Warmongers


Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers in any of its forms.

Prologue: A Planet Named War


That the Ark has made landfall on a planet named War is fitting, for war is what he intends to bring. War is what he has carried to Megatron again and again, and war has broken upon him in turn. And it is common knowledge amongst his Autobots that their war cannot be ended unless the All-Spark is recovered-

(-and then what? There is nowhere it can be taken-he does not have the numbers to hold it-not anymore-and Megatron will never stop hunting it-tracing its whorling blue-white trail into oblivion-)

Sometimes Optimus Prime does not believe that the war will ever end.

It is difficult to adjust to this planet. He walks without a fixed destination, tracing a jagged ridge to its source. All the ground is twisted and pock-marked, as though it has been scarred by cannon fire. There is a steep drop to his right to the lowlands, where the red dust spirals and eddies into great storms. This sun is young and it blazes over the chinks of his armour, warming the wires and plates beneath. He walks to slough away the Ark's cool and sterile atmosphere, the dead-metal chill, the steady and irritating hum, impossible to filter from audio receptors. He suspects, however, that he could walk one thousand hics, and still feel the surface shifting illogically beneath his supports. He has never enjoyed deep space travel, necessary though it has become. Continuously he scans his surroundings, moving within a web of sensory beams that bounce and refract over the red rocks. If anything comes within this radius, he will know of it in a nano-klik, and be able to react accordingly. He does not believe that any Decepticons currently inhabit this same planetary body, but it is a foolish mech who lowers his guard in unknown territory. Unless he has the luck of Primus himself, permanent deactivation is usually the inevitable conclusion-

/-/

A brush over his communication dials, too brief to be an attempt to forge a link. He pauses, looks back to find the Ark hidden from optic view behind the planet's ragged horizon.

/-/

Another rush of static, questing yet faint. One of his soldiers seeking to verify his location. He does not yet wish to return to the Ark's cloying enclosed space. If it were urgent, surely they would bolster a signal using the Ark's own sensor arrays. He stands indecisive, and tiny stirrings of irritation nip at his processor. Time is growing short. No longer can he indulge himself by exploring the terrain-not when his scout stands ready to depart. Yet still he stands rigid, silent, neither answering nor blocking the signal as it grows stronger.

/-Prime-/

He vents with more force than strictly necessary, and opens his comm link.

/-Report-/

A beat of silence, disapproving. He regrets, briefly, employing so clipped a tone, but it is done.

/-Autobot scout stands ready to depart on your order, Commander-/

His medical officer's retreat into formal terms does not quite conceal the ire beneath. His reluctance to return to the Ark increases-Ratchet can hold a grudge like no mech he has ever encountered. And yet, his is the original offense. Over the past hundred vorns he has been falling into harsh moods, each one prompted by insignificant events, forcing him to seek solitude.

/-Commander-/

His spark seems frozen within him, and the close-wound heat of his companions' presences has come close to unbearable.

/-Prime-/

Even now, freed from the confines of the transport vessel, he can find no true relief. There is a drag on his limbs as though he is weighed down; there is no physical action that can lessen such a load, strain though he does.

/-OPTIMUS-/

He jolts from his reverie.

/-Yes-/

He forces himself to move, re-tracing his own steps across the plateau.

/-What is your location-/

/-Approximately 4.2564 hics from the Ark-/

/-Jazz recommends prime departure point to be within the next two cycles sir-/

/-Understood-/

He allows Ratchet to end the transmission and watches the red dust clouds roll.

Tensions are high amongst his Autobots. Sending one of their own down amongst undetermined enemies, to a planet they know too little about, despite Jazz's frantic assemblage of data chips, is taking its toll. Ratchet barely emerges from his temporary medbay, and his infrequent forays into their shared space seem only to be in order to argue with Ironhide, who has never required extensive justification to charge his plasma cannons. (They have not yet been grounded for more than a mega-cycle and already Optimus fears that Mars' landscape has been irrevocably altered by Ironhide's firepower.) Bumblebee alternates between reconnoitre expeditions of the immediate area and helping Jazz sort through Earth's jumble of transmissions.

Over them all hang the memories of Tyger Pax, and of the Great Purge. It is no longer known how many non-combatants Megatron massacred in the last breems before Cybertron ripped itself apart, but once the All-Spark was launched there have been no new Sparks. Teletraan-1 marks Bumblebee as one of the last protoforms ever Sparked currently known throughout the Autobot and Decepticon ranks. The possibility that he is sending their last Spark to deactivation cycles constantly through his processor- and will continue to do so after the Autobot makes landfall. But it is no longer a matter of choice. They have traced the All-Spark's energy to this system, and the howling byte-scar seared in the atmosphere from Megatron's passing. It is imperative they secure the All-Spark, and Bumblebee is a brave and experienced scout.

His logic relays are satisfied, yet his spark coils with uncertainty. And his soldiers clash and fret and doubt their Prime.


Author's Notes: Only way to get back to my other projects is to purge my current obssession: Optimus Prime. I am following the TF '07 and ROTF '09 continuity doing a character study that will eventually speculate on the events post-ROTF. I find him absolutely fascinating, particularly the aspect of him as a military commander and as a Prime. 'The Great Purge' is my own version of what happened in the final few pitched battles on Cybertron, where all those who didn't belong to a faction were slaughtered by Megatron's command, and another reason for the launching of the All-Spark at Tyger Pax.

Hic - kilometer

Nano-klik - one second

Cycle- one hour and fifteen minutes

Mega-cycle -ninety-three hours

Breem- eight point three minutes

Vorn -eighty three years

Concrit appreciated,

Taluliaka.