Author's Note: So, this is a story that I actually did back in 2013, but it's been sitting in my files forever and I never published it, so here it is. This has a mildly Prime-feel to it just in how the tech and biology work in this universe, and I drew lightly from the IDW-verse as well in terms of how people looked (like Megatron's design- his Ongoing-design, obviously) and some of the world-building and character traits (Ultra Magnus, for example).
This is not connected to my Arcee Mayhem story I did a few years ago, though the title is obviously similar. I guess it could be set in the same universe, but that's really up to the reader; the two works aren't directly linked.
Also, as of right now, I'm marking this story as "Complete," because I honestly don't know where to go from where I ended Chapter Two. I don't really want another long battle for my third chapter; I've thought about messing around with Starscream's character 'cause i loved writing him, but who knows. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to leave a review or comment if you like! Enjoy.
Optimus' position within the Autobot forces shifted often. Most would consider him a Prime, and they would not be wrong in formality: that was his burden, as he carried the Matrix within him along with all the scorn and vileness that he inherited from that. But his military command would fluctuate, sometimes commanding the forces bestowed upon that of a Prime, and in that case he took command of the entirety of the Autobot army, often from solitude. Other times, however, he would be considered acting Magnus or Minor in which case he would command a legion; other times a general, and others still a simple soldier, a cog in a great machine. High born though he was, he was a soldier first and foremost, and no amount of rank change or the sizing of his army would change that. Optimus' charge this time, however, was as acting Minor, his army a great forest of swords, guns, cannons, bayonets, pikes, and other assorted weapons. Behind him, the prodigious city of Iacon stood gleaming, its great portcullises barred shut in preparation for the inevitable battle that Optimus would be conducting. His assorted men numbered forty-thousand, dispersed in rank and file along the foot of the bluff on which he stood. Optimus turned away from his troop, his great eyes admiring the city.
Iacon's origins were that of myth. The city had survived from the days of Old Cybertron, everyone knew, and with that came the architecture and styles of old. Great domes and high spires rose into the sky, their fingers brushing the stars lightly. The layout of the city was sprawling, its streets and alleyways twisting and turning at harsh angles. The Pion Tower stood erect and sentinel, its dominance clear and frank as it glowered down on the rest of the buildings. From that tower, Optimus knew, one could see the entirety of the city if one spun, getting a beautiful panorama of shops and houses and market squares. The Hall of Records was to the northeast, its squat domed shape looking sheepish within the ocean of high buildings that surrounded it. To the west of Pion Tower rested Maccadam's Old Oil House, its usual bustle and clamor nonexistent on this day. The city had been put on high alert, the defenses raised, and the citizens sheltered within the Epsilon Bunker.
One of the only cities this side of the Rust Sea to have never fallen to the Decepticons' rule, Iacon had been fortified and refortified so many times that it's outer structure resembled more of a battle platform now than a prosperous city, though even so, it still looked gorgeous. There had been three attempts to take it, each failing, though every assault was more brutal than the last. The third attack had in fact spilled into the city, and it had taken the work of Theta Sentinel to finally drive off the enemy and the city had to be rebuilt nearly from the ashes up, though Pion Tower had remained standing. Optimus had not been there for that battle, though some of his men had. Prowl, Optimus' Second in Command, had, he mused, and he wondered if such a memory filled his Second now. He wondered if, for Prowl, defending the city was any more rewarding than death itself; his Second had seen so much of it on that day that he was sure that Prowl would have gladly been the one to die if it meant not having to count how many deaths weighed in on his conscience.
Today, some of Iacon's more notable defenses had been set to the backs of Optimus' legion. Surrounding the city entirely was the wall, or rather, walls plural. Thick and tarnished stone and metal these walls were, their surfaces raw and hard and cold, encircling Iacon in great rings, one set inside the other. There were three, and each one was as thick as twenty bodies laid abreast. All seven of the Great Gates had been drawn closed, permitting no one enter. Many tall spires wreathed in weaponry had been raised, along with high artillery units squeezing into every inch of the sentry towers that dotted the tops of the walls and the surrounding buildings. The towers also had mounted to them two great cannons each, their ammunition ready to decimate anything in their targeting sights. Optimus did not enjoy the idea that should his men fall, those weapons would open fire, and their payloads did not care whom they hit. And they hit hard. He also did not like the idea that those cannons were notorious for taking a far longer time than could be spared getting ready to load. A last line of defense if there ever was one.
He turned back to his command, not wanting to think about having weapons of destruction that were hard of response time pointed at his back. Optimus' build was tall broad of shoulder yet limber, as an athlete might have been in the days of Old Cybertron. His upper armor was masked in red, streams of the color covering the majority of his upper body, each shoulder plate embroidered with the sigil of his Autobot cause. A noble symbol, the sigil was emblazoned cardinal red, the majestic face flanked by a set of three-pronged wings, their borders rimmed in chromed silver. Optimus' lower body was etched in blue splinted over the chromed silver of his legs. His head lifted, his great kabuto helmet glistening in the sun. The royal assembly was a heavy thing, fitting of form to Optimus' defined features, yet to wear it was to wear and represent the not-all-too-proud Prime lineage of which he was the latest. The unique headgear was ornamented with flecks of jonquil and battleship silver, embroidered with the sigils of the Thirteen original Primes, made out in crude Old Cybertronian script, as if to judge their helmet's wearer. Ringlets of silver fastened themselves to the base of the back helm, onto which hung further neck protection of black leather. All who looked upon Optimus knew what he represented, or at least, kidded themselves into thinking that they knew the whole truth of it. Optimus did not like being looked at or idolized, and he liked that the source of that admiration came from a manipulation of name and rank even less.
Prowl came up beside him, joining in his surveying of the massive fleet now assembled below, the enemy's stench not far off beyond the great plane upon which the army had gathered. Prowl turned to look at Optimus, who met his gaze, Optimus' jewel blue eyes locking with Prowl's muted grey ones. Prowl wore a calm demeanor always, his face square of jaw and stiff-lipped, in contrast to Optimus' own emotionally taxing complexion. Regardless of how hard he tried to hide it, Optimus could never seem to mask his emotions as well as Prowl could, though some believed that the Second carried no emotions at all. But Optimus knew better. He had gotten to know Prowl well enough, he remembered. Prowl's brain was that of an indexed library of information, so Optimus had little trouble figuring him out the first time the two had met: logic and statistics rule this one's life, Optimus had thought. But he is not bereft of heart. Quick of mind and affianced to the distinct lack of wit, Prowl served as Optimus' ideal commanding officer on the field of combat.
Optimus' eyes flitted over the mass of soldiers of whom he now took charge, tiredness streaming from his optics. The men were not all high born as he was; some had come over to the Autobot cause due to Megatron's tirades through their city, others had been recruited when the Autobot army was short in number. Optimus knew some of the names down there: Tracks, Bluestreak, Sideswipe, Wheeljack, Trailbreaker, Jazz, Mirage, Skids, Red Alert, and Hoist. But those names were few and far between the assorted mass below, and he only knew of most of those names because they had become distinguished in the theatre of war, not because he had gotten to know the people personally.
Optimus raised his right hand to his ear tapping at his comm unit embedded within, and below the massive army looked up in unison, standing tall. Those names are down there, looking up, he thought. His voice held sway over all who listened, even Prowl, who did not much care for speeches. "They say that ours is defense of this city, but I would wager that our more pressing objective should be obliteration of opposition. The enemy has many faces, and today one of those faces is leering at us. Let us kill it, let us make our brothers within Iacon cheer as they have every time the city has held its own, and let our enemy know that ours is not to defend this great city, but to give the Decepticon face a mirror and make them gaze upon the mouth and eyes of hell." A cheer went up at that. Prowl bowed his head to Optimus, who returned the gesture.
Prowl took charge. "Take up arms. The enemy is not far from our battle line."
The crowd obeyed, turning again to face the oncoming storm. Optimus closed his eyes. So it begins, he thought. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "A sound rally, Optimus," said Prowl
"Thank you," he said.
Prowl saluted, Optimus returning the salute automatically. The massive forest of troops below welcomed Prowl as he descended the steep decline from where Optimus was stationed to join his forces on the ground, leaving the commander alone with his thoughts.
Optimus studied the sky. The great star that lit their planet was rising quickly: apparently having eschewed dawn altogether, it instead settled on high noon, its rays of warmth and light beating down on the army that covered the open field. The sky was a clear light blue, the warmth of the day streaming over Optimus' face, making him even more tired. He shook his head. This is no time for dozing, he mused. Plenty of time for that in the grave.
Below, his army readied their weapons as the first of the enemy was sighted. Optimus heard Prowl's "open fire!" command as the sole enemy combatant was soon engulfed in a shadow of purple and black from behind, his reinforcements hungry for blood. The noise of chatter was drowned suddenly by a sound so piercing and painful, that Optimus nearly lost his balance atop the cliff side, his men freezing in their tracks below. The communications blackout was instantaneous, he realized, tapping his comm link to no avail. Several of the combatants below were keeled over in pain, the enemy wasting no time in taking advantage of the confusion.
Various militants transformed, armor snapping into position, their bodies reconfiguring as they took to the air or land. The assault was a wave of fury, the Decepticons bringing forward their swords and blasters, the Autobots meeting them head on. Aerial warfare soon evolved from the chaos below, and Optimus made to join in the fray.
His back broke apart, sprouting wings and thrusters that assembled themselves into position at lightning speed. The jetpack was slim of form and gleaming silver, the wings bordered in blue, thrusters along the back chromed and choked by blue bands. The jetpack was a barely-controllable animal of a machine, and Optimus had argued with it in battle numerous times. He prepared himself. The thrusters lifted him off the ground as though they were lifting a pebble, their blue-hot propellant shrieking with glee as they sent him careening off his high cliff, his form dipping dangerously down into the cacophony of the ground forces. Up, dammit! He took to the skies, avoiding injury from the ground battle by luck, vehicular warfare happening around him as he twirled in midair.
His arms followed his back's fluidity of transformation, red armor catching the sun's light as pieces swiveled and twirled. His arms, now finishing their transformation, had formed twin longswords, their blades a shell, the outline of a sword proper, silver and sharp enough to split Cybertronian metal, even on the flat of the blade. Housed within this sword-thin shell was a ribbon of electric red, radiating of heat as hot as the smelting pool of which they were made. The silver shell could be retracted, letting loose the mayhem of red energy that now spewed from ports where Optimus' hands had been, but the battle had not deemed it necessary to perform that task just yet.
The aerial forces zigged and zagged around him, having already met their targets, rushing to greet them with bullet and knife. Optimus readied his right arm for an upward cut, meeting his unexpected kill fully, cutting him in two, the red ribbon of energy crackling madly as it strained against its silver prison. The two pieces of Optimus' opponent fell away from him, though he was already onto his next two targets. He took out two jets, slim of body and broad of wing, silver of plate and lined in gold, each firing at him while they attempted clumsy executions of transformation each. Optimus wasted no time in taking advantage of his attackers' jam, slicing the assorted mishmash of limbs and vehicular armor and sending them flying away from where he hovered with a kick. His jetpack now sent him wheeling around to face the mayhem of the skies.
Optimus saw the sky around him drop debris, explosions of orange and white bursting from spoiled jets as blasts found their targets. Below him, his troops were now tiny specs, and their enemy a mass of black wreathed in shimmering armor plate, purple of color. Friendly fire encouraged Optimus to continue his barrage, though something caught his eye. The troops below were wearing thin, the Autobot line a stringy thing that strained with the weight of the Decepticon army. His men looked small upon the ground from where he hovered, their position looking ever more dire. Their defense had been set so that the enemy would have to work its way around the borders of his host to get at the city, though it looked as though in the chaos of battle that his men had not held to that formation at all, preferring instead to meet the enemy in full force rather than wait for them to chip at the borders of their front lines. Optimus scowled, finding Prowl amongst the masses and making for his position.
"Pull our forces tight. Resume the formation from which we began," Optimus barked, aiding his Second in relieving a foe's head.
"Sir, the communications blackout has made it impossible for me to take charge of the battle," Prowl said, tiredness etched in his voice. "Our men react on instinct now."
"Then tell the Convoys and Magnus's to take authority of their individual units. Trickle down the information if you must. Our line will not hold in this position. We must resume tight formation. I shall provide you with aerial support along with our attack wings." Optimus did not wait for Prowl's accustomed "yes, sir", instead flying back up into the chaos of the skies, his thrusters happy to ignite and carry him from ground.
An Autobot wing streaked by, and Optimus sped after it, barking orders. He was not sure the wing had heard him, but the battle seemed to whirl around him now as his forces reacted to his command, a great wave dipping down to mask the enemy ground forces in weapons fire. He joined in, the wind cutting into his body. The Decepticon army had at its disposal numerous wings and flyers, and as they deployed their reserves, the sky grew dark with purple and black.
Optimus found himself being chased by three sleek black jets, one peppered in yellow, one in blue, and one in green, the colorful highlights glinting in the sun. These forms were speedier than Optimus' last two kills; they were stronger, experts of the skies. This was their territory, and he was not welcome. The three split off from each other, surrounding him. Spinning, Optimus attempted to shake them, though that quickly proved futile. Coming under fire, his jet thrusters sped up, but he knew that he was no match against those who held dominion over an empire by way of conquering the air.
The bladed silver retracted, letting loose the rippling red-hot energy ribbons, their force a beast not unlike Optimus' thrusters; these whips were not yet fully tamed by their user, yet Optimus sent out a crack with each one. One coiled around the jet to his left, searing the harlequin highlights to match the burnished black of the rest of the body, the paint giving way as easily as water parting for a hand. Optimus pulled, the jet reeling back, the red flame coil having an almost enjoyable time harassing the poor soldier of wing. Optimus let him go. The jet, compressor stalled, dropped in a steep descent, attempting to correct for the overflow of air.
Veering right, Optimus made to do the same to his other two attackers, but the jets had grown wise to his tactic and had instead transformed, their shoulders exploding with weaponry. They fired, the hailstorm of proton shells and missiles flying to meet Optimus with enthusiasm. Optimus shielded his head with his arms, though the bullets miraculously missed him. He whipped his energy lassos around, sending strands of red energy glow flying. The whips missed. The two jet warriors ceased their firing, flying through the maze of the battle. Optimus reeled in his whips, sheathing them within their sword look-alike prisons once again, his boosters shooting him after his attackers. He swerved, dodging enemy fire all around him, taking out foes offhandedly while his two primary colored opponents jostled for position to get away from him.
Optimus caught a glimpse of his ground forces. Prowl had managed to group a good third of his men into several clusters of forest, each moving closer together. Impressive, given the situation, he thought, a little guilty that he had been so harsh with Prowl before. The mass of Autobot red and white looked like a great flame from as far up as Optimus was, the Decepticon ants now hacking at the rims of their enemy's fortifications.
As he worked his way through the battle zone, his eyes moving back to the sky, a voice cut through the noise, its timbre malicious and smug. "You're forces will not hold this city, Optimus. They are scattered, disorganized; mayhem seems to be your only strategy." Optimus turned in mid-flight, his thrusters angry that they had been halted.
"Megatron," he said, depleting one of his swords of its red energy, the armor of his forearm returning to its ambulatory position, his hand popping out last. Optimus' eyes, stern blue marbles cold as ice, now fixated on the voice's person.
The armor Megatron had fashioned for himself was as black as night, contrasted by the jewel red and gem violet fastens and covers that peppered the body. The sigil of the Decepticons, a ghastly twisted purple helmet with ornamental spikes upon the helm, embossed itself upon the center of the armor, glowing faintly as its color grabbed the sun's reflection. The helmet Megatron wore was simple enough, bucket-shaped and angular in design with an opening for the face. Glossy chromed black, hard as stone yet as light as foil, the headwear scooped down over Megatron's cut cheeks, tapering into razor sharp points at the chin. Fit snugly into the helm, the gaunt face of Optimus' enemy could be seen. Punctured by a robust maw of a mouth containing spiked and barbed teeth, the appearance looked half ridiculous, were it not for Megatron's narrow, blood red eyes. Those hideous orbs of malice fell on Optimus now, the eyes seeming to burn through his chest and stare directly at his Spark, their gaze unwavering. The mouth upon the face of hell smiled.
"Optimus." Megatron's voice was like a whip among the raucous of the mayhem that surrounded the two titans, yet also full of base and gravitas. Spreading his arms wide, Megatron gestured with his head to the ensuing chaos. "What do you think of my forces? A rather motley army, no? One mind in destroying your host and claiming this city for ourselves."
"For your victory to pass, my Spark must first be put out," Optimus said, taking an aerial combat stance.
"A task for me to have completed decades prior!" Megatron's right arm split by way of nine as his weapon of choice sprung out, snapping itself securely to the side of his forearm, rosewood red sprues and rivets fastening themselves to the body of the weapon to hold it in place. A dreadful sight, the sleek black rail cannon whirred as its innumerable lights embedded within powered on, purple in tint. Megatron steadied his aim and fired.
The sound of the blast sent ripples through the sky, a vertical shock wave of intensity that split the ground below. The blast exited the cannon's chamber with such force that it sent Megatron's arm reeling back. The tilt of the world was exaggerated as Optimus charged, his thrusters carrying him to the right of the blast as his right hand and forearm moved again, panels and armor twisting around, this time deploying a blaster of his own. Chromed silver, with charged blue lights of energy running the length of the barrel, Optimus returned fire, his left arm raised in front of him. His face wore a grimace as Megatron seemed to vanish, heel thrusters igniting, throwing the Decepticon Lord out of the way of blast and sword.
Optimus kept up his charge, advancing and firing again. Megatron sent pellets of death raining down upon him, the firefight escalating between the two rivals. Optimus veered away from the blasts as best he could, his own firearm igniting with a flurry of blue, his bullets kissing the light as they whizzed through the air. One of his shots found steel, clipping the armor of Megatron's left upper arm, the devil's body twitching in reaction to the shot. Megatron fired another killing blast, this one missing Optimus by inches. Two more shots rang out against the opera of battle, one finding its target, shattering Optimus' left jet thruster sending him spinning, his damaged assembly emitting a high squeal of song.
Attempting to take control of his remaining areal support, Optimus elbowed his right wing, steering himself clear of the second shot, though clumsily. He had to reach ground; he could not keep up with Megatron in the air, especially with one damaged thruster assembly now affording him nothing but the effect of limping. Optimus rocketed to the surface, feeling Megatron's presence draw ever closer. Steadying his descent, Optimus turned as Megatron tackled him the rest of the way to ground. The two bodies interlocked. He could feel Megatron's claw-like hands bite into his back and shoulders. The wind ripped at his legs, and he clung to Megatron as a lifeline. The impact from their momentum sent up plumes of smoke and dust, Optimus' body jolting upward as he came down hard upon the ground. Smoke hazed his vision. He rolled, feeling the weight of his opponent fall away.
His wingpack retracting, damaged thruster smoking, Optimus brandished his sword, turning to face his black-clad enemy once again. In a flash, Megatron brought up his fist, striking Optimus with a vicious uppercut, sending him stumbling back. Megatron continued his barrage, his fists flying at him, striking his breastplate, sparks erupting from contact, red as flame. Bits of armor splintered from Optimus' form. The Autobot's under-armor was protection enough physically, but the pain still racked him. His arms transformed back into ambulatory form, rising to block the onslaught of Megatron's attacks. A great battle-mask of iron slid over Optimus' face, clinking down, obscuring all but his sapphire-blue eyes. The faceplate was the iconic feature of the helm of the Primes, silver of color and chromed, bedecked with shimmering blue along its border, bright as cobalt. Optimus displayed it uncaringly; it was another piece of armor to him.
He lashed out with a fist, striking Megatron's abdomen with all his force behind him. Optimus felt his hand bend metal as Megatron grunted, the impact making the Lord keel over. His enemy recovered, slamming his hand against Optimus' torso, following through with a grab for his shoulder armor. Optimus was dragged to the ground, feeling a knee thrust into his chest. Winded, he rolled away, though Megatron's attack was fast and fierce. Optimus heard the grinding of steel on steel, and looked up to see a blade in Megatron's hand.
Devil Star was a long gladius, running black to match it's wielder. It was as sharp as frost, black chrome bleeding from the blade. The glint made Optimus' eyes sting. The hilt and guard of the weapon were cast in black as well, though jewels and gemstones accompanied death's color. The guard had dots of saffron embellished along its wings, orchid purple chrome accompanying the ornamentation, the metal casting a dull reflection in the sunlight. Megatron held it with a practiced hand. He swung the blade, its edge cutting air and ground as Optimus dodged the blow by inches, attempting to get back up onto his feet. His chest was heaving, his arms were aching, and his helmet was growing heavy upon his head.
Optimus deployed his swords. The electric red seemed to sense his tiredness, the energy within the blades far from jubilant. Optimus' arm swung around, his blade clashing against Megatron's. Megatron swung his sword away, spinning the blade expertly before attacking again, slicing viciously. The sword met the Autobot's two blades in quick succession, with Megatron following up with a compound attack, sweeping his sword around to the left so as to lop off Optimus' head. He thrust his right arm upwards, the blade catching Megatron's arm and shoving it aside, while the left jabbed at Megatron's breastplate, the devil spawn catching the thrust by the wrist. Megatron managed a sly push with his leg, tripping Optimus, then flipping him, disentangling their arms and sending him crashing to the ground once again. Curls of dust came up to shower Optimus' body lightly.
"My blade has tasted many Sparks of Autobots," Megatron said, spinning Devil Star tauntingly above Optimus' head. "It yearns for that of a Prime. You say your army will hold, that my forces shall flee, tails tucked between our legs?" Megatron laughed, his sword making a swooshing noise through the air. "I have come to realize, Optimus, that your bark is certainly worse than your bite."
That was not the wisest thing to say.
Optimus rolled away, springing up onto his feet, his eyes ablaze, transforming his right arm quick as a flash back into that of an arm proper, his left arm brandishing its steel. He charged, his damaged wingpack redeploying, the remaining jet thruster sputtering to life, bursting Optimus from the hard ground and into the air, before giving out. Optimus did not care about the loss of it once he was airborne. Falling, his left arm rose high above his head, catching the sun's hot rays as he swashed down on Megatron. He saw Dark Steel rise for the defense, but Megatron's was a slow block in hindsight. Coming down, Optimus' sword of red hot flame and silver chrome bit into the armor at Megatron's elbow, the momentum Optimus had gained from his flight pack now giving his sword ample power to cut through solid Cybertronian biology and into the air below the enemy's blade and forearm. Megatron's skeletal face was riddled with surprise and anger as his limb spiraled away from him at the joint, sword still tight in hand. The tip of the sword caught ground, sparks flying, the hand and arm quivering, jutting out at a harsh ninety-degree angle from the upturned blade.
The yell was nonexistent, the pain too much for Megatron to turn into vocal protest. The two titans froze in their positions for what seemed like an eternity. Optimus was hunched over, his sword arm thrust in the ground, his legs in a runner's stance. Megatron had his legs splayed apart in an exaggerated A posture, his remaining arm out for balance in preparation for a swipe that would never come. A few feet away, Megatron's upended appendage sparked and sputtered its last few coils of energy, the glow of the forearm cannon fading. Megatron attempted to speak, but the pain was too much for him still. Optimus turned to his right, bringing the sword around and catching Megatron's right leg. He groaned, going to one knee, left arm clutching at the sputtering stump of his right.
The battle around them continued fiercely, enemies and allies meeting with steel or proton bullet. Having no aerial visuals, Optimus could not tell how his men were doing. The ground seemed to now be made up of the bodies of the dead, enemy and ally alike, their carcasses smoking as blade and bullet lodged themselves within the shells that had once sheltered life. Functional combatants flew at each other, not caring about the figures on which they so often stepped, and Optimus wondered how there could be anyone still alive among all the dead. The ground was parched and stained with oil-blood. Yellow and putrid, the flow of it from the bodies made small pools. The air stank of burnished metal and steel and smoke. Fires had taken to enveloping the ground in certain places. Above, Optimus could hear the whine of jet engines and the firing of weapons. The sun beat down on the hot metal surface of the planet, though a thin layer of smoke now sheltered the ground from above. The smoke of death and hell, he thought wearily.
His gaze fell upon his longtime rival once more. The ebony black armor of Megatron's had turned a burnished bister brown, and the loss of his right appendage had made his eyes glow hard, red with fury. He roared, stumbling to his feet. Optimus felt the impact of a kick hit him squarely in the gut, his armor cushioning the impact, though it was still painful. Megatron's fury allowed him to get in another hit, striking a doubled-over Optimus with the back of his hand across the face. Reeling, Optimus tried to clear his vision, the stinging in his eyes intense enough to blind him.
He felt Megatron's hand clamp over his helmet, snapping his head down onto a spiked kneepad. Staggering, he attempted a blind swipe with his sword, but Megatron dodged the blow easily and made for the Autobot's abdomen. Optimus rolled with the punch, taking in the impact as best he could. His vision coming back, he returned the blow, striking this time at Megatron's glimmering helmet.
The ring of metal made the ear ache as its cadence and reverberations met eardrum with a high wine. The battle had picked up in pace around them, the crescendo of noise making the world stand still in anticipation, and as the ring of Optimus' punch faded, he felt his army's great sigh of despair as their great line of defense snapped.
"No," Optimus murmured under his breath.
The attack began with a rush as a great mob of black and purple and evil came hurtling over the mountainside. The bang of one of the huge cannons atop the wall bursting a shell from its mortar sent a low vibrating boom throughout the field of battle. Men shouted and jet engines whined, trying to steer clear of the huge comet-like ammunition which was now rocketing towards the crowd of fighters. Both armies ran up the steep incline where Optimus had stood not an hour before and onto the grounds that met the city walls. Within the stampede, Optimus and Megatron stared at the chaos around them. Optimus elbowed his enemy hard in the jawline, shoving him away.
Transformation occurred frantically, the red and blue of the Autobot's armor shoving itself through the paces of alteration, limbs and vehicle armature punching their way into position. The vehicle was bulbous and fist-like in design, its ruby red and various blue hues coming together over the mail and chromed under plating. Amber and silver sprinkled the car's surface, while a crisply cut windshield tinted navy blue met the hood in clean fashion. Optimus' vehicle mode powered up quickly, his boosters and hoverpads throwing him forward, ignoring the retreating cry of "Optimus!" from an enraged Megatron. He caught up with Prowl, his Autobot badge flashing in the smoky light, his white armor taught and sleek over his vehicle form.
"We cannot allow the Decepticons to breach the city walls," Optimus yelled over the noise of the stampede. "Have your wings fly ahead. It would seem our enemy did not think to bring siege ladders or grapplers with which to scale the walls, so they'll have to climb by hand and foot. Command our wings to defend the walls of any enemy willing to climb, and that they are to pick off the Decepticons as we would pick flies. The city's defenses will hold off the enemy wing should they attempt attack. I want our ground forces cutting off retreat. I shall marshal forces from within the city and lead an outward attack from there."
"Sir, I cannot recommend that you traverse this chaos alone, especially with the communications blackout. You would be cut off from any defense. Our ground forces can make the push and secure the city themselves."
Optimus would have none of it. "Prowl, our men are scattered with no way to talk to one another save by word-of-mouth." The two vehicles swerved around a pile of bodies blocking their immediate path. Optimus veered left to catch back up with his Second. "The Decepticons have already dented our fighting force," Optimus continued. "Were we to deliver the brunt of an attack, our enemy would finish us off. We need reinforcements and we need them now. Do as I command, and redirect our ground forces for a blockade effort. Spare one of our wings and have him meet me for pickup once I get to the walls' perimeter, if that would make you rest easier."
"Yes sir." Prowl's curt reply was almost lost in the noise of the charge of vehicles and wine of engines. Optimus himself veered from Prowl's side, swerving around the fallen soldiers. He spotted one whom he knew; a gleaming golden avenger streaked with chromed plate and diamond black accents. His body lay sprawled out, weapon still in hand, his chest impacted. The soldier's helmet had been split down center, along with the top of his head. Optimus' vehicle thrusters jettisoned him forward, the body of the soldier disappearing in a wink as Optimus climbed the high slope that led up to the cliff. Transforming cleanly this time, his hand touched the ground, holding his body aloft as it shifted form. Flipping, the cacophony of parts now dressed themselves as armor and plate, clicking into place. Optimus' feet hit hard rock as he completed his transformation back into robot form.
The walls of Iacon were peppered with the enemy, black dots crawling along the huge stony surface. Optimus' flying force had done as he commanded, though the Decepticon forces seemed to multiply exponentially now. The huge cannons fired off two more obnoxious torpedoes, sending several aerial enemy men flying back, dust and smoke shooting off in every direction. Other weapons were firing from the city now as well. Small artillery and battery units fired off rounds, their muzzles lighting up as bullets found their targets in the sky. Optimus darted forward, firing his blaster at attempted assault. He saw several of his men overtake a platoon of enemies to his right as he ran past, and saw a few of the men who were scaling the walls get shot and fall, beginning the long, long drop down to ground, Autobot jets rallying overhead. Optimus saw one break off formation, swooping down, taking out several Decepticons blocking Optimus' path.
Optimus heard the plane's engines scream, the broad body of the plane masking the light shining down onto him. Optimus scampered across the terrain of Cybertronian ground as the jet paralleled his progress. The noise of battle was all encompassing as shouts and orders and the sound of steel and gunfire ricocheted in Optimus' ear. The walls drew closer, the grey of color coming into focus, the ant-like Decepticons now fully etched outlines of men scaling the surface.
The jet landed to Optimus' right. The body was polished white bordered in ruby red, the cockpit tinted fired his blaster at advancing enemy troops, protecting his transport. He hopped onto the wing, latching his free hand onto the plane while his weapon drew cover fire as they lifted off the ground. As they made their ascent, bullets and spears flew in their direction, though weather aimed for them or simply streaking by in search of other targets, Optimus could not say. The sky was awash with smoke from jets and gunfire, so Optimus had to squint to see ahead of him. The jet skirted around various enemies, proton bullets missing the duo by margins. Optimus felt cool air rush past him as his flyer veered steadily toward the walls, the jet's under wing armament firing off its rounds at oncoming enemy flyers.
The walls drew nearer. Coming upon them, Optimus felt the world tilt as his jet shot upward, scaling the walls' surface, leaving the chaos of the dogfighting behind. He saw a few Decepticon bodies whizz by him. A Decepticon clad in magenta and purple armor speckled with gold jumped from his spot on the wall, grabbing hold of the bottom of the vehicle. Optimus fired off a few rounds from his blaster, but not before the Decepticon fired at the jet's thrusters.
By now Optimus could see the gleaming city proper. They were past the blockade of stone. Leveling, the jet sputtered as it rocketed forward, sending the three of them spiraling down into the depths of the city. The jet's armor began to shift as Optimus attempted to bat away the extra weight of his enemy. Optimus' contact with the jet faltered, his ally's body now compressing and twisting wildly as they fell. The Decepticon transformed as well. The vehicle crumpled as it made contact with the third wall inward to the city. Optimus' eyes stung as the air whipped him hard around. He had lost sight of his companion, the Autobot scattered in this hellish fall.
He tried for transformation, though he was so disoriented and dazed that some of his body would not respond to his command. He fell, his body snapping around, the city, sky, wall, and battle all coming together in one whirling mush of image. Even he could not hear his scream, though he was sure that his vocals had produced something harsh.
The impact hit his right shoulder first, though the pain spread like spilt water, flowing seamlessly over his body and making Optimus crumple under his own impact and weight. Optimus felt dust settle on him, hot sunrays beating, the city walls' shade no longer existing to cool his armor. Optimus lay there for a long time, his Spark pulsing quickly. I should be dead, he thought, his joints aching. Why am I not dead? His answer came when his jet thruster upon his back sputtered the last of its exhaust, the blue now a faint shower of smoke wafting into the air. He smiled, forcing his wingpack to retract. His armor was stained with dust, the red of his Autobot sigil having corroded into a brown pigment. The helmet upon his head had cracked. One spire had snapped off, the jagged metal of Optimus' helmet casting a light shadow on the scorched ground. Optimus rolled over onto his side and tried to get up.
His blaster had retracted during his fall, the action completed possibly due to panic or the need to wave both hands around frantically. He tried to push himself up with the right hand, though putting the bulk of his weight on it made the needles of pain ram themselves into his arm, hot and searing. His right arm was bent at the shoulder at a less-than-friendly angle. Optimus let out a gasp, his arm immediately going limp, and his body crumpled atop it. The second time he tried to get up, he went about it smartly, using his left hand and his legs.
His gaze fell on the walls, their height almost unfathomable from where he stood. The sun made their surfaces blistered, and even from within the city, the walls were cracked and gnarled looking slabs of protective metal and stone and mud, the ground battle barely carrying sound over the massive border protection. The tops of those great slabs were lost to the sky.
Optimus felt hands spin him around. He glimpsed the fire red Autobot sigil on the stranger's armor. "Optimus Prime?" asked the stranger. His voice was gruff, his armor heavy, blue and white slashed with crimson. Hobbling, his legs shivering from having to carry his battered and now brittle form, Optimus leaned on the soldier's shoulder as he righted himself.
"Ultra Magnus?" Optimus felt hope rejuvenate him at once, as he saw a wave of men, at least 400 lined in rank and file fall in behind the commander.
"Sir, what is the status of your Autobot defenses, and why have we not received word from you?" Ultra Magnus asked, his blue eyes as piercing as Optimus' were.
"My people were hit with a comm blackout wave. Our forces request your assistance in smashing in the Decepticon armies from the front. My ground troops are already moving into position so as to cut off retreat. I propose that your men open the walls so as to let both our armies lay waste to the enemy fold."
Ultra Magnus considered that. He was a gruff soldier, stern, and tended to follow protocol and the chain of command to such a rigid degree that Optimus sometimes wondered if he were not somehow related to a wooden plank. "Your plan holds merit, though I would object to allowing the Decepticons to potentially breach the city, especially given the blackout from which you say your men are suffering. Also, our forces are on the reserve; we do not intend to open the gates while the threat remains at such a high level of strength."
"If you do not, my men will die out there, comm blackout or no, and the Decepticons will replenish their forces and scale the wall until they are over it."
"You felt yourself the effects of what the fall will do to any man who falls from that height or above, and that was with temporary air support," Ultra Magnus objected.
Optimus countered in desperation. "The Decepticon wings will-"
Ultra Magnus held up a hand. "I will not run the risk of letting this city fall. It has endured for millennia, and I will not be the guardian who might see to its destruction."
"If you do not do as I suggest, you most assuredly will be the guardian who saw to its destruction," Optimus spat. "Do as I command and raise the gates and split the walls. You will rush the enemy before they can right themselves, and put an end to this siege."
Ultra Magnus looked unpleased; this was a man who did not enjoy losing an argument, though the prospects of losing a battle made him acquiesce on the matter. "Very well," he said. "I shall relinquish command of my force over to you, but I strongly advise you to reconsider this plan. If what you suggest fails, the Decepticons will breach our lines and pillage the city, and there will be no walls to stop them in that effort."
"Your objections have been noted. I will ask that you relay my commands to your people. The blackout will make it impossible for me to coordinate everything simultaneously."
"Understood." Ultra Magnus turned his back to Optimus.
Optimus heard a groan, and looked over to see his transport over the walls stirring. Optimus strode over to the robot, Ultra Magnus returning to his ranks.
"Are you alright, soldier?" asked Optimus, casting a shadow over the downed Autobot, his face a gleaming sheen of silver. His eyes sparked to life, the blue light buzzing as his optics whirred, taking in the images before him.
"I'm… alive," the Autobot said. Astounding that he retains speech after such a fall, thought Optimus, helping him sit up.
"What is your name?" Optimus asked.
"Jetfire," the Autobot replied.
"Jetfire," Optimus repeated. "I thank you for your escort into the city, however derailed it may have been."
"My apologies, sir," Jetfire said. His armor was white bordered in red along the back wings and forearms, though the dust and air and battle had worn at the paint. "That 'Con took out my thruster. I had to glide us in. I didn't mean to let you go. I panicked."
"You need not apologize," Optimus consoled him. "Are you fit for battle," he asked.
Jetfire stood. "Yes, though my flight capabilities are hampered at best." He glanced at Ultra Magnus' army. "I suppose I'll be joining that lot?"
"No," Optimus said. "You are to reestablish communications with Prowl and alert him to our situation. Tell him that we have secured reinforcements and that we will be moving the walls so as to head the Decepticon army in full. I order that we move our wings forward to join in the assault and the grounded to cut off retreat. How well can you fly?"
"Well enough. I should have enough juice for one more short flight," Jetfire said. He transformed, albeit haphazardly, and took to the skies, his thrusters sputtering before jettisoning him into the sun's glare.
Optimus closed his eyes. He was so tired. His body was smashed, his armor in shambles. Megatron had taken the most of Optimus' strength for himself. A smart strategy, Optimus mused, turning back to Ultra Magnus.
"Are you certain that your wingman can traverse those skies safely?" Ultra Magnus asked with but a hint of smug emotion that would have made the likes of Prowl, and perhaps a not-so-well-oiled door, cringe.
"I will have you keep your place, Ultra Magnus," Optimus said, his eyes weary. "Yours is not to call into question the reliance of my men."
"Perhaps not," said Ultra Magnus. "But this is my city, and I'll not have the fate of it be squandered by one who cannot keep his own commander airborne."
This is intolerable! Optimus pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Ultra Magnus, I will appeal to your sense of command and note that as long as I am within your walls, command of your forces falls to me, as does the fate of this city. As such, a sign of respect towards not only myself, but for my men would be appreciable. I will have you keep a tight leash on that uncivil tongue."
Ultra Magnus' eyes hardened. Optimus did not want to wage war within his own army as well. Except, this wasn't his army. Not really, anyway. It was the commander's, and Optimus could not blame him for being protective, even hostile towards one who might pose a threat to his command.
The two commanders turned to the wall in response to the huge BOOM that had erupted from the other side. Optimus felt the air cool as Iacon's weapons returned fire.
"Raise the gates and prep for wall-retraction," Optimus commanded, deploying his blaster. "I want to bottleneck the Decepticons before they come flooding in."
Ultra Magnus looked at him. "Sir, you are in no condition to fight," he said.
"My arm is fine," Optimus said.
His arm was not fine. It hurt, a lot. Moreover, the weapons within were completely useless as no level of transformation involving that limb could occur now, at least not without serious agony dealt to him, and even then, he was not sure that the weapons would be forthcoming from the armor. Nevertheless, he did not want to return to the position of Prime if he could help it. The battlefield is where he belonged, and that is where he would be staying for now.
Ultra Magnus seemed to sense his determination, as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "As you are then, sir," he said.
Optimus turned his gaze back to the walls. The sun was still blazing, the bright lazuli of the sky enveloping Optimus' vision as the walls began to part. It was a slow and agonizing few moments. The silver slabs of protection made a hideous low creaking noise, their enormous locks and bolts undoing themselves as the sky filled the gap between them. A few seconds later, a mass of troops came into view, some charging, but most still engaged in their own fighting. Bodies fell from the walls, the movement too much to contend with. Flyers came into view as well, their dogfighting set low compared to the heights of the barriers.
"Charge!" Optimus yelled, his voice carrying over the field. He raised his left arm high, silver firearm catching the light as he ran. Ultra Magnus was at his heels, and Optimus heard the distinct sound of the commander's right arm transforming into its weapon mode. Behind Optimus, the new army flooded out of the tight gates, their double file system quickly seeping into the outside. From above, the ensuing clash of three armies must have looked like a great wave hitting rock before settling on shore. Optimus took out one man, two men, three, four, five, he lost count. He and Ultra Magnus worked in tandem, covering each other's backs and made the ground messy with the pileup of corpses, the oil blood and Cybertronian innards running rampant upon the ground. Optimus gritted his teeth as his right shoulder slammed into hard steel and armor, throwing him aside. His good arm transformed, mounting the blade, and he made a jab at an oncoming soldier and caught him in the thigh. The enemy went down, and Ultra Magnus pulled Optimus roughly to his feet.
The crowd around Optimus was noisy and hot and sticky and claustrophobic. His blade met enemy steel, the two swords locking in combat. Optimus did not know his opposition by name, though judging his battle-worn armor and the way he carried his sword, Optimus guessed that he was experienced enough to give him an even fight on a good day. This was not a good day, Optimus realized, sidestepping the figure and switching his weapon accessory again, his blaster popping out where his blade had been a second before. He fired, shattering the enemy's back plate armor. He took out another man, the blast sending the hot oil blood spraying over Optimus' body. Optimus looked around. He had lost sight of Ultra Magnus in the chaos of battle.
Advancing another few steps, Optimus felt a fist collide with his back. He keeled, righted, then wheeled about, his sword coming back from its recessed position from within his good arm, and latching onto several blades in succession. Optimus found himself in battle with three Decepticons sheathed in black armor, the purple and gold detail popping in the noon light. Each wore a stern, determined expression, spinning his little dagger. Optimus found his disadvantage worsen as they attacked him simultaneously, one grabbing for his wounded arm. Screaming, Optimus forced the limb to move, pain shooting across his chest and back. The blade scraped out of its sheath of red armor, his hand not sitting properly within his forearm, the transformation incomplete and somewhat comical to look at, no doubt. It would have to do, he realized, as Optimus sliced at his limb-mounted enemy. The red energy in this half-extended blade was nonexistent, so it looked unfinished: two stumpy thin silver stripes joined in a point at the end, looking ever so brittle.
Optimus swung his deadweight limb around, catching one attacker in the neck, the steel grinding against plated leather. Optimus piled the blade downward, his arm afire, bringing the combatant to the ground. Using the stuck Decepticon as a pivot point, Optimus dodged a swing from the third opponent, the silver hand-held dagger missing his eye by margins. He made for the small of the Decepticon's back which now faced him, kicking his attacker hard, bringing him down and thrusting his good blade into the attacker's shoulder armor. The three united-Decepticons-by-armor lay sprawling, their weapons flung about carelessly. Optimus righted himself, his right arm now stuck in weapon mode, his energy too low to suffer more agony by simple command.
And then Ultra Magnus was there by his side again, backing away from two enemies who had taken it upon themselves to try to deal the Autobot commander a fatal blow each. Ultra Magnus' armor was cracked and dented, the white turned yellow as dirt joined in making up his color palette. He had lost a chunk of back armor, his right shoulder blade and a section of spine now exposed. Optimus rushed the attackers, cursing, tackling one to the ground and jamming his right half-sword into the man's abdomen. Ultra Magnus barreled his fists into the second attacker; Optimus heard a definite crack as the fist broke jawline, and then their battle was done. Quiet settled over them now, the bodies of the dead and dying covering the ground on which they stood. Optimus tried to ignore the smell.
He looked around. The winged fighting had nearly ceased, while the ground lay scorched and strewn with the dead. Optimus realized now that he and Ultra Magnus were alone in the immediate vicinity, the main battle having flowed to the far south of the walls. Optimus could see his and Ultra Magnus' men making short work of the Decepticons, of whom many had since yielded.
"Sir, the battle is ours," Ultra Magnus said.
"Yes." Optimus closed his eyes, his left arm sliding back its armor to showcase his hand again. "I want the remaining Decepticons rounded up and taken back to the Detention Banks."
"Of course, commander," said Ultra Magnus, saluting briefly before scurrying off.
Optimus stared at the dead and the destruction around him. These are my troops, he realized, dropping to his knees. He cradled a fallen Autobot in his lap, the soldier's armor bright red and orange overtop silver; a soldier wreathed in flames. What was his name? "Hot Rod"? No, that could not be it. "Hot Rodimus", "Rodimus", "Rodimus Convoy"? He did not know. Optimus recognized the face. What was his name? Optimus retracted his faceplate, his mouth a frowning cut across his plain silver face. His eyes glowed glistening blue among the unlit pits in the faces of the dead.
"Optimus." He turned. Prowl loomed over him his face a mask of emotionlessness, his white armor stained blood gold, cracked and dented. "We have captured Megatron."
Optimus got up, resting the fallen Autobot upon the ground once again. "I want our dead buried and marked," he said, ignoring Prowl's comment. He would deal with Megatron in time.
He felt Prowl's gaze follow him. "Sir, we can't possibly burry them all. Our losses are too numerous, our remaining men tired and desperate for respite."
"We bury them," Optimus said, his tone not permitting an argument.
"Very well. We shall… do what we can," Prowl said. "Should we pick them of weapon and armor first?" he asked. "Our supplies are numbered and our men short of defense and plate."
"Do what you must," Optimus spat coldly. "But do not desecrate or otherwise maim them. These are soldiers, not artillery banks."
"As you say, sir," Prowl said.
The path back to the city was long on foot, though Optimus refused vehicular aid whenever it was offered to him; right now he wanted to be as far away from his title as possible. About him, bodies littered the ground, the oil blood mixing with the slick metal and mud to create a soup of death and innards. These are my men, my doing, Optimus thought, looking around him. His command had resulted in the destruction of life for the salvation of things. Such folly, he scoffed, his blue eyes glaring at the city walls.
Entering the city, Pion Tower was cut out before him in a path of harsh angles and forests of buildings that looked as though they were about to topple over on top of him. He saw that the city's populace was returning to the shops and brothels and dorms and such that plagued the city's streets. The bustle was instantaneous, the cheers of encouragement and victory filling his ears. He ignored them. Optimus' stride was long and full as he passed the people congregating in the streets.
The stares were everywhere, but if he looked straight ahead, Optimus found that he could block out many of the people in his periphery. Strange, he thought. I am more comfortable around the dead than I am the living, and even then, I remain out of place and alone. Such was the burden of Prime, and such would he carry until he died. Optimus scowled, his helmet engulfing his head, squeezing it until he felt as though he were going to burst, his thoughts running rampant within his brain. Perhaps it is the stress, he thought bitterly. Perhaps I ought to rest here, or take time before I confront Megatron. Optimus looked about him, admiring the sunbaked buildings, the brown pigment drinking the light out of the sky.
His vision was growing blurry, the blue hue of the world being replaced with grey and brown and death and admiring stares from those around him. There are thousands dead out there, he thought. Yet you treat me as a patron of the living. He lumbered onward, toward the tower. I am a patron of death. The people see me as some kind of savior. If they knew what my position meant. You are a Prime, a small voice said in his head. And that carries both honor to those who are blind enough to see honor only, and death and cowardice to those who are more observant. Deal, and keep moving. Optimus zigged and zagged along with the winding roads of tar that paved his way to Pion Tower, his right arm buzzing as the stares of countless hundreds rammed themselves into his head and dispersed guilt and shame into his brain; guilt, shame, and guilt, and death, and guilt, and betrayal, and guilt, and darkness, and guilt, and black.