Chapter 2: Slaughterhouse-Five
The Autobot had been silent since Drag Strip had shoved him back into Motormaster's trailer, but in the darkness Dead End could see the blue optics move back and forth, the light in them dimming and brightening spasmodically. He was clearly growing more desperate, but Dead End, sitting at the other end of the trailer, knew there was little if anything the Autobot could do now. He set the wheels in motion and there's nothing further to be done except endure the ride to destruction.
Outside, Dead End heard occasional crashes and screams, with the sounds of sirens weaving in and out before explosions cut them off—of course, if this is early 1984, the humans haven't heard of Cybertronians, let alone us. When a silence fell and the road grew rough, he guessed they were approaching the volcano where the Autobot ship had crashed. The intercom switched on.
"Remember how you dragged us to your ship, Autobot?" Motormaster said. "Remember how the lot of you came crowding out to point and gawk?"
The Autobot said nothing. Dead End couldn't recall him being one of the spectators who had watched and jeered, but then again, he had been in too much pain at the time—not to mention humiliation at the spectacle he made—to remember specifics.
"Remember how you all laughed at us?" Motormaster went on. "Right about… here. Still want to laugh?"
The Autobot offlined his optics. He didn't look again until Motormaster braked hard and the trailer door opened. Dead End wasn't particularly sure he wanted to get out either. The last few seconds of the drive had been smooth enough for him to tell they were inside the Autobot ship by then. Even if they were six months away from their enemies being revived, he didn't want to be among the entire Autobot army under any circumstances.
But when Motormaster's joints and components shifted impatiently, he scrambled out, because the trailer transforming with him still inside would do unlovely things to his bodywork. Drag Strip pulled the Autobot out and Breakdown took the time machine. The place was so dark that all Dead End could see were the glowing purple points of optics and the bright beams of headlights, so nothing seemed quite real until Wildrider found the switch that operated the Ark's internal lights.
For a moment the Stunticons stood motionless, staring at the sight before them.
The bodies of Autobots and Decepticons alike lay on the floor, a few slumped against walls or beside the wide computer consoles. If not for their colors being evident even beneath a thick coating of dust, Dead End would have thought he was in a peculiarly non-discriminatory crypt. He stared at Optimus Prime's form, then at Megatron's frame just a few yards away, but neither moved. The sounds of the Stunticons' engines and the Autobot's hoarse ventilations were all he could hear.
A sharp snap made him start, but when he turned it was only to see Motormaster pull a tow cable taut, yanking on it with both hands to make certain it wouldn't break. Without a word, Motormaster hauled the Autobot to a corner of the vast room and shoved him against a thick spire of rock that jutted out of the floor, lashing him to it with the cable, winding it around the Autobot's fins and wrists. The Autobot struggled wildly and shouted out to Prime once, but it made no difference.
That being done, Motormaster came back to join the rest of the Stunticons, none of whom had moved. He stared down at the rest of the Autobots, his violet stare moving slowly from right to left as if drinking in the sight.
"Right, then," he said without looking away from the Autobots. "Get started."
"Get started on what?" Wildrider said.
"Finish them off, what else?"
Dead End was suddenly aware of how everyone's gaze jumped to him, startlement flickering like electricity through the gestalt link. None of them had any objections to killing enemies during battle, or even deactivating 'bots they had beaten in a fight, but this was a little different. He felt everything they felt—confusion from Wildrider, distaste from Drag Strip and a uneasy caution from Breakdown—but it was as if the utter silence allowed their thoughts to come through as well in a jerky, fragmented flow.
"…warriors, not executioners…"
"Do we have to? Can't we at least wake 'em up…"
"…what'll happen to us? I mean, Megatron created…"
"I gave you an order!" Motormaster snapped.
Dead End groped for the only delaying tactic he had. "I can't fire a compressed-air gun in here," he began. "Maybe we should—"
Motormaster pulled his own atom-smasher rifle from subspace and threw it at him. Dead End caught the weapon in mid-air just as Motormaster's sword flared. From the corners of his eyes he saw the other Stunticons draw their weapons as well.
None of them seemed in a hurry to start shooting, though, and Drag Strip turned his gun over in his hands as if searching for the right controls. "All of them?" he said.
"All except Prime," Motormaster said. "He's for Megatron to deal with. But get rid of the rest of them, now."
There was none of Wildrider's usual enthusiasm in his voice. "Boss… can't we just put 'em in the brig?"
Drag Strip nodded. "Megatron might want to deal with them all himself. Maybe he'll want to interrogate them or something."
Motormaster said nothing as he studied the two of them, and the cold sinking depth that turned his part of the gestalt link to a black hole told them all that they had gone too far. "Come here, Wildrider," he said, his voice calm.
"Uh, if it's all the same to you—" Wildrider began.
Motormaster spun on his heel and threw his sword like a javelin at Drag Strip. It barely missed his shoulder and rammed into the wall, splitting that with a harsh crackle of energy. Drag Strip flung himself out of the way, but Motormaster didn't even seem to notice that.
"Come here, Wildrider," he said again.
Dead End could feel Wildrider's despair through the link, but he knew after that little display Wildrider would obey—which he did, shoulders slumping. Not wanting to see what would happen next, Dead End stared down at his fender-panels and tried to think about polishing them. He checked the air pressure in his ankle-tires as well, and wondered how many PSI those could take before they burst.
"Do you remember what happened when we were in the brig?" he heard Motormaster say. "I know you're insane, but are you terminally stupid as well? And the Autobots built the fragging place. Do you think they'll have any problem getting out of there?"
There was a crash as a heavy weight struck the floor, and scuffling noises as Wildrider tried to put as much space between himself and Motormaster's feet as possible, though when Dead End finally allowed his attention to be dragged back to the scene, it was clear Wildrider wouldn't argue any further. Breakdown stayed so still and quiet that he might have been mistaken for another of the offline mechs. Motormaster turned to Drag Strip.
"As for you," he said, "since when did you give a slag what Megatron wants? If you weren't such a coward, you'd be jumping in, trying to shoot more 'bots than the rest of us. Guess your paintjob's not the only thing yellow about you."
Drag Strip's optics burned behind his visor, his emotions bitter as acid through the gestalt link, but he said nothing.
"Do it," Motormaster said softly, and his gaze fixed on Dead End with all the intensity of a targeting lock.
No choice. Dead End primed the rifle, then pushed the barrel against the nearest Autobot helm, which rocked slightly from the impact. The helm was black. His gaze slid past it and he recognized the Autobot's face.
Dead End could just about bring himself to remember all his fellow Decepticons' designations, but acknowledging the Autobots as individuals seemed not only a waste of effort but a possible hindrance to deactivating them. He was very well aware of their alt-modes, capabilities and weapons, because those were all relevant in battle, but other than that he didn't care. One mech on the road to dusty death was hardly different from another.
But this Autobot was almost his counterpart on the enemy side. Jazz, the only 'bot who transformed into a Porsche, had taken Dead End's part in an elaborate trick Optimus Prime had played on Megatron, something the Stunticons could never forget. Dead End only wished he could feel at least a little of the hatred and revenge that spurred Motormaster on; that might make it easier to pull the trigger. Much as he disliked the Autobots and knew they deserved some payback for that trick, he had never coldly and deliberately terminated an offline enemy. And deep down in his core, a small voice whispered that while Jazz might have impersonated him and clearly enjoyed doing so, Jazz would never have murdered him.
If I don't do it, Motormaster will… and he'll slag me for insubordination. If I don't obey, none of the others will be able to bring themselves to do it either, and Motormaster will slag them. We've come too far to turn back now.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
The rifle bucked in recoil, and Jazz's head disintegrated into dust. The black-and-white plating with the racing stripes turned a dull grey. The bound Autobot screamed, but Motormaster ignored him. He gave Dead End a satisfied nod, and then his head tilted as he noticed Starscream's prone body. He delivered a swift kick to the Seeker's side.
"Now get on with it!" he ordered before retrieving his sword and moving on to the next Autobot.
It became a little easier after that. Dead End was careful not to look at anyone's face. He searched for faction insignia and the Autobots went from being individuals to being a mass of scrap metal he just had to fire at. It wasn't even as though anyone was screaming in agony except for the bound Autobot, and he stopped when his vocalizer seemed to give out—or when Motormaster finally got tired of the racket and threatened to revive the 'bots one by one before killing them if he didn't shut up. In the background Dead End heard metal shear and twist in the grip of gravitational forces from Drag Strip's gun, but that was good too—the Autobots were even less recognizable after he was done with them. The stench of scorched paint, burned rubber and spilled oil rose thick and heavy in the air.
When it was all over, Motormaster dusted his hands off, subspaced his sword and took his rifle back from Dead End. Even through the haze of smoke and dust, Dead End could see he was smiling again; it wasn't a sight Dead End particularly wanted to see, but everywhere else he looked, there were deactivated Autobots. That was everyone's eventual fate, so there was no point in being squeamish about it, but he still found it repellant somehow. Still, at least it's finished now. There was nothing worse Motormaster could command him to do.
"Good work," Motormaster said. It was a terse compliment, but even those were so rare from their leader that all the Stunticons just looked blankly at him. Motormaster didn't seem to notice, though. He subspaced his rifle, then bent to grasp Megatron's shoulders, but he winced as he did so. Not that he seemed to want anyone's help at that moment. Carefully, pushing aside an Autobot head with the side of his foot to make room, he pulled Megatron's body before the computer console, directly beneath the scanners.
The computer activated. Light played over Megatron's frame and different components materialized in the halo, sliding and fitting into place as the computer automatically reformatted him. A red light glowed in the depths of his optics.