The Rebirth

by DoctorDo

G1AU. Cybertron has been restored, and massive advancements are being made to accept the Decepticon's members. Many have called it the Rebirth of Cybertron, though even the best ideas have their dissenters. Decepticon Rebel attacks rock the fragile peace of postwar Cybertron, and a former prison ship leaves for a lost colony. Meanwhile, on the planet Nebulos . . . two ships crash.

4. Violent Demonstration

Author's Note: Holy scrap. This is unquestionably the longest story I've ever written. This single chapter is literally a thousand words longer than the previous three chapters . . . COMBINED. In retrospect, I should probably have split it into two or three parts, but I didn't feel like drawing four different character profiles this early in the fic's history.

I DO NOT OWN the characters of the Knights Temporal. They belong in all respects to F-for-feasant-design on DeviantArt. I highly, highly suggest you check his stuff out. It's amazing in every sense of the word.

By the way, in this fic, Brainstorm is not remembering the events documented. He's playing his own private recording, but his memories don't contribute to this story.

One mechanometer is approximately equal to ten feet, or 3.04 m. One stellar cycle is the Cybertronian equivalent to a year. One decacycle is about a week give or take a few days.

Hope you enjoy it! The companion piece over at DeviantArt under Dr-Do is Autobot Goldfire. You can find him in the "Autobots" folder.

In other news, I'm going to be publishing these stories on DeviantArt too as soon as I can! I shall spread my tentacles of poor writing farther into the heart of the Interwebs. Please, leave reviews when you're finished reading! My thanks.

-The Doctor (Do)

---

Medical instruments blared as he worked furiously to stabilize the condition of the empty protoform. Though he had diverted its higher functions to secondary, tertiary, and in some cases quaternary locations, the industrial-grade spark just wouldn't take to the lifeless body in front of him. As always, ideas and thought processes bubbled continuously to the forefront of his mind. He had tried every one, each string of reasoning and logic bringing Brainstorm closer to sparking the hollowed-out suit, but none actually granting the protoform power.

He set his styli down in frustration. Brainstorm was a patient mech, but this operation really was grinding his gears. If he couldn't get some semblance of energy running through this thing, then how would Chromedome write the all-important coding into it that would allow the Nebulans to pilot it from the inside?

The Resistance had, surprisingly, agreed unanimously to provide support for the Autobots come the Pit or high water, but Duros had been the only one to volunteer to undergo the rigorous binary bonding process and, by extension, fighting alongside an Autobot partner. Brainstorm had a lot of work to do. Yet, this infuriating proto simply refused to cooperate. He'd be lucky if he could get this done in a stellar cycle.

Exhaling sharply, he sat delicately on the doctor's chair in the Fortress Maximus's acceptable medbay and observed the protoform in depth. Really, all these made-to-order protos consisted of was wires, cables, and life-sustaining machinery encased in a slate-gray frame. Brainstorm had managed to scrape out a Nebulan-sized cavity in its chest, prepped for the insertion of a cockpit. He had also needed to add a ventilation system so the pilot wouldn't overheat, a state-of-the-art suspension system of his own design, and the evasive vital components box, stored rather messily underneath where the pilot's seat would be.

He sighed again. Therein lies the problem. Theoretically, the spark should be able to take, but the double-C crystal stubbornly wouldn't cooperate. An unbidden thought came to him, and though he tried to force it back down, it slipped through his mental firewalls.

How did I, an NCIHL graduate, end up staring at a protoform and trying to shove a cockpit - for an organic, no less - into it?

The answer, of course, was simple. He found himself remembering events from one decacycle ago. A part of him wanted to keep - well, brainstorming - over the protoform, but most of him figured otherwise. Maybe a break was just what his processor needed.

After all, he thought, loading his private recording, I've got all the time in the world.

---

It was a seasonally warm evening in Iacon's Central Spaceport that day. Despite the important launch taking off to the newly rediscovered colony of Caminus, the atmosphere had a laid-back, comfortable feeling. Goldfire had missed days like these during the War on Earth. Sure, the little blue planet was gorgeous in its own multitude of ways, but there was something about his home planet that just made him entirely content.

He gazed out the large floor-to-ceiling window right next to the small table he was sitting at. The sky was a light periwinkle blue, the occasional transport or Flier soaring through the sparse clouds of smoke. Every time Goldfire looked outside, he was amazed by how much it had cleared up in the short time since the war had ended. A few times during the conflict, he remembered, the sky had been so choked with thick black smoke that not even the sun had penetrated the miasma. He was unspeakably pleased with how quickly it had cleared away since not even two stellar cycles ago.

Now, the sunlight gleamed proudly off the shiny buildings and spires that stretched as far as even Goldfire's keen optics could see. Many spaceships landed and took off as he watched, their rapid ascents proving a fitting metaphor to the state of Cybertron since the terrible war had ceased. Chief among these ships was the Fortress Maximus, about a hundred thousand mechatonnes of promising Cybertanium. Once a heavy-duty prison ship, it was currently being loaded with Energon, blank protoforms, and munitions enough to stabilize the newly rediscovered, energy-starved colony of Caminus on the outer rim of Cybertron's local sector. Goldfire could even see his Throttlebot brother, Wideload, helping to transport the goods even from this distance. His bright construction orange was visible even surrounded by all the other brightly-colored mechs and femmes milling about the loading bay.

Goldfire hummed idly to himself as he continued watching, the wide window yielding an excellent view of the spaceport down below. About half a breem later, his quiet reverie was interrupted by a waitress arriving with a cube of Energon.

"One mid-grade, extra petrol, topped with magnesium shavings, sir?" she asked, reading off a memo datapad.

"That's right. Thanks, sweetspark," Goldfire replied, taking the proffered glowing cube. The waitress nodded, then began to skate away with small wheels attached to her pedes, before stopping short.

"Oh my Primus. You're Bumblebee, aren't you?" she said, incredulity in her voice.

Goldfire smiled beneath his mouthplate. "Most people call me Goldfire these days, but yeah," he rapped on his electrum-plated armor, "In the dynametal."

"Holy scrap! Er, sorry," she said, cooling fans kicking in, "I'm just excited. My class is reading about the Great War, and your story is just so amazing and, and so tragic. You've been through so much and . . . Will you sign my datapad?"

The femme reached into her subspace and pulled out a new-looking datapad, handing it to Goldfire. The screen was displaying a title embossed in gold over an image of a war-torn cityscape. Goldfire recognized it with a jolt, for it was the skyline of Iacon shortly before the Ignition. He still heard the screams of the immolated victims that he failed to save during his very worst recharge projections.

Shaking the bad memory away, Goldfire signed the pad with a stylus that he pulled out of subspace. The title read The Great War: An Unbiased Account. He found himself approving of an unbiased narration of the war, and made a mental note to pick up a copy for himself when he saw that Soundwave of Kaon had written it.

Handing it back to the waitress, he said, "Here you go-"

"Lightbright. Primus . . . Thank you so much, sir," she gushed.

"Lightbright! I got two orders over here that need delivering!" an older-sounding voice ragged by millennia of cygar smoke barked.

"Sorry, Deepfryer! It's just that Bumblebee's here and-"

"Bumblebee? The Bumblebee?" A frenetic-looking Beastformer stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Sweet! It's an honor, sir. Say, would you mind saying your motto for us quick?"

"C'mon, Fang, the poor mech just wants to have his Energon," a scrawny red Destroyer-class said from behind the counter, shooting Goldfire apologetic glances the whole time.

"It's cool, Contakt! It's only one sentence!"

Goldfire winced as the kid held up a personal communications device, a red light indicating it was ready to record. His thick tail swayed back and forth excitedly, making it impossible for the red mech to approach from behind to pull him back. Quite a large crowd had gathered around Goldfire's booth, causing him to feel closed in. Despite his centuries of practice, Goldfire's spark began to pulse erratically as other diners craned their necks to watch. He showed nothing outwardly, but he was on the verge of panic on the inside.

"Of course. 'To know others, you must know yourself-'"

"No, no," Fang said, pricking his lupinoid audio sensors in surprise. "The other one. Y'know, 'the least likely-'"

"Right. 'The least likely can be the most dangerous.'" Goldfire recited without inflection.

"Awesome! Thanks, 'Bee. Now I can add this to my collection!" Fang proclaimed.

The spaceport café erupted into applause and whistles.

"Amazing!"

"Nice!"

"Energon's on the house!"

Eventually, the crowd dispersed and the cheers died down, leaving Goldfire frankly wanting to crawl into a hole. He sipped his Energon, only to find that it had gotten cool. The air, once warm and comfortable, had turned oppressive.

A bulky red mech with a gigantic cannon on his back took the seat directly across from him a few seconds later. "Real smooth there, Goldie." he snarked in a quiet, young voice one wouldn't normally expect from someone of his size and heft.

"Thanks, Scattershot," Goldfire replied dryly, reaching out to shake the giant scientist's hand.

"It's been too long, little buddy!" Scattershot exclaimed, pumping his hand vigorously. "Where're the other boys?"

"Down below, loading the Fortress Maximus. Freeway's running the comedy circuit over in New Crystal City. Yours?"

"Same, actually. Although, we're working on the more technical aspects of the launch. Clearing the ship for takeoff, running diagnostics on the computers . . ."

"Good times," Goldfire noted, taking another sip of his lukewarm Energon.

"Yeah. I'm shaking your hand too long," Scattershot remarked, releasing the Director from his enthusiastic grip. "Seriously, though, we should get together sometime. We went down to Earth to visit ol' Pops a couple cycles ago, and hoo boy," he splayed his fingers, "those Dinobots can fraggin' party."

Goldfire chuckled. "How are things on Earth, anyway?"

Scattershot's demeanor suddenly took a turn for the worse. "Well, it's certainly interesting . . . Aliens - besides us, obviously - contacted the United Nations, told 'em they'd be willing to open trade and tourism if Earth would do the same. That was quite the deal, let me tell you. The humans have already built these massive spaceports, no small bit being attributed to us, of course. It wasn't easy. Decepticon Rebels, VENOM, Cobra, they're all jumping over it like flies on rotten meat. The UN's asked pretty much all of us stationed there to take up extra security jobs for the launches and construction sites."

"That's not right. We still need to crew our own settlements too." Goldfire remarked.

"Tell me about it. But it's the UN, what are you gonna do?" Scattershot called another waitress over and ordered a mid-grade. When she had left, he continued. "Come to think of it, there haven't been many Rebel attacks recently. Maybe they gave up?"

"Or they're warming up for something big," the Director intoned darkly.

"C'mon, Goldie, they don't have the bearings. These days, there's a heavily armed security guard on every street corner, especially here in Iacon. If the Rebels haven't given up already, I'm pretty positive they will soon. Let's talk about something else, shall we?"

And so they did, telling stories about their most recent escapades, laughing and joking. After a while, the conversation turned once more to the Fortress Maximus and Caminus.

"-and then there's Caminus, right? How many millennia have they been stranded out there on a cold rock, just slowly starving? Good thing they've contacted us when they did, or there might not have been any colony for us to save."

Abruptly, something clicked in Goldfire's head. Perhaps it was the mid-grade sharpening his senses, perhaps it was a previously unobserved epiphany, but it made him sit up straight, whatever it was.

"Scattershot, I've been thinking."

"Did it hurt?" Scattershot jested, placing down his own half-empty cube.

"Very funny. This spaceport . . . it's a pretty high-value target. I mean, enormous supply ship taking off for a long-lost colony? If I was a Rebel, I'd certainly choose here to attack as a 'display of Decepticon might' or whatever they use as an excuse. Seems rather obvious, now that I think about it."

"Are ya kidding, Goldie? The Rebels won't attack Iacon. It's literally the center of our wonderful, warmongering race's planet. Did you know that Iacon is the city approximately 82 percent of high-ranking, retired Autobot officers live in now, not including the near seven million other citizens our city boasts? It's too big a risk for them to come here. Like I said, no bearings," he made an odd sweeping-down gesture with his right arm, "no attack. Iacon's safe."

The scientist leaned back on his stool and adjusted his sharp, light-blue visor. He seemed pleased with himself, the quirky smirk the femmes went crazy for playing across his face. Goldfire considered his answer for a few moments, only to find that Scattershot had a point.

"Hey, you're the scientist, not me," the Director conceded, picking up his refilled cube. "You have an excellent point. Anyways, so Chase told me this funny story-"

Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the cafeteria, shattering the beautiful window even from this distance and causing the hanging light fixtures to sway.

Goldfire searched outside for the source of the explosion, which turned out to be about a megamile away. From this distance, he could just make out the dark shapes of Warrior classes illuminated by the flames charging into the spaceport, firing weapons at the fleeing personnel.

"Rebels?" Scattershot asked urgently, drawing his acid pellet rifle from subspace.

"Rebels," Goldfire confirmed as he summoned his own EDK Stinger.

Scattershot cursed - for a scholarly type, he could curse like a Wrecker, possibly due to his Dinobot upbringing - and growled. "I hate fragging Decepticons. They're like rust spots - ugly and can pop up anywhere. Let's put a stop to this." With that, he jumped out the ruined window, transformed into his giant starfighter mode, and rocketed away with a BOOM.

"Well said," Goldfire muttered as he himself vaulted without a second's hesitation out the tall window, and again into battle.

---

On the other end of the spaceport, well into West Iacon, Ultra Magnus kicked down the portal to his oldest friend's housing unit, his ion rifle powered up and his shoulder-mounted missile racks actively searching for hostiles. Though the entryway was dark at the moment, the light lancing through the unit's high windows provided more than ample light for the Commander to navigate. The rifle snapped up, moving with Magnus's optics as he swept the room for the intruder while simultaneously moving to aid the Prime.

"This is Ultra Magnus to the Temporal Knights. Be ready to move," he commed as he passed through Optimus Prime's well-furnished parlor. The elite bodyguards sent various messages of affirmation back, and Magnus approached the Autobot leader's bedchamber. He rammed his thick shoulder into the portal once, twice, before it collapsed inward under his bulk. There, kneeling on the floor next to the king-sized recharge slab with one hand over his broad chestplate, was the Prime.

As Ultra Magnus moved swiftly to assist his friend, he was dismayed to see that his lights had dimmed to below half power and his venting was staggered, erratic even. The City Commander took a knee by Optimus Prime, cupping his faceplates in his large white hand and gently forcing Prime to look at him.

"What happened, sir? Are you injured?" Magnus inquired forcefully. Even though he was genuinely concerned for Optimus, he just couldn't deal with beating around the bush right now.

"Ahh . . . Ultra Magnus," Optimus said hazily, his optics glassy. "I apologize for the alarm I must have caused you . . . I've had an exceptionally strong vision."

"A vision," Ultra Magnus repeated, subspacing his rifle. "Very well. Ultra Magnus to the Temporal Knights. False alarm. Repeat, false alarm. Fall back."

"No!" Prime shouted, his rare truly commanding tone causing even the mighty Commander to pause. "Please . . . no. If this vision is to be believed, I fear we may need the manpower." He struggled to his pedes as his various lights came back online. Magnus helped him up, then followed him as he made headway for his elegant study.

"Would you like a drink?" Optimus asked, crossing over to a beverage cabinet. "Here, I have a particularly good case of Engex ready for consumption, if that is what you desire."

"No, thank you," Magnus replied curtly, crossing his arms over his wide chest. "I want to know about this vision of yours."

"Of course," Optimus said, pouring himself a cube of low-grade. When it was filled, he sat down in the comfortable chair behind his handsome carbon-steel desk. Magnus remained standing. "You know that I have been experiencing visions ever since the Matrix was opened, yes?"

"It is my business to know these things, sir."

"That it is. For the most part, they have been rather benign, most taking the form of religious verses or unclear images of my predecessor's monumental exploits." He paused, taking a sip of the low-grade. "But this one was very different."

"Different how?" Magnus noted a quantifiable level of fear behind his friend's facemask and was surprised. Anything that could disquiet Optimus Prime certainly scared him.

"This vision was of a terrible war about to begin, Dion."

Ultra Magnus's jaw dropped slightly at Optimus's use of his real name. His shock was only doubled as he watched the Autobot leader's mouthplate retract, something Prime only did to consume fuel.

Or when he wanted to convey a matter of great importance.

"A great battle here, in Iacon, started it. I did not see who was victorious, but there were numerous casualties on both sides."

"Were the Decepticon Rebels on the battlefield?" Magnus asked.

"I . . . I believe so, yes. You must increase security around the city-state," Optimus said soberly.

"Duly noted. Continue."

"It was horrible, old friend. Thousands, perhaps millions, were killed in the crossfire during this war. Women and children weren't even safe . . . Blood ran like a river through the streets . . ."

"Do you mean Energon, sir?" Magnus corrected, puzzled. It wasn't like Prime to make an error like that.

"No, Dion. I mean blood. There was Energon here and there, make no mistake, but organic's blood flowed freely."

Ultra Magnus's fists clenched. "Galvatron. His cruelty doesn't know any bounds."

"Galvatron is not the one who caused this slaughter. Granted, he had no small part to play, however, he did not issue those orders. A new conqueror, a monstrous and evil madman, overthrew him and established control over the Decepticons. He is the monster responsible for this holocaust." Optimus closed his mouthplate again with a whirr. "It cannot be allowed to pass. You and those under your command must tighten security in Iacon immediately. I shall assist you by making a visit to the Enforcer headquarters. We have no time to waste."

The Autobot leader rose from his seat, bringing him to eye level with Ultra Magnus.

"I'll get on it right now," the Commander started to say, but before he could finish, three serene tones came over his comms system, oddly chilling in their plaintively. It was the transmit signal of the Iacon Emergency Broadcast.

"Attention all citizens of the Greater Iacon City-state!" A voice on the verge of panic replaced the quiet tones. "This is Chase of Helex! The Iacon Central Spaceport is under attack by a group of Decepticon Rebels estimated to be 150 strong, led by former Decepticon Supreme Commander Galvatron. Enforcers are requesting support from all able-bodied mechs and femmes. Officials suggest barricading all portals and windows, establishing a defensive perimeter in housing units . . ."

Optimus gasped, receiving the same transmission Magnus was. "Ultra Magnus . . . it's happening."

---

"You sure this'll work, Brainstorm?" Hot Rod asked skeptically.

"Obviously not! That's what experimentation's for!"

There they were, on a deserted concourse just outside of the Central Spaceport. Brainstorm, one of Hot Rod's old war buddies, had called the Cavalier and his mentor, Kup, here for an urgent experiment the excitable engineer just had to see completed. When the two had arrived, they had found the Witwicky family, very close allies with the Autobots since First Terran Contact many years ago, and Brainstorm sporting a huge grin displayed in his expressive yellow-orange optics. The Engineer had set up a crazy-looking racecourse down the runway, with ramps, hairpin turns, and nigh-impossible winding paths the whole way. When Kup had asked what, exactly, the experiment was, Brainstorm had responded with a simple, "You'll see."

Now, Hot Rod sat in his vehicle mode, engine purring as he waited for the engineer to give further instructions. The Witwickys, except for Spike, who was currently inside Hot Rod's driver's compartment, stood over by Kup as the elderly veteran lit up a fresh, high-quality cy-gar. Blurr, the infamously fast data courier and Hot Rod's best friend from early in their shared campaigns, sat next to him in vehicle mode as well, exterior weapons primed and ready.

"The rules are simple, Blurr, Roddy, Spike;" Brainstorm began, checking one last thing off of his field notepad. "I want you to -" he made a thrusting-forward gesture with his free hand, "race down this runway at your respective top speeds, never crossing the path, and accurately shooting every. Last. One. of the Rebel holograms that will spawn shortly. I call them Rebelgrams. Any road, do not turn back in any way, and do not let up on your throttles at any time during the race. Savvy?"

"'Course," Hot Rod said, priming his own vehicular weaponry.

"You'llbeeatingmydust,champ," Blurr shot back at his trademark whirlwind speed.

"Just try not to liquefy me, Hot Rod," Spike warned from inside the Cavalier's driver compartment, buckling his seatbelt.

"Hold up, Roddy," Brainstorm interrupted. "You're the independent variable here. Spike'll be doing the shooting for you. Spike, got your pistol?"

"Always," Spike answered, drawing the weapon in question.

"Good, you'll need it. Focus on the driving, Hot Rod. Mr. Targetmaster here'll work on the shooty." He slapped Hot Rod's side moderately hard and returned to his post next to the track, holding up a starter's pistol with his pinky digit out.

"Drivers ready? Set, go!"

The crack of the pistol mixed perfectly with Blurr's sonic boom as he broke the sound barrier, appearing an astromile down the track and leaving a trail of fire in his wake before Hot Rod could even begin to accelerate. The Cavalier, however, was not paying attention to the Courier, instead putting everything he had into focusing on the treacherous path. While Spike shot at the holograms, every single bolt hitting its mark, Hot Rod ignored the discharges, slaloming through a particularly difficult passage. He hit a ramp and sailed into the air, landing perfectly with a slight jolt and instantly hanging a left turn.

Spike reloaded the pistol with a professional ease, borne from his stint in NEST when he was merely starting college, as Hot Rod rocketed through a straightaway. About twenty holograms appeared spread across both sides, so Spike switched the space-age pistol to full automatic, leaned bodily out Hot Rod's driver side window, and let loose a torrent of fire that cut them down where they stood. He dove back inside before the ample wind could blow him out the window, and reloaded again just in time for the Minefield.

Still smoking from Blurr's attempt, the weak explosives set up in this wide-open space wouldn't injure the Autobots, but they would scratch Hot Rod's glossy paint job something fierce. Holograms popped up around the area in seemingly random locations as he entered the gauntlet.

Two explosives went off, causing Hot Rod to evade accordingly. Spike had to adjust his aim to take down one of the four holograms and then was nearly thrown out as Hot Rod swerved again.

Pew, pew, went his pistol as two other holograms flickered out of existence. The fourth Rebelgram remained elusive, but then Spike caught a flash of green in Hot Rod's rearview mirror. They had missed it! He stuck his head and shoulders back out the mirror, but he didn't have a clear shot to the Rebelgram without first hitting Hot Rod's sensitive spoiler. And the Cavalier was nearing the finish line . . .

A crazy idea occurred to Spike. "Hot Rod, open your passenger's side door!" he shouted over the roar of the wind.

"Are you glitched? No! Your dad will literally kill me!" the Cavalier yelled back.

"Just do it, unless you want Blurr to win!"

"Fine! It's your funeral!" Hot Rod complied.

Spike lunged for the door as it swung open, putting an iron grip on the hidden exterior handle. He held on with a vengeance, aiming his pistol as best as he could. Still an extraordinarily difficult shot. The wind made even Hot Rod's hydraulic-controlled door sway, and the Autobot's frequent dodging didn't help matters. Then, as Hot Rod exited the stretch and crossed the finish line, Spike squeezed off a shot, hitting the Rebelgram square in the chest.

Spike hopped nimbly off Hot Rod's door as the Cavalier rolled quickly to a stop beside the waiting Blurr, blowing off the muzzle of his pistol and holstering the still-smoking energy weapon in its place.

"Guessweknowwhowonthatrace," Blurr cracked as Hot Rod transformed.

"Ah, blow it out your tailpipe, motor-mouth."

"You'rejustjealous."

"A little bit," the Cavalier admitted, smiling along with his best friend.

Brainstorm arrived in his teal aircraft form, transforming in midair and using his leg-mounted rocket boosters to descend the rest of the way to the ground. "Llllladies and gentlebots, the results are in! Blurr, you finished in point eight seconds and defeated forty-eight out of fifty Rebelgrams! That minefield's a killer, isn't it?"

"IwouldhavegottenabetterscoreifIhadbeenallowedtotransform," the Autobot in question observed.

"Undoubtedly, my fast-talking friend, which is why I included that rule! Regardless, Hot Rod and Spike finished a little bit slower than Blurr, with a time of just under a minute and a half."

"Booyah!Inyourface,Roddy!"

Brainstorm didn't retract his faceplate, but his optics betrayed him again, showing what was plainly a wry smile. "And a total of fifty out of fifty Rebelgrams. Ergo, the winner is Hot Rod and Spike Witwicky!" He devolved into a coughing fit even as Blurr began expressing his disbelief at a rapid-fire pace. "Sorry, I can't use that announcer's voice anymore. It's too big for me," Brainstorm apologized as Spike walked off to greet his family, who had just arrived in Kup's truck form. "Do you see, guys? This is absolute proof of my theory!"

"Which one?" Hot Rod jested, causing the Engineer's optics to narrow.

"Very funny. The one regarding a potential advantage to the Enforcers if they were teamed with a human partner! Binary bonding might work even better, but it'd be pretty hard . . . I'll need to run more tests. Good thing I rented this concourse for the day, huh?"

"Good thing," Hot Rod repeated, only half listening as he watched Spike reunite with his family. It was sweet, he thought, how much the Witwickys loved each other. Even as Carly chewed her husband out for "that brainless stunt," he could tell she wasn't really mad. A few times in the past, she had been genuinely angry at Hot Rod himself, and it was a horrifying occurrence. Not many things scared the Cavalier - it was kind of in the job description - but a ticked-off Carolyn Witwicky ranked in the top five.

Moreover, it simply warmed Hot Rod's spark to see their young son Daniel wrapped around his father's broad shoulders, all but vibrating excitedly. Kup, now in his robot form, smiled warmly down at them as he puffed contentedly on his cy-gar, seemingly remembering good times long gone.

"-and I'm going to have to call in some more guinea pigs - er, favors - if you don't mind. Why don't you three take a two-vorn break, then meet back here at four for another round of testing?"

"Deal," Hot Rod said, snapping back to attention. "Blurr, Kup, you want to go to Visages? Drinks are on me."

"Sure. Raceyouthere," Blurr agreed good-naturedly, then was gone with a whoosh.

"You go, kid. I gotta give the Witwickys a ride back to base, then I'll catch up." Kup said as he threw his cy-gar into his subspace and transformed Hopefully it would extinguish before it could hit one of the veterans' cleaning rags.

"Aw, thanks, Kup," Spike said as he held the door open for his wife. "After you, m'lady."

Carly smirked. "Nice try, sharpshooter. I'm still mad at you. Come on, Danny."

"Can we see the Decagon on the way back, Mom?" the boy excitedly asked his mother.

"If you're good, I'm sure Kup can make a detour. Now get i-"

Suddenly, a distant explosion broke the tranquility, making everyone fall silent. It sounded as if it had emanated from the Central Spaceport.

Kup revved his antique engine, yielding a determined and powerful growl. "That ain't good, no two ways about it. Hot Rod, get over there an' see what's going on. I'll drop the Witwickys off somewhere safe and meet ya at Gate B. If ya don't send a comm over by the time I'm there, I'll assume the worst an' come in with guns blazin'. Git movin'."

"Yes, sir!" Hot Rod said, snapping off a quick salute and peeling out of the concourse as soon as his tires bit.

"Witwickys say good luck, kid. Watch yerself out there," Kup transmitted over the radio.

"Thanks, you guys, but I don't need luck. I got skill," the Cavalier said back, reciting an old Earth boast as he charged fearlessly back into battle. As he entered the nearest gate, three tones came over his personal commlink.

The transmit signal for the Iacon Emergency Broadcast.

"Attention all citizens of the Greater Iacon City-state! This is Chase of Helex! The Iacon Central Spaceport is under attack by a group of Decepticon Rebels estimated to be 150 strong, led by former Decepticon Supreme Commander Galvatron! Enforcers are requesting support from all able-bodied mechs and femmes. Officials suggest . . ."

---

"Hold your positions!" Goldfire yelled, unleashing a blast of DC electricity from his EDK Stinger. Purposely forcing the energy down, he carved a burning line into the ground directly in front of the Rebels' ranks. The message was clear: Stay back. His weapon smoked profusely as he removed the scalding-hot charge, heedless of it burning his servo.

Over by a pillar of pipes used for maintenance of drone aircraft, Wideload, rose from cover and launched a single missile from his rocket launcher. The projectile sailed through the air, finding its mark on a medium-sized fuel tank in the midst of the Rebel's forces. Needless to say, it exploded, throwing flames and Rebels into the air.

And Wideload gets no points for avoiding collateral damage, Chase said over the Throttlebots's bond.

It's them or us. Who cares if something blows up?

That's enough, both of you. Goldfire didn't have time for this bickering. An energy bolt whizzed over his right doorwing, causing him to tuck the sensitive appendage flush against his body. "Scattershot, what's the 20 on Computron?" he commed to his ally.

"Lightspeed and Afterburner are at the combination point, Nosecone is . . . en route, and Strafe and I are just a tad - GAH! - busy. A little help would be nice!"

"Copy that." Goldfire glanced up, where he saw the Technobot leader, along with his brother Strafe, locked in a dogfight with several Decepticons. Alarmingly, Goldfire found he recognized at least two from the final stages of the Great War. The notorious Scourge, spearhead of Galvatron's fleet, was one of them, staying a short distance away from the core of the aerial battle and laying down barrages of heavy fire upon the Technobots.

"Cloudraker, where are you?" the Espionage Director barked over the Autobot Clone's shared comm system.

"Oh, me? Getting shot at, why?" he replied.

"I'm not interested in your sarcasm! Scattershot and Strafe need help! See if you can give them support. Please. Then Computron'll take over, and you'll have time to vent. OK?"

There was silence from Cloudraker's end for a while. Goldfire could pick him out in the sky, weaving through a small group of aerial Rebels of his own - an eye-searing pink jet-car, a twin-cockpit fighter jet, and a dark blue spacefighter. They seemed to be giving Cloudraker a Pit of a hard time but hadn't yet landed a hit on the crimson Clone. Come on, buddy. You can do this, he silently pleaded.

"Fine," the Sky Fighter said with a sigh as he executed an interesting vertical barrel-roll maneuver and momentarily broke free of the Rebels dogging him. He put on a full burn towards the scrap taking place between the Technobots and the Rebel fliers, acrobatically dodging the shots slung at him by his pursuers, but Goldfire could see he wasn't going to make it without help.

"Everyone who's capable of flight, help the Technobots out! We'll cover you!" he ordered over the general comm system as he activated his own back-mounted thrusters, a second generation of the same tech the Decepticons had used in the War on Earth, and jetted into the air. From here, he saw every single face on the battlefield. There weren't many casualties on either side yet, but the Rebels had superior firepower and a larger amount of troops. Goldfire's command included the Throttlebots, the imperiled Technobots, and roughly twenty scared civilians of both races who hadn't seen a fight this intense in years. He had always been good at math, and he deduced that this wouldn't turn out too well for his side unless the tables were turned, and quick.

He aimed his photon pistol at the Rebel responsible for the most suppressing fire that he could see, a large shiny black Titan build with uncomfortable-looking spikes jutting out from random places on his frame and guns hanging off of almost every surface, and shot him about five times in the head before the Destroyer noticed him. A scowl crossed the Rebel's jagged mouth as his shoulder-mounted cannons swiveled to point at the levitating Security Director.

Wideload, stand up and start shooting, now please, Goldfire told his fellow Throttlebot while he braced for the Rebel's payload. Other Rebels had noticed him too and had begun to shoot him, but their photon-rifle rounds barely tickled with his experimental electrum armor.

The cannons, on the other hand, would leave a mark.

I won't ask, sir, Wideload said as he stood up and unloaded his machine gun directly in front of his position. The heavy rounds cut through the Rebel's now-deficit shields and through his armor, causing him to fall on his knees.

"Now's your chance, Fliers!" Goldfire said as the flight-incapable citizens began to add their own firepower into the mix. With the distraction, the Fliers were able to take to the skies and assist the Technobots and Cloudraker. Two jet-types streaked straight for the rapidly-approaching Cloudraker and the Rebels following him, dissuading the Decepticons with a number of missiles launched practically into their cockpits. The three Decepticon fliers, their shields now completely eradicated and themselves quite possibly injured, began a hasty retreat, pursuers turned pursued.

Now unbothered, Cloudraker fired a barrage of thermal rounds into the midst of the Decepticons who were keeping Scattershot and Strafe busy. The red shells impacted the Rebels, bursting into small flames as soon as they hit and dissipating the cloud of Decepticons. But Scourge was still active, laying down seemingly endless suppressive purple bolts upon the aerial Technobots. At any moment, Cloudraker's thermal rounds would extinguish . . .

"Searchlight, light 'em up!" Goldfire instructed on general comms, so those on his side would have time to shield their sensitive optics.

"I thought you'd never ask," the Surveillance agent said in his silky-smooth voice from his position atop the loading bay command tower. "Cover your eyes."

The Security Director clapped a hand over his own optics as the command tower exploded in blinding white light. Screams came from the Rebel's ranks as their sight was suddenly taken away, but those under Goldfire's command were spared the hassle of rebooting their optics. It lasted for about two seconds before fatigue seeped over Searchlight's part of the Throttlebot bond, and the light began to quickly fade.

But Searchlight was not the kind of person to quit because he was tired. The Throttlebots all knew at that moment that his Mini-Con partner, Backwind, had converted to his Gatling mode and was currently being fired at the disoriented Rebel Fliers.

"I've bought you a handful of seconds at the most. Hurry." Searchlight gasped, speaking to Scattershot and Strafe. Goldfire sent a burst of appreciation to his teammate even as the Technobot leader spoke up with the command they had all been waiting for.

"My thanks!" he transmitted to all involved. Then, using his physical voice, "Technobots, combine to form-"

The five individual Technobots' digital presences abruptly faded and were soon replaced by one powerful entity.

"-COMPUTRON!" the gestalt's robotic-sounding voice echoed across the loading bay.

Panic immediately spread through the Decepticon ranks. Their shots became more and more erratic as time passed, allowing the citizens to come mostly out of cover, yielding much more accurate fire. Cloudraker and the other Fliers were doing a good job holding off the aerial Rebels, avoiding the implacable Sweep Commander's continuous barrage of air-to-air AA rounds.

Finally, Computron reached a conclusion, announcing his arrival with a ground-to-air incendiary missile barrage. The yellow-and-orange fire lanced through the air, striking any Rebel Fliers remaining and causing their fuselages to erupt in flames. Even the mighty Scourge retreated when his troops fled, wreathed in fire himself.

Suddenly, the grounded Rebels realized they no longer had their air support. Some ran, but others brave or determined enough stayed, shooting Computron with everything they had as he drew his massive maroon rifle. With only two excellently placed shots, the extra firepower that the Rebel front lines had - two old laser turrets left over from the war - was erased sans casualties. Then, Computron stopped. The bay fell silent, the citizens ceasing their attack as well. Goldfire shut off his thrusters and dropped back to earth, landing with the practiced ease of an expert. Gunfire and explosions sounded in the distance, resounding across the whole Spaceport.

"I announce this to all Rebels currently online. We are open to a peaceful resolution." Computron said, projecting his overly robotic voice over the bay. "You are not the only Decepticons here today. There are those who have been fighting on this side of this particular conflict as well. Some have died in the duration of this senseless battle, as have people on your side. Please, friends. End this pointless suffering and see us as the Cybertronians - the people - that we are, not the faceless oppressors you believe us to be. Abandon this hatred and instead turn to peaceful harmony."

"And what, Autobot? What then? Get prosecuted by a skewed High Council for the exact same crimes they allow Wreckers or Dinobots to walk free for? Be looked at for the rest of your life with raw hatred because you chose to wear the 'wrong' sigil all those years ago? No thanks. I'd rather be a Rebel." a strained voice shouted back.

"You are incorrect. The High Courts are fair, and several Decepticons hold seats on the council. Probability of fair judgment if average Decepticon Rebel surrenders immediately: 93.014%." Computron replied. His emotionless voice sounded slightly tighter now, but still, he maintained respectful politeness.

A Decepticon stood, one hand held above his head. The other was clasped firmly on a gunshot wound in his midsection. He winced once, but then activated a faceplate that masked his expression. "I'd counter that. We will never be safe, never be welcomed, because we've done horrible things for a cause that we believed in. Does that sound familiar to you?"

Those gathered gave in to impromptu introspection, indeed remembering the extreme measures they themselves had taken for their own means. On this battlefield, no one was truly innocent.

The nameless Decepticon smiled a thin, drawn smile underneath his faceplate. "Good," he said, breaking the citizens' thoughts. "And one more thing. The longer you sit here, being all righteous and scrap, the longer our reinforcements have to arrive."

Another Rebel stood with a rocket launcher, its deadly projectile launching with a fsss. Like some predatory bird, it sailed through the air and detonated exactly on Computron's cranial unit, engulfing his entire torso in an orange fireball.

The loading bay erupted once more in gunfire as the great ball dissipated. Computron simply stood in his place for a while, visor cracked and thick plating charred, as his components formulated a solution.

"I apologize," the gestalt finally said, removing the giant cannon from his back. "I wish we could have found a better outcome." Two bow arms sprang out from the top and bottom, each as tall as an average Cybertronian, as Computron pulled a plunger at the back out of its housing. "I'm afraid I blame myself."

He let the plunger go, firing a high-explosive shell that struck dead center in the few remaining Decepticons, vaporizing most of them. The Throttlebot Rollbar picked off the rest.

War never changes, Goldfire thought uneasily to himself as he watched Rollbar double-tap a horribly burned and screaming Rebel.

---

Searchlight was on the verge of passing out.

His lights drained him more than he let on every time he used them, and they didn't even cause any long-standing damage to the enemy. But, when he looked down from his high perch at the battlefield free of Decepticons, he felt . . . pride in what his assistance had wrought. It didn't please him to see the scores of deactivated people, but they were criminals, and in a way, the universe was just that little bit safer because of him.

"Don't give up on me yet, Searchlight," his Mini-Con ordered. "We've still got trouble on the horizon. Look to the south."

"'Kay," Searchlight turned his optics up to their maximum input and gazed toward the Spaceport border. His naked eyesight wasn't as flawless as Goldfire's, but the surveillance systems integrated into his visor and helm allowed him to see a greater distance than even the Throttlebot commander could.

"Do you see them?" Backwind asked urgently.

"No. Who's they?"

"Don't make me Powerlinx with you, boy. Right between those two launch towers - the red ones, see? There's a whole scrapton of Rebels coming. Looks like a couple Sweeps too."

Searchlight squinted, and suddenly he caught a glimpse of Decepticon Black Violet through the spires. "Slag," he muttered sleepily.

"Darn right, slag," Backwind snapped. "Comm Little Brother, quick. He's got a better chance of listening to you than me."

"Don't say that Backwind, it's self-deprecating," he muttered to his partner, already half asleep. Then to the Throttlebot leader, "Goldfire."

"Yeah?" the mech in question "answered" without delay.

"Don't make the 'good job, team' speech yet," Searchlight said wearily. "It appears our Decepticon friend wasn't bluffing. There's a battalion of Rebels approaching from the south."

"How many?" Goldfire asked, dreading the answer. Searchlight could feel his apprehension reflected in all of the other Throttlebots' minds as well, save Freeway.

"From the looks of things, about thirty Rebels and around . . . twenty Sweeps, possibly including Scourge, Cyclonus, and Primus knows who else. With our numbers, we're in trouble."

"What's their ETA?"

"I'd say less than a breem, sir. Allied AA guns seem to be inactive, possibly commandeered by the enemy. Should I flash them? Er, with my lights, I mean?" Searchlight said, mentally slapping himself in the face for letting his professional air drop. He figured it was his tiredness, and prepared to apologize, but Goldfire would have none of it.

In a "voice" just barely holding back laughter, but also with a taste of resignation, Goldfire replied, "No, Searchlight. You've done enough. Just don't get shot up there. Rest."

"Really?" he gasped, stunned at the answer. They needed him. Without him, would his friends - his brothers - even survive?

"We'll do fine, bud. Sleep short, though. We'll need ya once we get 'em running," Rollbar butted in. Searchlight, in his fatigue, had allowed his emotions to leak over the bond, something he normally avoided doing.

He chuckled at Rollbar's macho-sounding voice. "Heh. Of course, sirs. I'll just lie down for a little recharge then . . ."

Glancing over at his best friend, Searchlight said, "Will you watch me, Backwind?"

"That's my job, sir." the Mini-Con affirmed.

"Thank you." With those two words, Searchlight lowered himself to the ground, crossed his legs, and went happily into emergency recharge.

---

Searchlight's signal blinked offline, but Goldfire could still feel his presence through the Throttlebot bond. A battallion of Rebels . . . not good. He had to warn the citizens as soon as possible.

"Mechs and femmes, I have bad news. My surveillance agent has spotted about fifteen Rebels and a small fleet of Sweeps headed our way," he said, turning his voicebox up to its max volume to reach those who had taken position just outside of the Fortress Maximus's cargo hold. He felt bad lying to them, but he had discovered in his line of work that people tended to act more calmly when the situation sounded better initially. "They'll be here in a little less than a breem. I suggest you restock and reinforce your positions. If you're injured, have someone tend your wound as best as possible. Good luck."

Like a bomb had gone off, the citizens scattered to gather supplies before the next wave arrived.

"Computron, what's your reading of the situation?" Goldfire asked the gestalt as he checked his weapons. He was running low on pistol ammo and only had one Stinger charge left. Normally, he would have carried more ammunition on his person, but since the war ended, there was hardly a point. After his arms were spent, he'd have to switch to his old Neutron Assault Rifle, a trusty weapon he had used nearly every day during the Great War. He had stopped using it a while back, for there was no place for a weapon of war in a time of peace. When that was out, it'd be looting corpses or breaking open one of the munition crates scattered about the loading bay.

"Conclusion reached," Computron finally stated. "The original course of action was to remain combined, because I have higher endurance, firepower, and strength than the individual Technobots, in addition to a more accurate and strategic mind. However, my lack of speed, especially when in battle, is an issue. The briefing informed me of the Sweeps, which is a subgroup of Decepticons known for their fast and unpredictable attacks, moreover, I have been slightly damaged during the initial fight. If I were to fall in the midst of battle, my components would be vulnerable to gunfire and physical attacks due to decombination shock, leaving you as the acting field commander without six Autobots rather than just one. Lastly, manpower is needed if we are to survive the coming onslaught, something I am unable to provide by myself. Conclusion: Decombination is the best outcome."

With that, Computron fell back into his component parts, which transformed into the Technobots.

"That was fun. Playtime's over now," Scattershot said grimly, loading his acid-pellet rifle.

"I just wanna gank some 'Cons," the Technobot Gunner, Afterburner, growled, his shoulder-mounted turbines spinning to full power.

"Don't be racist," Lightspeed admonished his brother.

"Sorry. I just wanna gank some Rebels."

"Heads up! Here they come!" an olive green Decepticon shouted over the comms system. Indeed, the din of over-ground travel could plainly be heard, along with a much more sinister noise. The trademark ambient sound of Sweeps overcame all other noises, a disturbing drone not unlike discordant, pained moans. Some said it was just their cancerous engines operating as any undead Cybertronian's would, while more superstitious folk swore on their lives that it was actually the cries of those converted by the Sweep Commander as their personalities, bodies, and sparks were slowly stripped away, becoming nothing but another face in Scourge's dark army.

"This ain't gonna be easy," Cloudraker's brother, Fastlane, said over the comms.

"Let 'em come! We'll wreck 'em!" a more enthusiastic voice came, a security guard named Hardhead. He apparently harbored a love for battle that was almost frightening. No one else shared his enthusiasm.

SCREECH! The first Rebel, a Decepticon Black Violet hatchback, raced around the far corner, by the spacecraft runway exit that the Fortress Maximus sat on. He was quickly shot to pieces by the nearest citizens, but more followed him. Three transformed in unison, landing on their knees and letting loose with their Photon Burst Rifles. Goldfire dropped one with two expertly aimed shots from his pistol, and another fell to gunfire, but even more arrived, a bulky column of tanks flanking the scouts. Powerful cannons powered up as the rest of the force flowed in behind them. Sweeps filled the skies, their moans peaking to a scream as they entered their attack phases.

But Goldfire felt oddly at ease. His only regrets were that Freeway, Searchlight, and Backwind weren't in sight. He could still feel them - Searchlight having a pleasant recharge projection, Backwind fiercely determined to keep watch over his partner, and Freeway blissfully unaware of the plight his brothers were experiencing, most likely figuring they were simply having a really tough day at work. Goldfire, determined to see his brothers once more, drew on Freeway's good humor and contentedness, funneling it into his sharp eye and true trigger finger. The music playing over the loading bay speakers, an old AC/DC number from Earth, served a fitting soundtrack to fight to.

Wait . . . AC/DC?

An Iaconian war cry split the gunfire-riddled air and the loading bay complex's blast doors exploded, expelling a crimson blur that raced straight into the Decepticon ranks. Though the bodies were too dense for Goldfire to see anything, the number of Rebels that were being thrown in the air suggested that the citizens' situation was looking up.

"Hot Rod!" several citizens exclaimed.

"That's my name, don't wear it out," the Cavalier boasted over general comm as two other Rebels went flying. "I didn't come alone, though."

A fusillade of firepower sounded from the smoking blast doors, cutting down any unfortunate Rebels that happened to be in the way and accentuated by the appearance of an electric-blue twin-rotor helicopter that took to the skies and began firing into the cloud of writhing Sweeps. Besides him, Goldfire noticed that the Technobot leader had also transformed into his static cannon form and was filling the sky with acidic waterbombs. The moaning of the Sweeps seemed to change into a higher-pitched shriek as they were forced upward.

Thirteen of the new Autobot arrivals, all bulky, heavily-armored mechs, joined the red Cavalier in close combat. From the moment they entered the fray, the tank problem was pretty much solved. Despite their size, they attacked with ferocity and strength, showing unparalleled skill with handheld melee weapons even against the Rebels armed with firearms. They were accompanied by primitive familiars, and Goldfire knew exactly who they were. These mechs were the Temporal Knights, the bodyguards of none other than Optimus Prime himself. Which meant . . .

Yes! There he was, striding out of the loading bay with as much ease as wading through a field of wiregrass. Optimus Prime, red armor gleaming in the sunlight, emerged with his oversized plasma cannon, blasting away at the Rebels with precise discharges. Between the Throttlebots, the Temporal Knights, the Technobots, Hot Rod's squad, and the assorted citizens, the loading bay was quickly covered in graying Rebel bodies. More Decepticons were leaking through, however, and there was still an extreme threat on the battlefield.

"Hello, Goldfire, Scattershot," the Prime said as he strafed across their position. "I don't have time to chat, I'm afraid. Ultra Magnus, take the ship's loading area," he said to his second-in-command. "I have a call to make."

---

Blaster was a very busy mech today.

Though he longed to pick up his electro-scrambler rifle and give his fellows a hand over in the Spaceport, here he was stuck in Central Iacon, facilitating so many important communication webs that he had dumped everything else on his poor cassettes. Calls - not radio transmissions, calls from physical communication devices - flowed in at a staggering rate. He pinged active-duty soldiers across the city-state, instructed his counterpart at the Iacon Enforcer Precinct to scramble everyone, and generally did his best to help.

Pride leader, you've a call, one of his cassettes unhelpfully informed him over their spark-bond.

I got about thirty-eight calls at the moment, Steeljaw, Blaster said back.

Sure, but this one is from Optimus Prime. He says it is important.

Blaster scoffed, told the two people he was currently busy with to keep their channels open, and patched the Autobot Leader through.

"Greetings, Blaster. It's been a while."

"Yeah, it has. What can I do for ya, sir?" the Communications mech said urgently.

"I have reason to believe that the Rebels are concentrating their attack on the Fortress Maximus, and I am not sure how long we can hold them back. Please, send-"

"Reinforcements, yeah, way ahead o' ya, Prime. How d'ya know they're focusing on the FortMax?"

"Logic, Blaster. The Fortress is the largest and most well-armed ship at port today. Not only this, but it is taking off to a previously undiscovered colony, which would be the perfect display of Decepticon might to our friends over on Caminus. Even though we would be able to load and launch another ship within a week, the delay would prove the Autobots to be the weaker of the two races active on Cybertron. Not only that, but if the Rebels were to commandeer the Fortress for their own purposes, the destruction wrought by its power would be catastrophic. This seems the most logical motive for this attack."

Blaster pulled up a real-time map of the Central Spaceport to verify Prime's hunch and noticed with a jolt that most of the fighting was indeed concentrated around the FortMax.

"Slag, you're right. Lucky for you, the ACTS is already en route ta the Spaceport. I'll have to call an' tell Renegade about this, an' then I'll see if I can scrounge up some old dropships from the war. Stave off the 'Cons - sorry, Rebels, - 'til they arrive, an' you'll be clear."

"Thank you, Blaster. Optimus Prime out."

The connection terminated, leaving Blaster with forty urgent messages to tend to. He thought briefly about the distressed Iaconians waiting for support out there and exhaled, sincerely hoping they'd make it out OK. Unfortunately, people had already died, and the death toll would just continue to rise before the cycle was out.

The Communicator steeled himself and answered the next three calls.

---

Punch was always a sharp mech, apt at noticing things other people didn't. So when he caught a glimpse of a cyberhawk - a species extinct for millions of years even before the Rebirth began - glide down behind the launch complex, he was naturally curious. His curiosity was piqued further as he watched a teal-and-white Rebel inch along the very same complex, disappearing through a portal without even attempting to engage the opposing faction, something Rebels weren't known to do. This was obviously something worth investigating.

He pinged the nearby Detective Nightbeat, a reinforcement from the downtown precinct, with a comm request, which he accepted.

"Frag it, Punch, why can't you use your voice for once?" the Detective snapped, irked as usual.

"Did you see that?" the Doublespy asked, encrypting his words with a specialized code. His comm systems were fully independent of any radio tower, reducing the risk of someone like the former Decepticon Communications Officer Soundwave hacking his transmissions. Because of this, it required quite a bit of concentration to send and receive messages, but Punch was a professional.

"What, Shady McUptosomething slipping around that corner? The extinct avian floating about a battlefield? Yeah, I noticed it. Why?"

"I'm going to investigate. Probably something dangerous."

"Right. I'll stay here. Prime'll need all the help he's going to get."

"They won't miss me much. Watch the fort while I'm gone."

"'Kay."

Punch backed off, firing a volley of explosives from his shoulder-mounted mortar launcher one more time for effect, and ducked behind a shipping crate, transforming into his sports car mode and racing off after his quarry.

Moments later, Punch entered the building through a jammed-open cargo portal, making sure to be as quiet as possible. He listened carefully, heard the sound of a low-quality portal splintering somewhere to his left, and proceeded towards it with his silenced pistol drawn. There it was, hanging open on one hinge with its locks mostly pulled out of the doorframe. He could hear voices behind it as he put his back to the cybersteel paneling and listened.

"Wingspan, you failed. This is a maintenance closet."

"On the contrary, brother dear. This 'maintenance closet,' as you so eloquently and intelligently put it, is, in actuality, the passageway to the pulsing spark of the Greater Iacon city-state, including the top . . . hmm, four rings, the road to Kalis, half of Praxus, part of Prothihex, and all of Iacon. You see, this spaceport-"

"OK, ok, whatever. Just open the door already. I've got to sluice out my waste pipe."

"We don't have time, Pounce, you'll have to hold it. Ah, got it. After you."

There were several ka-chunk noises of locks disengaging, the whoosh of a portal opening, and then movement in the closet. Punch waited for a ten-count, then followed, dimming his cerulean optics and sticking to the shadows. Another door stood open inside the maintenance closet which appeared to have a Level 4 Iaconian security lock. An impressive feat for this Decepticon, hacking the heavy-duty latch in such short a time. Even Punch, who was a trained professional, had a substantial amount of difficulty with Level 4 locks using nothing but a basic pick set. Granted, perhaps the Decepticon had used a mechanical safecracker, but the Doublespy saw no visible tampering on the exterior of the lock. These two meant business.

Inside the sparsely-furnished room, the nearly-identical mechs navigated around a small table. One of them walked straight to the portal on the other side of the room, while the other hung back by an industrial cabinet containing hexagonal single-use isolation pods. To the left of the cabinet, there was a bank of computers underneath three wide windows gazing down into some degree of subterranean chamber. Other than that, the room was unremarkable.

The Rebel by the portal stood as it hissed open, admitting them into the same chamber that the windows looked into. Satisfied with his work, he removed two basic lockpicks - slag, he really was good - and crossed the threshold.

"Uh, Wingspan? Don't we need these pods? Y'know, because of the electricity?" the mech still in the room shouted after his partner.

"Don't be silly, Pounce. The Plasma Energy Chamber is entirely contained. It sits in a vault that was last tested a decacycle ago and found to be entirely sound. We're perfectly safe, as long as we don't prematurely disconnect the rods or shoot the vault or something ridiculous like that."

"Fine, but it's your fault if we get fried."

The Rebels departed entirely, allowing the simple bulkhead to hang open behind them. Punch crept to the computer bank, peering out the windows at the room below. Great golden statues stood magnanimously on each wall of the chamber, all four looking at the cubical structure in the middle. A catwalk descended from the room he was in to the chamber floor, about five mechanometers give or take a few. Wingspan gave a monologue to his partner, who seemed to be scarcely listening.

"Sad, really. So much history down here one can smell it in the air, and the Autobots use it as a glorified generator."

"All I wanna do is get out of here. It smells funny. Like old datafiles and Autobot stuffiness."

"Hush, you. Drink this in. This is the Plasma Energy Chamber. You may know it as the Crucible . . . the very place where Prima, the First Transformer, was forged. This room . . . this is where we as a species originated from. Fitting, isn't it? That we're about to use the original hot spot, the reason we exist, to reestablish-"

"Shut your beak already and help me fill the tubes," Pounce snapped, sharing none of his partner's rapture. Punch, on the other hand, was intrigued. If Wingspan was right - and that seemed likely - then this could be one of the most important missions he had ever undertaken. He didn't know what the Rebels were planning, he knew without a shadow of a doubt it had to be bad. It was time for him to make his appearance.

---

Counterpunch stood, his wings folding out above his head as his helm tilted back to reveal his darkly handsome features. Armor plating slid closer to his lithe Flier frame as his trusty proton cannon swung down from his shoulder, attaching itself firmly to his arm. Lastly, his legs and pedes shifted subtly so his pede digits faced forward once more. He activated his visor and faceplate, completely obscuring and emotion that could escape him. Projecting a collected air, he entered the Plasma Energy Chamber.

As Counterpunch descended the catwalk with silent tread, he absently checked the overall layout of the chamber. Environmental hazards, light sources, shadows, and the blind spots of his prey. There seemed to be an exit at the far end of the room, so he bookmarked that too.

Amusingly, the Clones weren't even aware of his presence, focusing studiously on filling five unassuming HAZMAT rods with the energy of the PEV. When they removed the second rod, Counterpunch noticed that the room grew slightly darker. Interesting, he'd have to memorize that for his debrief. The irritatingly pleasant Optimus Prime would likely want to know every detail down to the exact make and model of the energy rods.

Truth be told, however, he didn't think he'd need to memorize anything. The Clones were tough in battle, but Counterpunch knew their every weakness. This would be simplicity itself.

"Hey guys," he announced, being deliberately unprofessional and finding it amusing how much Pounce, who was watching his brother as he worked, jumped and whirled around, bayonet out.

"Whoa. Is that any way to treat a fellow Rebel?" the Doublespy remarked, raising his servos and flashing his Decepticon sigil as obtrusively as was physically possible.

"Counterpunch," the grounded Clone spat. "What do you want?"

"To help out. Galvatron sent me to check up on you two. Need a hand?"

"We don't need a fraggin' babysitter, spy! Leave us alone!"

Counterpunch lowered his cranial unit, staring the Infiltrator down with his bloodred optics. "Language."

He's so close. A quick strike and it'd be over.

"Point that ridiculous thing somewhere else," the Doublespy said, flicking the point of Pounce's cybertanium blade. Like up your brother's feathery aft, he wanted to add, but wouldn't let himself. "I came to ask if you needed a transport."

"We've got this, thanks," Wingspan sneered vindictively as he removed the third container from the Vault. "We can handle fetch duty without the help of a filthy double agent."

Counterpunch's visor darkened several shades as he dreamt of the beautiful torture he could exhibit on these pathetic simpletons if he had the chance. Then, in a voice like a barely restrained arctic wind, he said, "Fine. You deal with my Autobot counterpart then." He backed up, utilizing his leg-mounted rocket boosters to ascend to the top of the staircase in an instant. "I've heard he's nearby," he fumed, retreating with an air of aloofness. Curse him. Two throat strikes and he could have ended the threat, once and for-

---

"Real nearby," Punch said as he onlined, wings folding down to form his chestplates and helm tilting back. His mortar launcher - always an unwieldy and uncomfortable weapon - came to rest over his left shoulder as he drew his silenced pistol. He knew enough now to inform Optimus, but he had to secure the Plasma Energy Chamber first.

The Doublespy snuck to the railing on the catwalk, aiming his pistol at Pounce's head. This was bound to be a difficult shot with naught but the iron sights on his gun to guide by, but Punch had been training with this firearm for nearly his entire life. He squeezed the trigger thrice.

"OW! My face!" the grounded Clone screamed, falling to the ground, as Punch vaulted over the railing. He grunted once due to impact, then shot three times at the flying one. Two rounds struck the airborne Clone square in his thickly armored chest, but the third flew over Wingspan's head as he did something Punch hadn't accounted for.

Instead of wheeling behind the Vault like Punch had expected, Wingspan made a dive for his brother, pulling his disoriented counterpart behind the Vault first. The Doublespy took cover behind a support column and counted his ammo. Two shots left, then he'd have to reload. One for each Clone.

"Stupid Autobot!" Wingspan chided, his high voice echoing in the vaulted chamber. "If you hit the Vault or one of these canisters, the resulting energy discharge will kill us all!"

"Luckily for all of us, I don't miss. Much." Punch yelled back. He turned around the column and began to move, upgraded Special Ops pedes making virtually no noise on the metal ground. Pistol pointed rigidly forward, he ignored the steadily filling energy rods and whirled around the corner of the Vault, only to find empty air where the Clones should have been.

His prox sensors abruptly went off, causing him to whip around and leap backward as a nitrotiger's claws mercilessly sliced the space where he had been a nanosecond ago. There, Pounce stood in his primitive alternate mode, staring Punch down with primal defiance.

"Keep the Autoscum busy, Pounce!" the other Clone wheedled, leaping down from the ornately decorated top of the PEV. "I must remove the energy rod, and then I shall join you!"

An animalistic snarl was all Punch had to go by before the Clone erupted into a flurry of slashes, each coming progressively closer to turning his combat armor to ribbons.

Maybe you should have invested in advanced blade armor, he thought to himself as a particularly strong swipe nicked his paint. Then, Pounce's attacks suddenly stopped and he leaped back a few mechanometers, blazing red optics never leaving Punch's. The Doublespy knew as soon as the Rebel's haunches tensed what was about to happen.

"Slag!" he shouted almost involuntarily, tucking into a forward roll as Pounce exercised his namesake, springing forth with claws outstretched. The Infiltrator missed by a hair and skidded for a few feet, claws sparking and leaving gashes in the ground. Punch didn't waste a second and got to his pedes, sprinting towards the nitrotiger and throwing a . . . well, punch at its angular head. The strike cracked an optic and made Pounce yowl in pain, allowing Punch to wind up for another.

But then, a pair of sharp talons dug into the Doublespy's raised arm.

"Brother! No!" Wingspan screeched, lifting Punch up to a respectable height and dropping him. Sparks flew when he hit the ground and he felt one of his joints crack, sending a hot wave of pain through his torso as his nanobots began to tend to the wound. Still, Punch stood.

"Great, there's two of you now. Even match, eh?" he joked, disguising the pain in his right shoulder strut.

"You've just made a colossal mistake, Autobot," Wingspan said, somehow managing to sneer even lacking the corresponding facial features.

Pounce hit the ground running, the cracked optic not even slowing him down a micron. Punch dodged the first massive paw, then rolled over the next, low strike, reciprocating Pounce's attack with a vicious backhand to the Clone's cranial unit. He turned just in time to register a flash of talons descending on his helm and ducked as the predatory bird rushed harmlessly over him. The cyberhawk now recovering from his high-speed attack, Punch hit Pounce with yet another left hook.

Then things went wrong. Pounce unexpectedly transformed, causing the Spy's follow-up to miss completely. The Infiltrator grabbed Punch's arm underneath his wounded shoulder and lifted him up, taking hold of the inside of his left thigh as well. A fresh wave of pain spread from the injured joint and Punch tried to twist free, but he was forcefully removed from Pounce's grip by the other Clone, who rocketed around the Chamber, securely holding Punch in his deceptively strong, spindly talons.

He slammed the Doublespy into a support column, a resounding crunch causing damage readouts to flare across Punch's HUD. Energon leaked from his mouth as Wingspan soared in for another hit, another sickening crack as his helm struck the column hard.

Good job, Punch. You can't even handle two idiots from Data Processing, he thought angrily to himself as he slipped offline.

---

"Are you OK, Pounce?" Wingspan asked as he transformed, rushing to his brother's aid.

"My beast mode head's pounded to scrap, an' I got a friggin' headache the size of Trypticon, but I'll live," he replied. "Let's put a bullet in Punch's processor and get outta this stuffy chamber."

"No time, no time! Galvatron just contacted me, said to hurry up. The generals are becoming impatient. Help me with these," the Data Clerk said, preparing to remove the fifth and final energy rod.

Pounce growled angrily but complied, shooting glares at the offline spy the whole time. He took three of the five rods, clamping two underneath his arm.

"Are you ready yet?" he asked impatiently.

"Of course. We must move swiftly," Wingspan responded as he sprinted ahead, not even looking back at his twin now that he was assured that he was all right.

The Infiltrator followed him to the exit, head pounding painfully with every step. He'd definitely need a pain chip when all of this was over.

---

Optimus Prime was reloading his ion rifle when it happened. Thankfully, he was behind cover at the time, or he would most likely not be alive any longer. For the fourth or fifth time, naturally.

As he ejected the spent clip, his mind was all of a sudden not there anymore.

He stood in a magnificent chamber with a vaulted ceiling that disappeared into the darkness. There was no light in the chamber at all, save an amazingly bright, blue spot in the center of the room.

Rise, my creation. A nebulous voice echoed throughout the chamber, making Optimus' own spark rhythm sync with its basso profundo, so strong it made his own baritone sound like the chirps of a glitch-mouse. Rise, if you would . . .

While Optimus watched, a weak, synthetic slime-covered arm reached out of the hot-spot, shaking as it grew from sparkling to young adult in a matter of seconds. The arm, taking on shades of crimson and pure white, dragged the rest of its body into the chamber.

Greetings, my beautiful child. Optimus realized that the voice was literally emanating from the Matrix of Leadership nestled snugly in his chest, and opened his chest armor to see the ancient artifact glowing a strong blue; pulsing with the voice's every word. Do you know your name?

The newly created robot - a beautifully, lovingly crafted mech - worked his flawless square jaw for a while before responding, as if he were getting a feel for how to speak.

"I . . . I think I am called Prima."

Contentment and pride, but most prevalent, love, flowed through the Matrix like a benevolent tidal wave, nearly driving Optimus to his knees with the sheer force. That is correct, my spark. We shall do incredible things together, you and I . . .

The scene began a sort of fast forward, jumping through years like seconds. The sun rose and fell outside, and the chamber took on more and more eloquence. The images were too fast for Optimus to observe clearly, but he did see thirteen figures flashing around the chamber, including Prima. He felt cities rise and depart from Cybertron entirely. Though the fourteen bots left, he still felt them up until a point. Optimus caught glimpses of his predecessors and even his successors, shadowy figures kneeling at the hotspot, which was protected by a Vault. He himself had made the same pilgrimage many years ago when he was first chosen to lead.

All of a sudden, the chamber turned cold and barren, the statues broken and spread across the room. The pale light of Luna 1 cast an eerie sheen over the destroyed statues and rubble-strewn floor. Where the hot spot once glowed proudly, there was only a dark, empty vault.

Optimus's visions of the Primes faded, replaced by a single disturbing robot, resembling a normal mech with all of his alloy flayed off, revealing his slate-grey protoform. The entity possessed wickedly oversized and pointed dental plates, topped off with wide, staring optics that bore an uncanny resemblance to organic eyes. Its entire body was covered with a shiny fluid similar to what had covered Prima at his birth. Despite the entity's frightening appearance, however, Optimus felt nothing but benevolence radiating from it.

One of the duties entrusted to thee is the protection and maintenance of the First Hot Spot, that which spawned Prima . . . Thou must hasten thither, for th' spot is in danger of fading and must be returned to its cradle . . . Make haste, Optimus Prime.

Optimus held his ion rifle's next clip in his shaking hand. Gunfire whizzed through the air, chipping away at the Fortress Maximus' slate-colored hull.

"Hold lines, mechs!" Ultra Magnus shouted, rising to a knee beside Optimus and firing half a dozen rockets from his shoulder-mounted missile pods. He followed up with a short burst of automatic fire from his own ion rifle and ducked back behind cover before the Rebels regained their senses.

"Ultra Magnus, I fear this fight is a diversion!" Optimus said to his friend over the din of battle.

"Somehow I highly doubt that. There's nothing else in this sector that could possibly be of use to the Rebels," the Commander hissed back as he again shot around his cover.

The Autobot Leader vented sharply, then sent a small recording of the Entity to Magnus via a commlink. "The Plasma Energy Chamber," he emphasized.

Magnus' optics momentarily went blank as he played back the recording, then he set his jaw. "You may have a point there."

"I must check on the Vault, Ultra Magnus. I hope I am not correct, but the Matrix has never lied to me before."

"Yes, but how? The nearest entrance is across a field of angry Rebels, Optimus. You'll never make it alone without getting shot to death. The numbers are against us."

Optimus nodded with grim determination. "I am willing to take whatever punishment necessary if it means the Vault will be safe."

"Wait!" Magnus yelled before Prime stood to make the run. "At least allow us to use the Rust Dragon Maneuver. We'll take some of the heat off of you."

"Magnus, I cannot ask you or the other Knights to get injured simply protecting me. It isn't right that my life should be more important than any other being's," he replied, the very thought causing him to feel sick.

"Pit, Prime! It's our job to take the shots meant for the Matrix-bearer!" Magnus yelled in a rare moment of frustration. "Our very functions are to protect you at all costs! I'm not as pious a mech as, say, Jackknife, but I'm positive that when Primus himself specifically says to protect the Prime with your life, he means it!" He calmed down in an instant, then spoke in his familiar level tone. "The longer we sit here arguing, the more danger the Vault is in. I've informed the Knights. You make the move, and we'll follow you."

Optimus shuttered his optics resentfully and waited, folding his mind into the Matrix. The world took an ethereal quality as he listened to the bullets pinging off the cybertanium hull of the Fortress Maximus, waiting for a break in the fusillade. The Knights offered words of encouragement over their private comm.

"Steel your resolve, Optimus Prime. All is as Primus sees fit." Overhang assured him.

"I've waited my whole life for this," Anvil said excitedly.

"I am prepared, Prime."

Optimus's spark gave one short pulse.

Now.

He vaulted the crate of datapads he had been hiding behind, transforming just before he hit the ground. His trailer came out of subspace, hitching without a jolt as soon as his tires bit the earth.

"Primus be praised!" Roughshod crowed as he took position by Optimus's left side, simultaneously sending his draconic familiar to distract the Rebels as the rest of the Temporal Knights formed a barrier around the Autobot Leader.

Had he been in robot form, Optimus would have cringed at the sound of bullets ricocheting off Roughshod's body. The Knight, sensing his distaste, attempted to hearten him. "Relax, Optimus Prime. My shields are still operating at 80% capacity."

"That does not make this act right," Optimus replied.

"We are more than halfway there already," Compound, the Night Warrior, reported airily.

"The Rebels have rockets!" came the single-sentence exclamation of another Knight as a high-explosive missile slammed into the left flank.

"Fraggit! Ultra Magnus, permission to smite those Rocket Trooper's collective faces?" Trashtalk asked angrily.

"Granted. As soon as we pass this unloading bay, break. All others close ranks behind the Prime." the Knight Commander replied to various "affirmatives".

The blue-and-white garbage truck broke behind the unloading office, barreling toward the Rebels while shouting things like, "Cowards! Face me head-on like the mechs you wish to be!" accompanied by various colorful death threats. Jackknife, Smokestack, and Anvil dutifully closed ranks behind Optimus while the others came to the fore, smashing through the southwest wall of the terminal loading complex and transforming to their heavily-armored robot forms.

Optimus Prime himself stood as his Knights checked both directions for hostiles, powerfully striding to the unassuming maintenance hatch. Already had it been kicked open, hanging on one hinge with its locks demolished. He narrowed his optics and drew his ion rifle, signaling the Knights to fall behind him as he entered the similarly sabotaged RESTRICTED USE portal.

"No!" Prime gasped when he laid eyes on the scene that was waiting for him. The Vault was dark and empty, the ancient hot spot extinguished. He took the long set of stairs three at a time and rushed to the cold structure in the center of the chamber.

The Matrix pulsed within his chest, giving him a message that he could somehow understand, despite it only consisting of soft whirrs and percussions. The energy of the hot spot had been siphoned into canisters and taken elsewhere, but it could be revitalized if it was returned in time. Currently, the Greater Iacon city-state was running exclusively on reserve power and would run out in a short time if the hot spot was not restored.

"Prime, I've found an injured Autobot," Quench's voice cut into Prime's silent examination.

"Who is it?" he replied, stepping away from the empty Vault.

"I believe his designation is Punch."

"Can you bring him back online?" Optimus asked as he knelt by the unconscious Doublespy's side. Punch was one of his best operatives, skilled at getting behind enemy lines and gleaning information about future attacks - an essential resource in a series of conflicts against terrorists. Besides, seconds counted at the moment, and the longer Optimus and the Knights dallied, the further away the Plasma Energy of the hot spot got from its cradle . . .

"Obviously. With the power of Primus, all things are possible," Quench said with absolute certainty, rubbing his hands together. The holy knight put one on his chestplate and slipped the other underneath his armor plating. He lifted his head to the heavens, seemingly muttering a prayer under his breath. Before Prime could catch what he was saying, Quench quickly snapped his head downward, optics emitting a strong white light. Punch's body was hit with the same light, and he woke as the light faded.

"Ahh . . . ow . . ."

"Punch, are you all right?" Optimus asked.

"He is suffering from a cracked spinal array, a major data disconnection point, a strained suspension system, and a number of cosmetic dents and hull breaches." the Knight's resident medical technician noted helpfully.

"I'm . . . I'm fine," Punch groaned.

"This is but a temporary miracle. If Punch is not taken to a medical facility soon, his disconnection point will go viral and spread to the rest of his processor, either killing him or turning him into a vegetable."

"No! No, that can't happen. Help me up, please."

Quench hooked his arm under Punch's and lifted him up, offering his own body as support. His feline familiar, Pummel, slinked around his legs and hovered near the injured Spy.

"There were two of them, Optimus. They were Clones, Pounce, and Wingspan. I tried to take them on, secure the Vault, but I failed. I'm sorry, sir."

"You don't need to apologize, Punch. The Knights and I will take care of this." Prime assured the Spy.

"Ultra Magnus and I will take Punch to the nearest functional medical center. By your leave, Prime?" Quench said.

"Granted," the Autobot Leader replied. "Everyone else, follow me. We will return the Plasma Energy to the Vault, as is our duties. Highway, which way did the Rebels use?"

"The back one," the Cyberwolf Knight replied with certainty, communicating with his own Primitive familiar, Muzzleflash. "Trail's still fresh. If we hurry, we could probably catch them before they get wherever they're going."

Prime thanked Highway and ran for the back exit, the others save Quench and Magnus following close behind. The path to the surface emptied atop an unindustrialized crest overlooking the battle-torn Spaceport.

Where have they gone? he asked the Matrix, trusting in the artifact's power. No sooner had the words left his processor than a flash of blue alerted him to one random spot, between two launch towers. At first, the area looked unremarkable, but as Optimus turned his optical arrays up to maximum power, he discerned the violet wings of an extinct cyberhawk gleam in the sun. Conspicuous in its own right, but the trademark glow of two energy rods against the avian's underside proved beyond a doubt that this was one of the Rebels they were looking for.

"I see our thief," he said, transforming and revving his powerful engine. "Let us pay him a visit, shall we?"

---

Lord Galvatron gazed out at the Iaconian Central Spaceport, savoring every last explosion and scream of pain. In many ways, it reminded the Supreme Decepticon Commander of his gladiator days. The carnage was also a fitting vengeance against the Autobots, the weak-willed Decepticons who had refused to accept their birthrights and gave up without a fight, the abhorrent Neutrals, and even the traitorous Rebels under his command, those who plotted against him when they thought he didn't know of their treachery.

Who is laughing now, Cyclonus? Your men are being cut down in droves, he thought happily to himself.

He had commanded those loyal to him to concentrate their attack on the Autobot prison ship. Of course, he couldn't care less about the heavily-armored waste of Cybertanium. It would be a bonus if his troops managed to siege the ship, but that was not his objective. As the puny Earthlings always said, there were bigger fish to fry.

"Lord Galvatron, sir, with all due respect, how much longer must we wait here? Having this many high-ranking officers in such a prominent location for so long presents a tactical hazard that we can't afford to make," Onslaught, the Combaticon leader, impatiently pointed out.

"Patience. Everything is proceeding as planned." Onslaught grumbled a little at Galvatron's response but remained respectfully still.

Where were they? The Clones should have been back by now. Galvatron's head sparked a few times as he squinted into the endless gray-and-burnt-orange structures of the vast spaceport, looking for any glimpse of the flying one's purple wingspan.

And there it was! The bright light of the sun at its highest point in the sky off royal purple feathers. A crooked grin distorted Galvatron's faceplates as he sparked happily. The smile was gone in an instant before the Supreme Leader turned, as any emotion in his field was seen as a weakness.

"Gentlemechs, I believe the rods have arrived!" he announced. Behind him, one could see the Clones beginning to scale the slope, navigating with ease the ruins of Iacon's first launch pad.

"Finally! It's been too long!" Motormaster bellowed in his fathomless deep voice, rising from his leaning position on one of the tower halves. The Stunticon Supreme Commander was eager to re-enter the battle, anyone could see it. The massive turquoise mech at his side, Snaptrap, said nothing, but Galvatron could read from his body language that he was too.

Two Primitives, Hun-Grr and Razorclaw, rose from their unidentifiable meal bearing a vague resemblance to a grayed frame and resting spot, respectively. The latter mech had been laying down on a collapsed crossbeam since before Galvatron had even arrived.

"Know . . . that all good things succumb to those who wait," Razorclaw yawned as he stretched the kinks out of his frame.

"Lord Galvatron," the flying Clone said triumphantly as he transformed, passing the rods into his robot mode hands and kneeling before his leader, "we have retrieved the Plasma Energy Rods as you commanded us."

"It certainly took you long enough," Galvatron snarled, snatching up the two held by Wingspan. He gave the giant white-and-green mech at his side a nod, prompting him to roughly take the other three the Clone's brother was presenting.

"Beg pardon, milord. We encountered some resistance and-"

"You are the resistance! I expect each and every one of my men to fulfill my orders to the letter, exactly when I want them to be fulfilled." Galvatron roared as sparks cascaded down his face. "You aren't traitors, are you?"

"No, Lord Galvatron, I am sorry," a cowering Wingspan groveled.

"Good. That being said, congratulations on retrieving the rods." He turned to the gathered generals, leaving the Clones both terrified and confused by the praise. "You all know what to do with these. Do not disappoint me."

"The Combaticons don't disappoint, sir," Onslaught said as Galvatron handed him one of the rods.

"I have the fourth-largest contingent of Decepticons in our ranks, Galvatron. Consider it done," Motormaster boasted, slinging his canister over his broad shoulder.

"Know we shall complete our side of the operation, or die trying," the Predacon leader affirmed, transforming to his lithe and deadly robot mode.

Hun-Grr nearly ate the rod he was given, but stopped himself halfway and downed a flask of Energon in addition to the mass of gray material already in his mouth. "Fanks. Wo'll get th' job don'."

Snaptrap simply growled, low and throatily, as Galvatron's mechservant gave him his rod. "Talk is cheap. I will not make promises for something we will pull off easily."

Galvatron would never admit it, but Snaptrap was the most intimidating mech on the launchpad save him and his servant. The Seacon leader didn't scare him per se, but with his skill and size, he would be a tough dog to put down if Cyclonus somehow managed to turn the Seacons against him.

"I shall return from my mission in less than eight decacycles," Galvatron declared, reclaiming his position on the scenic vantage point. "By that time, I expect all of you to have completed the parts you have to play. May the Chaos Bringer augment you with strength and look favorably upon your respective journeys. Leave at once."

"Hail Unicron," the generals said as they left the launchpad. Galvatron remained there, watching the destruction being wreaked upon the once-grand Central Spaceport. It was beautiful in its own right - destruction meant casualties of all those who had dared to cross the Decepticon Empire and, by extension, the Chaos Bringer. Simply, all Galvatron was doing was bringing about a new Golden Age in Unicron's name, the way things were supposed to be from the beginning.

"Sir, forgive me for asking, but shouldn't we fall back?" the green-and-white mech inquired in anticipation. Clearly, he was excited at the prospect of reentering battle as much as the Stunticon Commander had been.

"Do you see that dropship approaching from the east?" Galvatron asked, intentionally ignoring the larger mech's comment. "They did not exist back in my time. Neither did those Autobot fliers escorting it. When I was alive - for the first time - the power of self-controlled flight was, for the most part, a purely Decepticon trait."

"Fascinating. Your point is, sir?" his accomplice said, losing patience.

"It irritates me, these 'Aerialbots' acting as if they own the skies," he said, carefully defining his words. "My successor - and, funnily enough, my predecessor - Megatron, he felt differently. Towards the end of your Terran War, he even felt a minuscule amount of pride for these flying monkeys, despite the rough punishment he put them through in battle." Two large red sparks jetted from his head with sharp snap sounds. "I, however, am an old-fashioned robot. Control of the air always has and always will belong to the Decepticons. So . . . show those upstarts what a one-robot army is . . . Sixshot."

"I thought you'd never get to the fragging point," Sixshot grumbled as he converted into his AA tank form, one of many to come, and planted his glowing green reticle on the rapidly approaching specks. This was, truly, what he was made for.

---

"This is Unit 20-A to ground. We're nearing the drop point. Is the landing zone clear?" Moonwalk, the Autobot Flier class, asked.

"Almost. You should be safe to land, though. Have someone man the MG, just in case," the grainy response came.

"Roger." Moonwalk flipped a clearly labeled switch on the dropship's center console, making the starboard heavy machine gun slide into place. With but a push of a button, the nose pulse cannon extended to the optimal firing position. It never failed to amaze him how easy the Mk. IV Mercy dropships were to pilot compared to his own Cryptglider attack gunship back on Earth. He remembered the many aerial engagements with invading Seekers, just barely able to keep up to the Decepticons's nimble and fast alternate forms.

Not important right now, he chided himself, picking up the dropship's included F-Radio transmitter. "Moonwalk to Jetlag and Silverbolt."

"We read you," the elder Aerialbot commander prompted.

"I've just been informed of a small number of Rebels at the dropsite, so watch each other's sixes, OK?"

"Yessir. We always do-INCOMING!" the younger team leader shouted, just too late to save his brother Meteor from a barrage of flak that came seemingly out of nowhere. Each deadly accurate round cut through the G2 Aerialbots's resident Elite, exploding within his now-flaming frame and peppering the rest of the Fliers with sharp pieces of carbon-steel. Jetlag and his brothers screamed in pure agony as all that was Meteor was erased from existence, his body engulfed in fire to the point where he was unrecognizable as a Cybertronian, crashing to the ground far below like the space rocks he was named after.

"Frag! I'm hit!" Air Raid of the elder Aerialbots yelled as he began to smoke. "I've got to land! I-"

Suddenly, a purple interceptor vehicle with a broad front end slammed into his wingmech Cleansweep at what seemed to be Mach Two. Air Raid saw everything in slow motion. First, the vehicle hit his Generation Two counterpart, caving the poor Warrior's fuselage in beyond repair. He was no medic, but Air Raid knew instantly there would be no recovering from a collision like that - everything he had loved about the meticulous young Seekerling was gone forever.

Before he could begin to articulate a scream of rage, before Cleansweep's lifeless chassis could begin its descent to earth, before the spark-felt signal was sent to the G2 Aerialbots containing the pain he had felt in the last moments of his life, the vehicle rebounded off Cleansweep's body and sheared off Air Raid's tailfins and most of his left wing, sending him into a tailspin.

His last few thoughts before he hit the ground were of the good times he had shared with his little earth-born brothers, and how those moments would never be shared again, even if the others pulled through.

---

Silverbolt felt Air Raid crash, saw the flames billow upward from the refueling depot he had landed, and began praying that his younger brother would survive. A tiny *tink* noise made by an interceptor vehicle ricocheting off the nearby dropship was all he had to go by before an enormous mech suddenly put his cockpit into a death grip.

"Get off!" he yelled, trying to shake the intruder. His aerodynamics were horrible, the wind pushing off the green mech's boxy form. Silverbolt began to stall as the mech raised a shotgun, aiming at the closest Aerialbot - a gold VTOL by the name of Whirlwind. The Aerialbot leader was forced to watch as the Decepticon unloaded six shells into the luckless Flier, the shotgun bucking and kicking with recoil that would topple any normal Warrior. Whirlwind, the poor wretch, crumbled into pieces like a badly-made oilcake.

"NO!" Silverbolt shouted. He had no choice but to take this Rebel down via any means possible. The Aerialbot transformed, grabbing the Decepticon by the waist and throwing him with all of his might toward the rapidly approaching ground. Primus, it was so high up . . .

The Rebel spread out in mid-air, slowing his descent. Silverbolt transformed, charging his shield-shattering electromagnetic bolt to full capacity.

But the Decepticon would have none of it and shot the mostly defenseless Silverbolt three times with his shotgun. The rounds hit much harder than he had figured they would, cutting straight through his shields and breaching the light Flier's nosecone armor.

The leader of the Aerialbots was knocked offline by the third blast. Sixshot paid no attention to the flaming jet. Far as he was concerned, the silver Seeker wannabe was already ascending to the great junkyard in the sky. He converted into his own aerial form and thrust into the sky, passing the doomed dropship on his way up.

---

"Primus fraggit! What the Pit was that?" Moonwalk exclaimed in surprise, yanking the dropship back to its original altitude as a black blur shot into the air on the right. The force that hit the side of the ship had knocked it a smidge to the right and almost hit Jetlag, who was currently suffering sparkshock and unable to react to stimulus in any way.

"It was Sixshot! I saw his face when he took down Whirlwind!" one of the hastily-gathered troops in back cried.

"Sixshot?! Slag! Why didn't someone pin some ordinance on him?"

"You saw how fast he was! I didn't have a chance to pull the trigger!"

Moonwalk took a deep vent, trying to get his panic under control. Some had already jumped out of the dropship in an effort to get away from the rogue STAG. "This is Unit 20-A to ground. We're down five Aerialbots," he reported urgently over the F-radio, "but we'll still be able to reach the dropzone. We have a confirmed sighting of Sixshot as well. Send a search-and-rescue team, but be ready for heavy resistance. Over." Then, to the people still aboard, "Does anyone have a visual on Sixshot?"

The trademark metallic groan of intensive mass shifting was the Flier's only reply before the dropship's troop hold was abruptly impaled by a massive submarine.

---

Sixshot activated his external thrusters, hailing from his aerial modes yet accessible in this aquatic form. He'd only have a few moments before the ship's antigrav matrix failed. He slowly entered a proper firing angle, forcing the dropship to hover at a strange position perpendicular to the ground. Something flailed about inside the ruined hull, punching the STAG's thick armor with pitiful strikes. With a single lurch, the pounding ceased.

The Aerialbots remaining in the air - those not affected much by sparkshock, that is - were preparing defensive maneuvers, getting far enough away to begin a strafing run. The brightly-colored neon Fliers were the first to go, making easy targets for Sixshot as they flew aimlessly forward. With three powerful blasts from his bow cannon, the G2 Aerialbots were no more.

Closing fast were two jets, one gray and the other red. Sixshot knew from experience that the gray one was a handful, an aerial acrobat simply unsurpassed in skill and capable of outflying even the most battle-hardened Seekers.

Dodge this, flyboy, he thought to himself, opening two missile batteries on either side of his main cannon and locking target on the annoying Strategist. Had he cared about such things, he would have seen Skydive quite impressively manage to dodge approximately eighty-two percent of the incendiary torpedoes, but it was the last eighteen percent and a powerful blast of laser from Sixshot that sent the Aerialbot plummeting.

The STAG considered gloating about his latest victory, but just then, the matrix of the dropship failed and he began to lose altitude. He activated his exterior cameras as a last-minute attempt to take down another Aerialbot and saw the form of a helicopter high above, launching spark-seeking rockets at him with a vengeance.

Sixshot roared with rage as Slingshot's Sparkeater missiles detonated against his hull, bypassing his shields with their unique energy signature and directly damaging his armor. Infuriated, he transformed once again, the remnants of the dropship crumbling away as he converted into his last, bestial form. There Sixshot saw the little pest with his own optics, still attempting to take him down with his admittedly vast armory. He soared towards the helicopter, meeting him with a growl and tearing off his rotors with his beast mode's claws. Slingshot fell like a rock, bleeding Energon and screaming the whole way down.

One left. Sixshot turned, flapping his mostly useless wings out of habit as his jets did all the work. Though his optics in this form were terrible up close, his winged cyberwolf's optical array was phenomenal at long distances. He whirled about, trying to locate the last Aerialbot left alive.

Finally, the gleam of a red jet caught his eye, darting between the launch towers and fuel tanks.

Found you.

---

Fireflight was on the lowest burn he could muster while still keeping in the air. He could feel his brothers through the gestalt bond, most in stasis lock. It gave him a sick feeling in the back of his head, but he knew that if he could just revive Silverbolt, it would go away and everything would be all right.

He had to hurry before the monster found him.

Where are you, Silverbolt? I'm scared . . . Fireflight asked frantically over the Aerialbot link.

Like Silverbolt had answered his plea, he saw him, lying on the edge of a small plaza. The younger Aerialbot switched his antigravs on before he exposed himself in the open area, weighing his options. If he went out there, the monster would see and kill him, without a doubt. He had one of his smoke bombs left, but that would just give his position away and draw the attention of the monster, who was large enough to take up the entire minimum-range of the cloud.

Fine. Fireflight shot one of his innocuous-looking fire-fog missiles about twenty mechanometers away, then switched to his smoke ones and covered the area around Silverbolt with the thick gray screen. As he flew into the smoke cloud, he saw a green-and-silver, vaguely Primitive shape dive into the fire-fog, then seconds later, a bone-chilling howl of pain as he tugged his older brother behind a nearby small, rather pretty structure.

Not important, so not important. He shook his brother, sending the strongest message of WAKE UP over the bond that he could muster.

"Please, Silverbolt, I'm so scared, please wake up," he begged.

His brother didn't respond, not even when the monster barreled into Fireflight at top speed.

"AAH!" the Aerialbot cried as the monster knocked him to the ground, ripping massive tears into his sensitive wings as he fell. Fireflight backed away as fast as he could, adrenaline numbing the pain emitting from his ruined sensory/flight organs. The beast was a huge mockery of a cyberwolf, with bare vestiges of a Cybertronian visible in the twisted frame, much like one of the Terrorcons that Fireflight himself had fought in the Unicron Wars. Silver wings folded over its back, and two sharp-looking tails whipped through the air behind it. On top of that, it was still wreathed in fire from Fireflight's first missile, making it seem very much like a creature crawled from the depths of the Pit itself.

"Please don't . . . Not like this . . ." Fireflight whimpered as he dove for his offline brother. Tears welled in his optics and flowed freely down his faceplate even as he raised his Reconnaissance Rifle at the monster. "Back off! Leave S-Silverbolt alone! Kill me, but let my brothers go!"

---

Sixshot, unimpressed by the Aerialbot's lack of conviction, loped toward the trembling child. The fire-fog decoy had angered the STAG, and even now the flames were eating away at his shields. His left leg smarted from the Sparkeater barrage, and he salivated at the prospect of killing this sparkling so his brother would suffer for however long he would continue to vent air. A part of him wanted to rip the red Flier apart slowly - fear tasted savory and delicious - but he thought better of it. There was no honor in eating one's opponent, and Galvatron would call the assault off at any moment now, anyways. In the end, he elected to just kill the child and the rest of the Autobot Fliers and be done with it.

---

The beast came close enough to be picked up by Fireflight's now-limited olfactory sensors. His spark hammered within his chest, and his white palms were smeared smoky gray with seeping oil. Keeping his body over Silverbolt, he shouted, "S-stay away! STAY BACK!"

He shuttered his optics tightly, causing more fluid to squeeze out, laid closer to his brother, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Weapon jammed, the all-too-obvious readout on Fireflight's HUD stated.

"No, no, no . . . Oh, slag."

As the Reconnaissance Private watched in fear, letting his inept weapon drop minutely, the monster howled a terrifying, triumphant screech and rushed toward Fireflight, slavering jaws wide enough to swallow him in one piece . . .

Bam!

Ratatatat!

FWOOM!

The monster jumped back, smoke curling from its now ash-blackened head. It roared furiously and charged to Fireflight's right, but left after several noises sounding like blows, leaving with a pained shriek and spiraling into the air.

Loud ringing filled Fireflight's auditory sensors from the blast, even with his audio-protecting helm. Abruptly, a pair of broad arms yanked him to his pedes. He fought and squirmed, trying to deliver an elbow strike to his captor's midsection, but whoever was holding him was too strong.

"Lemme go!" he shouted desperately, vocoder cracking from stress.

"-reflight! FIREFLIGHT! It's me, son - Optimus Prime. Are you okay?"

"Optimus . . . I-I'm sorry, sir. Uhh . . . my brothers, sir . . . you have to help me find my brothers. . ." Fireflight replied, dazed.

"We will find them, young one. You are in no condition to assist us. Bridgehead," he beckoned to one of his Knights, "see to this Seekerling. Ensure that he is cared for and his wounds are patched as well as conditions will allow."
"Yes, Prime," Bridgehead said, taking Fireflight by the arm and bringing him over to the offline Aerialbot leader.

"Sixshot's still out there, Prime. Should we track him down, finish him off?" Hot Rod asked, jogging lightly over to Optimus's side.

"Hot Rod. Aren't you supposed to helping out back at the Fortress Maximus?" Optimus inquired with firmness in his voice, turning away from Fireflight and Bridgehead.

"I don't need to be, sir. The Rebels withdrew right after you and the Knights left."

---

"Ha! They're all running!"

"G-g-guess w-we scared dem away, eh."

"That doesn't mean we're in the clear. They could simply be clearing the way for a massive attack," I said as loudly as I could and over the radio. "Keep sharp. Get some more cover over here." I don't like this at all, I thought idly as I pulled a relatively unmarred wheeled crate to my own position.

"Renegade, what's your take on the situation?" I asked the ACTS captain. He liked to play fast and loose with rules, hence his name. At the moment he was chambering another round into his fully upgraded Nucleon Charge Rifle.

"Ya want my opinion, Detective?" he asked, talking around a cy-garette.

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't," I bit back. There was never time for sarcasm on the battlefield.

"I think they're clearin' the way fer a massive attack. Gaining control o' the Fortress, that kinda thing."

I scowled. "Thanks."

"'S what I'm here fer. I'd recc'mend we consolidate 'round the entrances."

"And we finally agree on something. Tell your men to guard the main gangplank, I'll see if I can get Scattershot on again."

"Sounds good."

I gave the command over general comm to focus on the entrances and sat down, leaning on the wheeled crate. "Nightbeat to Scattershot. Come in. Repeat, Nightbeat to Scattershot. Come in."

"I hear you, Detective, but we're a little busy at the moment. Fraggin' Mindwipe knocked Lightspeed into the fuel reservoir below the Fortress, and we're having difficulty getting back up."

"Scrap. Tell me when you get out." I sighed. A terrible smell had enveloped the cargo area of the FortMax, an odor much like rusting metal, or a grease-encrusted turboworm flailing about in its own waste.

Funny. That hadn't been there before. Something clicked inside my processor and I instinctively quirked an optical ridge in thought.

"Siren, duck," I said matter-of-factly.

"WHY SHOULD I - OH SLAG!" my protégé exclaimed as I pointed my pistol directly at his cranial unit.

Siren - good listener, despite his volume problem - ducked accordingly, clearing the way for the thirteen bullets I shot into the air behind him. Everyone in the bay jumped and started in surprise, letting exclamations of fear fly, but I paid them no attention. I had to be right, or else I would appear to have gone mad as a petro-rabbit . . .

To my relief - and subsequent horror - the air shimmered and took form, solidifying quickly into a brute of a mech two mechanometers tall and pawing at his chest armor with enormous white hands. He was powerfully built, with a broad chest and long, thick arms. He possessed an array of red tailfins on his back, seemingly part of a Shuttle-class alternate mode. The Decepticon sigil was brandished proudly on the white crest-like design spanning his chest. He looked - and smelled - familiar, but I couldn't exactly put my digit on it at the moment. My vast databases spun, trying to put a name to this face.

The mechs under my temporary command began to fire upon the previously-cloaked Rebel as he converted into a fearsome primitive form. Twin columns on either side of his chest unfolded, turning into two relatively small legs, his entire torso turned 160 degrees backward so the tailfins ended up on his back, and his head flipped lengthwise, becoming an entirely different cranial unit - that of a sharp-toothed Torax.

"Apeface." I snarled, recognizing the Rebel in an instant. I had busted him a while back for running Nuke when he was a former Decepticon, but he hadn't had the red tailfins then or a robot mode that I had ever seen, preferring to conduct deals in his Primitive form. Evidently, he had undergone some matter of Triple-Changing reformat since joining the Decepticon Rebels, which only made him more dangerous. A drug runner was bad enough alone, but a drug runner with resources and a tertiary alternate mode was exponentially worse.

Apeface said nothing, instead responding with a foul-smelling roar. Though I dashed backward, the Rebel moved faster than I could react, faster than any memory I had of him and caught me by the leg, lifting me into the air and holding me upside down. My fellow Autobots stopped firing, evidently afraid of hitting me.

"What are you waiting for? SHOOT HIM! I shouted as I twisted about, finishing off my magazine into Apeface's head. My heavy trenchcoat fell around my shoulders and head, but I could still see the Rebel's ugly face. Around the Fortress, more fighting broke out as a small contingent of flying Decepticons with Pit to pay soared in from the neighboring spires and command towers, forcing the defenders into the prison ship.

"You're not so tough," Apeface growled in my audio when the mag was empty. Then, he drew up on his forearm and threw me bodily into the cargo hold of the Fortress Maximus.

I hit a crate of something dense and saw stars. An explosion happened just outside, close enough I could feel the heat from the conflagration, followed by a screechy roar. I couldn't be out of the fight so easily, not me. It simply wasn't logical.

But my throbbing processor had other ideas, and I was taken by blackness.

---

"Slaggin' Autobot! Snapdragon, get down here NOW!"

At last, the call Snapdragon had been waiting for graced his audios. He cared not for subterfuge and would have gladly continued to fight the Autobots and Decepticons unworthy of the title who were guarding the prison ship had Galvatron not called a retreat. Fortunately, there were a few of his fellow Rebels who felt the same way. They had told each other over a private communications server that this spat would be simple: send Apeface in so he could kill off a few initially, then go back in and exterminate anyone left alive at the loading bay. Then they would retreat once the aggressors had been taken care of. Apparently, however, Snapdragon's companion had failed his part that he had to play. No matter, that would just make this that much more fun.

"Decepticons, attack!" he hissed over their small little comm-net as he pushed off from the tower he was holding on to and transformed. The others - Triggerhappy, Slugslinger, and Misfire, who had all received harsh punishment in the initial battle - peeled away from their spires as well, peppering the various service hatches of the ship with volleys of laser and plasma.

Snapdragon, however, powered straight for the loading bay. He soared through the ruined, now-roofless canopy that at one time protected goods being loaded into the ship and crashed headlong into the nearest barrels of oil he could find, which happened to be right in front of a group of Neutrals.

KABOOM! Fuel ignited on contact with his burning-hot thrusters and made a fireball, incinerating those closest to the epicenter and scalding those farther away. Being a Shuttle-class, Snapdragon's heat shielding protected his delicate machinery as he converted into his primitive form - that of the legendary Terran reptile that his name translated to in their tongue.

He screeched in elation, lashing out with one of his powerful forelegs and making a red-and-green Gladiator class with an enormous sniper rifle fall to the ground, flame licking the edges of his utilitarian ballistic armor. It pleased Snapdragon to see the remaining Autobots running in terror from his sudden appearance, straight into the raging Apeface and desperately dashing into the Fortress as a last resort. The Gladiator class at his feet crawled backward like the pitiful coward he was as his Nucleon rifle folded back into his arm and he patted out the fire.

Apeface's hydraulic fist slammed into the ground beside the Autobot, causing him to scurry into the Fortress like the rest of his glitch-mouse fellows.

"Look at all the cowering Autobots, Apeface," Snapdragon growled, stretching his wings over the gap between him and his partner just to hammer in the point that there was no escape. The Autobots pointed their weapons at the two Terrorcons, hands shaking in fright. They seemed to close ranks around an injured cobalt mech, trying in vain to protect him.

"We've got a score to settle, punks!" his odiferous ally said, cracking his knuckles and belching threateningly.

"I'll enjoy rolling on your grayed corpses, bathing in the fluids that seep out of your bodily orifices!" the Interceptor roared, charging forth on four legs with his cavernous jaws wide open. He lunged at his enemy, front leg extended, and . . .

SLAM!

"ACK! Agrh . . ." Snapdragon gurgled as the cargo bay door closed hard on his beast mode chest. He couldn't vent and damage warnings shot across his HUD. Precious fuel lines in his torso snapped, the fluid that coursed through them leaking out of his mouth. He felt his spark strain under the pressure, something that truly scared him. He didn't want to die. The accursed Autobots began firing, each round, each bullet, each spray of carbon-alloy shrapnel punching holes in his vulnerable cranial unit.

Slag. He was going to die here, shot to pieces by a group of yellow-bellied cowards and all he could do was swipe feebly at the Autobots with his one arm, and his injuries were about to make even that impossible. Beneath his clawed hind legs, the runway of the titanic ship began to move.

---

"Snapdragon! No!" Apeface exclaimed when the heat-resistant blast doors slammed shut on his friend's head. He loped forward, prepared to physically force the doors open with his profound strength, but just then the ship turned on.

Above his head, twenty mechanometers straight up, the enormous main thruster sent a broad beam of red-orange flame arcing through the air. A loud rumble shook the very floor of the loading bay as the long collapsing runway extended fully over the Trannis Fork River, far below the First Ring of Iacon that the Spaceport dangled on the edge of.

To Apeface's terror, the Fortress Maximus began to move, slowly at first, but gaining speed rapidly. Snapdragon's rear end went along with it, his back three legs skittering down the entire cargo gangplank before dropping off as it ended.

"Stop!" he shouted uselessly, running as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. He leapt off the gangplank, converting to his shuttle form and rocketing towards the Fortress as it picked up speed.

"Don't do it, Apeface! Snapdragon's a lost cause!" Misfire advised the Saboteur over comm, but the Horrorcon would have none of it. He transformed again, hitting the blast door at forty miles per hour and grabbing hold of his entrapped ally.

"Autobot!" Triggerhappy yelled, breaking retreat formation and turning back towards the Fortress. Indeed, looking like an ant-droid compared to the absolutely huge prison ship, there was a red Cybertronian car, accompanied by a gold Terran racecar driving full-tilt after it.

"Aw, Triggerhappy, leave them! We don't have time for this!" Misfire said, turning to retrieve his wingmate. Slugslinger had no choice but to turn back as well. Maybe he'd even be able to put another kill mark on his guns afterward.

Apeface paid no attention to his comrades, sending Snapdragon a comm over the Interceptor's panicked and hurt mind. "Buddy, if you can hear me, I'm going to get you out, don't worry. I need you to work with me. Please."

He received no response, but he thought Snapdragon loosened up a little. Apeface began pulling underneath his friend's exposed shoulder, simultaneously shoving the double-panel cargo bulkhead down as hard as he could. Rounds pinged off of the heavy blast doors, some flying through the arm-sized gap and hitting Apeface's bare alloy, his energy shields now completely gone. That couldn't be good for the Interceptor, so he redoubled his efforts, tugging on Snapdragon's shoulder coupling hard and frequently. He felt something snap inside his friend's armored chassis, but Apeface didn't care. It seemed that the other Horrorcon was mostly out already.

With a lurch, the Fortress Maximus began to lift into the air, the thrusters becoming hot and intense as they pushed to get the decidedly non-aerodynamic prison ship into the air. Blisteringly-hot jets deployed around the cargo hold to help lift the Fortress, and the gunfire inside stopped as the Autobots sought cover, their armor useless against the heat of a spacecraft taking off.

Apeface had a little longer before his own paint bubbled thanks to his Shuttle-class armor. He let out a final shout of defiance and gave Snapdragon one strong yank. One scaly blue front leg broke free, pushing feebly off of the rapidly heating hull as the Saboteur pounded the recumbent cargo door one last time, and the Horrorcons came hurtling down.

As they fell, Apeface pulled Snapdragon close and turned as best as he could, presenting his own back to the unforgiving runway below.

A crunch and Apeface rolled on his side, the ledge on his back consisting of his thrusters and the back half of his alternate mode dented and crushed. With one diagnostic, he was told that it was mostly cosmetic, but he wouldn't be able to fly unless his tailfins were repaired. It still hurt like the Pit, though.

Snapdragon was worse off. The Interceptor lay on his side in beast mode, venting shallowly. His head resembled a Terran sock puppet that had been terribly abused, and he was leaking Energon profusely.

"Buddy? You OK?" Apeface asked worriedly. He initiated a very low-grade systems scan - the only one he knew how to do - and was glad to know, at least, Snapdragon's spark wasn't in danger of expiring.

He let out a grateful vent. "Good. Let's get you home."

The Saboteur transformed, long Torax arms swinging down to tenderly drape his friend over his shoulders. He grunted a little as he stood to the best of his ability, and then started the trek down the long runway. Frag it. Where were the Fliers when you needed them?

---

It came, unnoticeably at first, then gradually becoming more intense as time passed. Hot Rod felt it long before the Knights Temporal or even Optimus Prime himself did, but Fireflight was the only one to remark on the sound.

Optimus was just about to give the command to scour the Spaceport for any remaining Rebels when the Aerialbot piped up, "Hey . . . Is it just me, or does anyone else feel a kind of rumbling?"

Anvil, the Chargerfight Knight, scowled. "I was hoping it was just my adrenaline."

"The runway in front of the FortMax's lowering! It's about to take off!" someone shouted. Hot Rod didn't see who said it, but he knew in an instant they were correct.

"No . . . This was a setup!" Optimus declared. "The Rebels must have retreated after obtaining the Plasma Energy Rods to lure us into a false sense of security, then sent a saboteur to take the ship while we were busy chasing after the Rods! Galvatron has robbed us blind without our notice!" He turned to Hot Rod, optics blazing with disbelief. "Hot Rod, you are the only one here fast enough to reach the Fortress Maximus before it lifts off. You must hurry! I wish you the best of luck, my successor. Now go!"

"Roger!" Hot Rod transformed and accelerated faster than he ever had in his life. He tore over runways and launchpads, darted around spires, and even drove through a few buildings in a frantic race to the heavily-armed ship. If the Rebels got a hold of the Fortress, the acts of terrorism they could visit upon their adversaries would be staggering. His vents worked double-time to rid his frame of excess heat generated in his mad dash and he just prayed he could make it in time.

He called the leader of the Throttlebots as he jumped a crest. There it was, just over the next block of buildings, moving slowly still, but about to speed up exponentially. "Goldfire, ya still at the FortMax loading bay?"

"Yes! The ship is-"

"Taking off, yes, I know. You need to transform, OK? There's a bunch of Rebels on that ship, and they're gonna plunge Iacon into fire and brimstone with its guns. We need to take it back."

Hot Rod roared into the loading bay pushing 180, and had time to catch a glimpse of a gold Earth racecar peeling out after him from the nearby exports building.

"A fleet of Decepticons attacked the main entrances a minute ago. They were probably covering for a sabotage team." Goldfire affirmed.

"This keeps getting better and better," the Cavalier said as he rammed through a chain-link gate at the bottom of the loading ramp and on to the long runway. Goldfire followed close behind.

Hot Rod pinged the steersman of the Fortress, a mech by the name of Cerebros, with an urgent comm request, which was accepted without pause.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, I'm locked out of my own bridge, I can't get in! Someone's inside, overriding all of my keycodes and jamming my bridge cameras! Whoever's in there's serious, sir, and I can't even get eyes in-"

"Cerebros! Can you open a hatch or something? One that can get me to the interior of the ship?" Hot Rod interrupted him.

A pause. "Yes, sir, I can. There's a waste pipe on the very bottom of the ship. You must hurry, though, we'll lift off at any moment."

"Good! Watch yourself, it could be dangerous!" He closed Cerebros's commlink. "A waste pipe?"

"One of the many elegancies of being a former Autobot leader, I'm sure," Goldfire panted.

"Sure, but someone's gotta-DECEPTICON!"

A blue jet fighter spiraled out of the smoky sky on their right, perforating the runway with hot bolts of laser and sending Hot Rod into a swerve. Goldfire slammed on his brakes, flying backward and out of the field of fire.

"Slag! Was that Triggerhappy?" he said as he regained speed.

"Undoubtedly," Goldfire said grimly. "As long as he's still active, we won't be able to make it to the Fortress together."

"What are you saying?" Hot Rod said, already knowing what the answer would be. The ship drew closer and closer, shaking intensely with every seam in the collapsible runway. Soon, it would be literally on top of them.

"You're faster than I am, and you're less armored in general. I'm already slowing you down as it is. You've handled crowds easily five times as big as any sabotage team I've seen in my career, so you'll do just fine without me. I'll distract Triggerhappy. You get to the Fortress. Take down a few Rebels for me when you get there, huh?"

Goldfire sent an archived image over the commlink. It featured the Espionage Director himself flashing a thumbs up toward the camera, faceplate retracted and a wide grin plastered over his face. Hot Rod remembered the day it was taken, the eve of the Decepticons' official surrender. There had been tangible festivity in the air, not just for the Autobots but the Decepticons as well. The millennia-long war had finally ended and everyone was happy. For most, their entire lives had been conflict, and now it was over. In short, it had been quite a monumental day, carrying hints of better times to come.

"Yes, sir, Goldfire," Hot Rod affirmed, accelerating to his fastest speed. In his rearview mirror, he could see his old friend transforming, shooting a powerful bolt of electricity at the dark blue Rebel. "We'll be able to laugh about this someday."

With a burst of agreement from Goldfire's end, the commlink closed, and Hot Rod passed underneath the Fortress Maximus.

---

The enormous machine's underside acted as a wind tunnel, pushing against the Cavalier and slowing him down considerably, but he persevered.

Where is it? Hot Rod thought to himself, scouring the vaulted slate gray underbelly of the FortMax for the open hatch that would allow him entry. It shouldn't have been so hard to locate a dangling hatch cover, and - ah. There it was, the barred maintenance cover hanging down and making something of a half-length ladder.

Ahead, the heavy-duty ramps made for getting ships like this into the air loomed like a foreboding cliff, marking the very end of the runway. It was truly now or never so, with a final war cry, Hot Rod transformed, using the kinetic energy from his transformation to catapult into the air. He reached out as far as he could and managed to grab one of the bars with one hand.

With a lurch, the ship lifted into the air, nearly dislodging Hot Rod from his precarious grip. The Cavalier threw his other hand up and over, taking hold of another bar. From there, it was but a simple hand-over-hand climb into the waste pipe.

---

Clank.

Hot Rod removed a grate with precision honed from many years of practice, yielding little to no noise. He grunted as he exited the waste pipe, covered in semi-solid oily slime left over from the prison ship's profound fuel use. He stank, and there was no way to deny it, but he didn't have time to clean himself.

The room he was in seemed to be a utility closet, covered wall-to-wall in pipes and gauges. He gave it a quick glance and kicked down the door, sweeping side to side with his photon laser, then began to move down the hallway. As Autobot Leader, he had been briefed on the basic floor plans of notable giant ships, so he knew where his destination lay - down this hall, up a ladder, first hatch on the top floor.

I'll need some firepower if I'm going to take back the ship, he thought. In his mind, he told himself that he was unworthy of accepting the mantle of Prime again, but his spark told him not to listen. Cementing his resolve, he transformed as he walked.

Rodimus Prime's spoiler lengthened along its horizontal axis and his helm flattened out, splitting into five points thrusting into the air. Kibble attached to his legs folded out and down, turning into durasteel leggings and making him a head taller than he originally stood. His shoulders turned into pylons, rising proudly above his head as his chest assembly tilted up and back into his frame. Lastly, his photon laser lengthened to fit his new tall and powerful body, components assembling themselves from subspace and changing the Cavalier's short-range and fast-firing Photon Laser into the Autobot Leader's long-range Photon Eliminator. He took the long ladder three rungs at a time, ascending to the top in an instant. Rodimus braced himself to destroy the carbon-steel hatch - an arduous task - but someone pinged him with a comm request.

"Cerebros, I'm just outside the bridge! I'm going to break in!"

"Don't!" the steersman shouted desperately. Rodimus was surprised at this sudden turnaround but elected to listen anyways. "I've run several foolproof scans throughout the entirety of the ship! They're not picking up any Decepticon energy signatures."

Rodimus relaxed minutely but still kept his guard up. "So what you're saying is that we've got either a turncoat or a sleeper agent."

"That's just it, sir. Whoever launched the Fortress was using an energy masking device that I've never seen the likes of. I'm fairly confident that the Fortress's sensors can see past any device known to Cybertronians if the user's a Decepticon. It comes with the fact that this was a maximum-security prison during the war. I know that this mystery pilot isn't a Rebel."

"But then who is it?" Rodimus thought aloud.

"There are several citizens that wound up aboard when we took off. They've all gathered in the main cell block. It's a cargo hold now, so if you see any crates, you're in the right place."

"What about the bridge?"

"I'll look into it, see if I can find paint chips, devices, any internal fluids, things like that. Once I'm done, I'm turning back to Cybertron. We've gone through several spatial warps, however, so it may take a few vorns at least. You get to the old ward and see what you can find out."

"Gotcha," Rodimus said, subspacing his photon eliminator and heading back down the long ladder.

Between the Cybertronians of various builds and the storage crates strewn about the cell block, there was standing room only. All eyes turned to Rodimus as he entered the room through the small corridor leading from the ladder.

"Alright, bots," he began, switching into "leader" mode. "We've got a troublemaker aboard. No, no - relax. Whoever it is, it ain't a Rebel. What Cerebros and I have pieced together is, someone wanted to take a joyride in a Titan-class prison ship for whatever reason and took off with an unreal energy masking device cloaking their entire body and signature. I'm sure I don't need to illustrate why this needs to be looked into. So, when we arrive back on Cybertron, everyone currently in this room will have to submit to a search by mnemosurgeon the second we arrive. Capisce?"

The cell block erupted in protest, disbelief, and anger overwriting each other as every last mech expressed his outrage. Rodimus held his hand up for peace.

"Cool it!" he shouted, putting a temporary quiet over the angry group. "If it makes you feel better, I'll issue a formal command that the surgeon doesn't change or worm through any of your memories except the ones from the past two vorns. Okay? I'll even go first once we get back. You all can watch me get scanned by whatever surgeon we can find, and I'll pay for the operations."

A smaller brown-and-red mech in the front of the crowd, who Rodimus knew well, put his own hand up. "I'm a mnemosurgeon."

"There we go! Everyone, this is Chromedome. He's a good guy, good surgeon too. Got a light touch and finishes his work like-" he snapped his fingers, "-that. It's not as bad as you think, believe me." He nodded at Chromedome, apologizing without words for putting the Courier class on the spot.

A voice came from the midst of the crowd. "When will we get back, Prime?"

"Well . . . right now, Cerebros is searching for any trace our mystery mech may have left behind, then he'll start heading back to Cybertron. However, we have gone through a couple spatial warps, so it may take a while to return to our sector."

"But how long will it be?" the same voice asked politely, yet persistently.

"Alone, Cerebros will take more than three vorns," Rodimus said, bracing for the displeasure that would inevitably follow.

Groaning and angry shouts cropped up once more, just as he had predicted.

"That's not good enough! Hot Rod, I left my shop wide open! Didn't even lock it!" Crosshairs, a member of Rodimus's initial response team shouted.

"A'hm needin' ta hae me operation!" a Gigantian, towering above the rest, bellowed in a thick brogue.

"I've experiments to conduct! I can't believe this!" Brainstorm, ever the scientist.

"What about all them Rebels still terrorizing the Spaceport? They just gonna get away like that?!"

"Every moment we waste means another Rebel killing an innocent civilian!"

"I have time. This is fine."

"Ach, Rewind's gonna be worried sick . . ."

"Enough!" Rodimus shouted. "I'm no happier about this situation than you are. How many of you know how to drive a Titan-class prison ship?"

Several hands went up, most of them from Enforcer builds, including a drill from an electric blue Mini-Con. "Ah wis made tae pilot thae mothers!"

"Good. So, let's head to the bridge and help Cerebros out a bit. I have some bits and pieces of captaining knowledge myself. Roll out."

---

Rodimus himself loitered a bit inside the main warden's corridor, watching and memorizing the faces of the mechs underneath his temporary command as they ascended the long ladder. They consisted of a wide variety of builds, from Fliers to even a few Gladiator classes. Amazingly, they all fit inside the caged ladder housing designed to protect Enforcers from rowdy inmates. It had seemed smaller when Rodimus was going to the bridge, but that could have been adrenaline focusing his processor to a point.

A dark blue Destroyer approached the ladder behind an orange-and-blue Warrior Rodimus recognized as Scoop, a clergymech turned infantryman. Something seemed familiar about the Destroyer, the way he sized Rodimus up as he got closer. His cerulean optics seemed to carry a predator's intensity, yet a respectful grin spread across his pale blue face.

Suddenly, Rodimus realized him with a jolt. He grabbed the mech by the wheeled shoulders and whirled him around, into the small navigation room adjacent to the cell block door.

"HEY! What are you doing? Please don't hurt me! I'm not the skyjacker, I'm just trying to get back home! Don't-"

"Cut the scrap, bud," Rodimus said, heedless of the leader of the Powermasters, Getaway, drawing his double-barreled shotgun from subspace.

"Rodimus, put him down now!" he shouted, but the Autobot Leader ignored him.

"I know about every one of your business transactions. Why'd the Rebels want you to jack the ship . . . Doubledealer?"

The Destroyer immediately stopped begging Rodimus for life and chuckled slowly, creepily. He blinked once, his optics turning pure white - the color of a Neutral's. His Autobot symbol displayed proudly on his shoulder faded away, replacing itself with an onyx rubsign. "Now, now. Roddy, why ya suspectin' me right off the bat? Is it my rugged good looks? Seriously, mate, who's ta say our suspect's even yours truly?"

"It couldn't have been anyone else. You've got the resources for the masking device, and Cerebros's anti-Decepticon sensors couldn't pick you up because you're not a Decepticon. Answer my question, or I'll confide in this blustery gentlemech here about every single Decepticon victory over the war that was caused or assisted by you."

"I ain't afraid of an Iaconian wot wants ta be a Kiwi," Doubledealer spat defiantly, causing Getaway to visibly ruffle. "An' exactly how many Decepticon victr'ies I helped with d'ya got in that gold-crested noggin a' yours? Ain't nobody know the full extent o' my deals, mate. At some point, you'll be askin' for some 'elp a' yer own, sure as th' Sun's gonna rise tomorrow. An' when ya do, I'll be there for ya. Just call m'name an' I'll come a'runnin. Unless," the mercenary smiled a cold grin, "someone richer than ya wants yer 'ead on a platter. Remember tha', mate - my loyalty lies with th' highest bidder."

Doubledealer reached up faster than the Autobot Leader could react and pressed a button on the side of his helm, disappearing into nothingness and leaving Rodimus, Getaway, and the afterimage of the bounty hunter's piercing white optics flashing in and out of Rodimus's vision.

---

"There! I'm detecting a spatial jump ahead!" a mech by the name of Ironhide - not the war veteran from the War on Earth but a Generation Two Terran-made model, named after the brave Autobot infantry commander - said excitedly.

"So'm I," an AFE ground model grunted.

"Cerebros, make course toward the warp, please. Where does it lead?" Rodimus asked.

"It says 'Nebulan Sector', sir. Frag." a tall Destroyer by the name of Sureshot swore.

Though Rodimus longed to echo Sureshot's vulgar sentiment, he had to keep face as a confident, mature leader. It had been a vorn since the incident with Doubledealer, during which the crew had managed, with their combined efforts, to get most of the way back to Cybertron. This would be the last disorienting spatial warp, from whence they would be able to utilize Nebulos's state-of-the-art aerospace system to make it the rest of the way back to Cybertron. Unfortunately, the Nebulan government was bureaucratic and corrupt under the management of their new President, which yielded frustrating times filling out forms at best at and outrageous fines at worst.

"Take the warp," Rodimus commanded, thinking of the paperwork he'd have to clear with the atrocious Nebulan Space Agency before he could get back home.

One slightly nauseating stretch of space and time later and the golden expanse of Nebulos spread out underneath them. The rings of the vacation planet arced into space, mingling with the busy aero-spaceport that they had entered. FortMax's solar shielding glazed over the bridge windows and reduced the incinerating glare of one of Nebulos's two suns to a simple bright, large orb, much like the same celestial body that warmed Earth as viewed on a cloudless day. Spaceships of all shapes and sizes drifted through the "airspace," occasionally descending to the planet below.

"You've entered the Nebulan Sector. What is your species and purpose here, Vessel C-114?" a clear voice in Universal English came over the Fortress's intercom.

"We're Cybertronians. We wish to utilize your aerospace system to return to the Cybertronian Sector." Rodimus replied in the same language.

"I have no official records of your ship leaving any planet, much less your own in the past five universal months, Cybertronian."

"This ship suffered a sky - ground? - er, skyjack and took off without authorization," the Autobot leader said. "Luckily, we managed to apprehend the perpetrator and now we are returning to our home planet. Request clearance."

"I feel pity for you," the space traffic controller said robotically. Rodimus shuddered at the lack of thought evident in the young man's voice, who had evidently been brainwashed by years of government propaganda. "I'm sending the necessary materials for you, please wait. Until completion of the forms, you may levitate in your vessels' respective place. Thank you for visiting our planet. Hail Zarak."

The console in front of Rodimus lit up with an information pack. He let out a deep vent, turning to the small number of mechs in the bridge.

"Take five, guys, this'll take a while."

---

Rodimus was halfway into the work when a flash off of the Fortress's port side caught his optic. He knew instantly it was another ship using the very same spatial warp that they had, so he dismissed the dark, angular spaceship and returned to the auto-translated Zarak Institute questions. Please describe specifications of vessel, up to and including weapons (if applicable), crew count, structural and/or computational weaknesses, and resilience to standard laser fire . . .

BOOM!

A strong tremor ran throughout the entirety of the ship as the documents in front of him instantly faded and the lights flickered out above his head. He leaped to his feet, grabbing for the public address system mouthpiece.

"What's going on? Status update!" he barked as another tremor struck the ship.

"We're being attacked! The engines are takin' hits ta make Unicron cringe!" Crosshairs shouted back from his self-imposed position in the gunning deck.

"Initiate counterattacks! Our orbit'll decay if those thrusters get destroyed!" Rodimus commanded as he pulled up as many exterior cameras as he could. There was the dark purple ship to the aft, firing volley after volley of energy from their nose-mounted proton cannons into the Fortress's enormous thrusters.

"Cerebros, does this baby have rear guns?"

"Of course! They were built to keep pirates and mercenaries from stabbing us in the back!" the owner of the prison ship said.

"Then get them online!" Rodimus didn't wait for Cerebros's reply before he took hold of the manual override controls. He pulled the heavy yoke that deployed as hard as he, with his Matrix-borne strength, could, straining as the giant prison ship slowly tilted back and left. All the while, the AI of the ship gave somber reports over the intercom.

"REAR SHIELDS BREACHED. THRUSTERS TAKING SEVERE DAMAGE. REPAIR DRONE DEPLOY- *errr* -FIREWALLS BREACHED. UNAUTHORIZED TRANSMISSION DETECTED."

A familiar cold, high voice came over the very same PA system - a voice that Rodimus had heard far too many times during his long and storied campaigns.

"Consider this a final condemnation, Rodimus Prime - from the late Decepticon Empire, from Unicron the Chaos Bringer, Devourer of Worlds, from the Autobots and Neutrals you failed to protect, and from the New Decepticon Order that shall rise triumphant over your broken corpse! I have finally won!"

Rodimus glanced at the sole computer still working as he pulled, which displayed the ship that fired one last killing blow into the FortMax's thrusters.

"COMPLETE PROPULSION SYSTEM FAILING. RETRO ROCKETS SHUTTING DOWN. ENTERING NEBULAN EXOSPHERE . . ."

"C'mon . . . c'mon . . ."

"Target locked."

"Fire! Fire everything we have!" he shouted as the Fortress Maximus began to fall. A fusillade to rival anything Rodimus had ever seen burst out of the ship's port side, impacting the aggressing Rebel warship with enough firepower to rip a normal fighter spacecraft to shreds. But the Decepticon battlecraft was no ordinary spaceship, so it was simply pummeled with heavy fire and it, too, began to fall, done in by the FortMax's superior artillery.

The Fortress fell quickly, and before Rodimus knew it, he was staring down the dark form of a mountain as it came closer and closer, illuminated by the comet-tail that the ship was turning into. Night wreathed the land in blackness and the gunners were still shooting at the Decepticon warship, but Rodimus could tell the Rebels would not land nearby, at least.

"Brace for crash! Brace for-" was all he could say before the Fortress rammed into the mountain with force enough to break it into fourths.

War, as it always will between two different groups of Cybertronians, had been borne upon this well-known vacation planet. Saying that it would never be the same again would be putting it mildly.

---

Brainstorm snapped out of his memories, rewinding them and storing them back where they were supposed to be even as he stood up excitedly. Remarkably, the long period of laziness had actually done him some good, as now his conscience was entirely clear.

"Of course! I'm unbelievably stupid! Er, of course not . . . I AM A GENIUS!" he crowed to the walls and the infuriating blank protoform laying on the table.

Just you wait, ya irritating piece of dynametal, he thought, mostly incoherently, as he popped the latches on his trusty nearby briefcase. The light from within bathed his faceplates in green light as he carefully extracted a small machine and its accompanying notes.

This device had three spindles protruding from its tiny form, each tipped with small scalpel-like blades. A tiny column jutted out from its center, with a wide red button taking up most of the body. Brainstorm speed-read the notes, understanding in an instant what had to be done.

He closed the briefcase, snapping it shut with a click, and whirled about, crossing the room with air in his pedes. There, on the table, lay the protoform that had vexed the Engineer for so long.

"Let's see what you think of this, my annoying friend," he said, on the verge of maniacal laughter. He gingerly situated the tiny device on the tip of the gray spark and pushed the button.

Like a little ant-droid's legs, the appendages came together, digging the three small blades into the surface of the spark. For a moment, Brainstorm witnessed the cylindrical body of the device glow blue, but it was soon far overshadowed by the spark itself finally blazing to life.

"Yes! YES!" he whooped excitedly, tears welling in his optics. He instantly pinged Hardhead with roughly ten energetic comm requests before the AFE Ground build picked up the line.

"What?" he grunted irritably, keeping his words short as always.

"Hardhead, I've done it! It's ready!" Brainstorm said, wiping his optics in joy and relief.

"I can't hear you over your girlishness. Slow down."

On another day, Brainstorm may have been irked by the blunt Warrior's responses, but he was too cheerful at the moment. "I've managed to spark the suit. It still needs code, armor, a T-cog, and a cockpit, but from here on out it should be simply a doddle!"

An emotion of mild surprise flicked across the basic bond that he and Hardhead shared at the moment. The Warrior's verbal reply was much more subdued. "Huh."

"That's all you have to say? Really? I just rewrote the laws of Cybertronian technobiology and all you can say is 'Huh'? Any road . . . About your operation, Hardhead."

He turned, casting a gaze at the secondary surgical berth that the Fortress Maximus had in its small medical bay. "How does next Thursday work for you?"

FINally

---

Heart of the Demons: Good, I'm glad I didn't drown you with my bad accent impersonations!

---

I hope all of you out there enjoyed this super-super (super) long installment in the Rebirth. If you have anything to ask, say or scream about either the prose or the art, please review and I'll get to improving my work as soon as I can! Remember, Knights Temporal belong to F-for-feasant-design and you should look at his stuff. The man is pure genius. Thank you for reading my story! Until the next chapter, dear readers!

-The Doctor (Do)