey
A book clattered.
The pianist hesitated, before the volume tumbled, knocking down her metronome. She picked it up, setting book and metronome back into place, moving the lever such that the metronome began to swing in time, click-click-click-click-click-
The keys in the board depressed themselves, the electronic soundboard ringing out a tune.
Quickly, the fingers tickled the ivories...
The Decepticon chose Chinatown, San Francisco this time. While Chinatown was squirrelled with alleys and back-roads, it also meant that the task was left mainly to smaller units; Arcee and Sideswipe, mainly. It also meant that the larger Autobots were waiting to spring the trap when the piano echoed.
"Bogey coming in hot- hello?" Will slapped the portable comm. "Big Buddha? Optimus?"
Every Cybertronian, Autobot and Decepticon alike, had frozen. Their pistons moved up and down, their hydraulics flushed. A rumble echoed, and Will realised that it was Ironhide simply stretching, to face the Decepticon.
Another beat. Somehow, then, in some bizarre synchronisation, large limbs of metal and electricity convulsed. A lamp-post went flying, and thankfully parts of Chinatown had been long evacuated
Yes, Autobots and Decepticons were dancing on the streets of San Fran.
Major William Lennox stared, rubbed his eyes, and then turned to Chief Master Sergeant Epps. "Tell me you got that."
Epps held up a smart-phone. "On it."
Some crash resounded about a minute later, and all Cybertronians stopped, staring at each other mid-step or mid-move or even standing about in the midst of comparatively minimal destruction. A sense of unease pervaded the battlefield, as if some unknown force had swept through and then left them to their own devices.
Sideswipe paused, halfway through a fouetté. "What?"
"Never mind!" Ironhide was, predictably, the first to tackle the 'Con opposite him. And yet, the enemy subdued or otherwise, the same unease pervaded the field.
"Good news," Ratchet announced to the combined forces of NEST hours after returning to Diego Garcia. "And bad, to use human colloquialisms."
"Go on," Will nodded. "Good news?"
"I have identified our symptoms to be closer to the disease humanity identifies as Sydenham's chorea," Ratchet announced.
"...is that fatal?"
"The disease is historically referred to as St Vitus' Dance," Ratchet clarified.
"So you all got a sudden onset of dancing?" Will repeated, kneading his forehead. "What?"
"That is impossible," Ratchet clarified. "We do not have biological bodies vulnerable to the Streptococcus bacteria that is said to be the source of this affliction."
"Then...?"
"It could be a signal," Ironhide volunteered. The black mech had sequestered himself against part of the wall of the giant hangar they were in, and Will was struck for a moment how... vulnerable... Ironhide seemed to hold himself. "Some jamming experiment?"
"It affected Decepticons equally," Will reminded him. "Guess the Decepticons lost control."
"No Decepticon worth their processor would allow a device out of his making without extensive testing," came Ironhide's input. "No, it was foreign to the 'Cons too."
"There was a third party," the rumble of Optimus Prime answered. "A third party who, for that single moment, was able to paralyse all battle and ensure cessation of hostilities through some signal. Some shared, unified signal, calling towards both Autobots and Decepticons..."
Grimly, the head of Optimus Prime turned, and without a battle mask in place, the expressive metallic ridges of his features were... worried.
"It is not that it paralysed us, Major Lennox. This signal meant that a third Cybertronian party was present, and evaded my best sensors."
Will shook his head. "We didn't hear a signal."
"Yes. So it was aimed to take out Cybertronians, but leave humans unharmed," Ratchet shook his head.
"This is the recording from my sensors," a speaker popped out of Optimus' finger, and chords began to ring.
Will listened for a few moments. "Hold on... a piano took down you guys?"
The music echoed, as if a spell had ended its casting, echoes of sound within the hall mere shadows of great music.
The stool shifted. The metal chair was laid to one side, and the hands of our pianist took up a velvet cloth to wipe down the instrument. Smoothing her clean hands, she wrapped it up and took it away, unaware of the destruction outside, or of the miracle that had happened, or something.
No, our musician was aware only that somewhere, her car was destroyed, the road with it, and her notes were scattered. A sheet of paper, lined with musical staffs, was blown up in a breeze, slapping her in the face.
Dahlia Su tore it away, and with it fluttered off her destiny.
Strange premise, I know.