A/N: I own nothing, sadly. All rights belong to Hasbro, Takara and related entities.
Ironhide stared across the planning session. He had to give the upstarts credit; they held court as if they were already in charge. The senior commanders had all seemed to take this in stride. No one accused Prowl or Jazz of usurping command; well – he looked to Deftwing and the small cluster of mechs surrounding him. Some were not as impressed.
Ultra Magnus stood to the side, much like Ironhide, he was standing guard. Occasionally the big mech would speak lowly, deep voice ringing as he added his comments. His silent presence served to bolster Prowl's standing in the optics of the other commanders. Few were willing to face down a mech that had held more respect then their fallen Prime.
Ironhide kept his mouth shut, he mostly agreed with Prowl.
"This is the current location of the gladiator rings. Intelligence reports have indicated that all of Megatron's best lieutenants have come from here over the last several vorns. He's using this as an intensive training location. Interrogations from Fortress Maximus have revealed two names consistently: Sigma-Red and Sigma-Yellow. This pair has been directly involved in every lieutenant's selection by Megatron."
The room filled with murmurs. The implications were terrible. Something terrifying enough to earn Megaton's respect dwelt within the rings, churning out terrifying depraved monsters. The fear etched in every mech's spark: What if these trainers joined the fight? With those two on the field Megatron would become unstoppable.
Magnus finally stopped the chatter. "The rings will have to be destroyed, we have no choice. Sigma-red and yellow will have to be detained and interrogated. Everything those two have done to train Megatron's best troops, how Megatron has kept those two loyal; these are things we must know."
"I would like Ironhide to lead the assault on the Rings. Ultra Magnus, you wanted time to think on my earlier request: I am asking for you to do a reconnaissance mission to investigate Command, its location and activities." Prowl met Ultra Magnus' gaze.
"My rank prevents me from ordering you to do this. However, it is a duty I would prefer to see you take. Your team is equipped for longer forays."
Magnus glanced at Elita, taking in the faint brightening of her optics. "I will do this."
Prowl nodded, "Thank you."
Wheeljack looked up from his workbench and cycled a deep intake. He missed Ratchet. His optics tracked to a small window staring out at the stars and a slivered edge of the dark planet of Cybertron. From up here on Torus-Nine, a satellite space station orbiting their home world, he conducted research on weapons development. His work was to find new ways to kill mechs more easily.
"How far the lofty have fallen." He grunted sadly. His work used to make him proud. Now, he could not remember why he had thought weapons development had appealed to him in the first place. His favorite project had been the horrifically flawed attempt to create new mechs with Ratchet. Sparks murdered in their magnetically shielded casings, somewhere between harvesting from Vector Sigma to Iacon the sparks had been damaged. The frames never powered up. Ratchet had been devastated.
The medics here were soft. They catered to every wound. He missed being yelled at for blowing himself up. Huffer, the young minibot Ratchet had picked up in Rodion when they had first opened the clinic in Dead End, was one of the softest medics on board. Huffer had a good spark, he was great with the more timid mechs, but he wasn't Ratchet. Wheeljack constantly felt like a traitor for that comparison. Huffer was family, but he could never compare to Ratchet.
His processors spun in silence, dredging past times with his spark-brother. They had been through so much, and yet they had now spent more time apart than they ever had together. Had Ratchet forgiven him for taking Huffer to the Autobots? Would they ever sit together for energon again? Thoughts tracking through past moments of happiness focused his optics inward, missing a tiny streaking object passing by the port window outside.
Time slipped by before Wheeljack finally shook his helm and focused once more on his work. Hands picking up tools he paused as a chill foreboding raced up his spinal array. His tools discarded once more he stood from the bench. Something was wrong, but he could not tell what. He moved towards the sealed blast door that protected the base from his experiments and triggered the lock release. As if waiting for that cue, an explosion rocked the base.
The crowd exploded in roars of approval as energon splattered across the arena. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe faced a five-mech gestalt. "Is this even fair?" Sideswipe panted.
"On your left." Sunstreaker darted to the right, throwing himself behind the laser tipped halberd in his hands. He raced between the gestalt's legs, slamming the blade into the join between the mechs that formed the leg and torso.
A multi-tonal scream ripped through the air. Sideswipe leered and launched himself on to the giant's shoulder. His sword ripped into the connections holding the mech that formed the right arm onto the body. The arm released and Sunstreaker pounced. The mech never had time to transform.
Sunstreaker stood on the first corpse and roared. Sideswipe smirked darkly as their opponent covered its sparking stump. The gestalt held together, the four remaining mechs somehow managing to maintain their bond despite the agony of the first death.
Sideswipe flipped his sword and slashed at the neck join. The giant reminded of his presence flung him off. Impact sent blackness and sparkles across his vision. Another roar ripped through his audios as three screams sounded along with the transformation sequence. He forced himself onto his peds and smirked at the remaining three fighters. Torso and legs, now three separate mechs, scowled at Sunstreaker. Sideswipe grinned to himself. Being the plain one was so painful. Everyone seemed to forget about him. He grinned wider, leapt high and brought his blade down on Torso's head. Energon gushed from the wound, carrying shattered processor bits and metal shavings.
The remaining two mechs each launched themselves at one of their attackers. Sideswipe chuckled, "So much for divide and conquer." The audience was on the edge of their seats. Screams and jeers filled the air. No one wanted a drawn out fight. The fans had the scent of mech-blood, and they were thirsty. With a flash of thought he sent a kill sequence across the bond to his brother. It was time to end this. As one, the brothers charged.
Silence drowned the ring. The final corpse fell at Sideswipe's feet as Sunstreaker hand dripped mech-blood from the last mech's still pulsing spark clutched in his fingers. Together the pair glanced over the ring, taking in the energon splattered in processed gray, undigested pink and spark pulsing blue as the crowd finally erupted into deafening screams of approval.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, Team Sigma, knew they were the best. Outside of the ring they were known only as Sigma Red and Sigma Yellow. Fans adored them. Decepticons feared them. Other gladiators knew they looked death in the face when they entered the ring with them. Few had beaten them; none could kill them. When an opponent survived them, that Decepticon left the ring for the battlefield with honors straight from Megatron's hand.
They shared a glance, optics of unhinged icy blue-white meeting ferocious light azure. They were the only mechs in the rings with blue optics, and so far the only ones nobody could get rid of. They roared their victory and swaggered back to their cages, knowing that elsewhere in the cages surrounding the rings their future opponents cowered.
Once back in their cells, alone and unguarded – guards were expensive to replace, especially after they were done with them – the pair felt the battle lust vanish. Immediately they had to fight their frames to keep from sagging. They hated this, dealing death every orn against others regardless of faction. It had long ago eaten away at their sparks. They only continued to fight from fear of being alone. Neither one looked at the other as they entered their silent cells.
With a last sigh, they relaxed onto hard berths and trembled. Their battle replayed itself in their minds. Each attack that came too close, each hit that was felt to deeply. Every time they entered the ring their opponents got that much better. One orn, one of them would fall – and the other would be alone.
Wheeljack cursed loudly as a laser blast scored his face shield. Too many more hits like that and he'd be eating them. It was not a prospect he was willing to try any time soon. "Fire!" He yelled, hoping that one inventor and a score of scientists could hold out against the Decepticons overrunning the Torus-Nine research station. This was the last Autobot science facility, when this was lost any hope of keeping up with Decepticon tech would vanish.
"'Jack, I have an idea." Perceptor called, his once rich and educated voice had changed. Now he was hard, his voice filled with angry venom that might never vanish. "Let them have the station."
Wheeljack almost froze at the suggestion give away the station? It was almost mind numbing – almost. As Wheeljack continued to return fire his optics narrowed into fine slits as he took apart the idea and finally recognized what Perceptor was saying.
"Autobots, evac now through blue ward!" Wheeljack hollered and he threw a frag grenade over his shoulder as he ran, leaving the Decepticons to stumble in the haze and light. They ran, what was left of the once thousand strong science research team. Now they numbered only thirty. Too many had been lost this orn.
"Percy," A soft voice panted from the heavily shielded blue room, "Take the rest – go. I will … keep them … here." Jack and Percy glanced into the room, their sparks sinking at Mavlav, their brightest femme researcher, and Percy's lover.
Swallowing tightly Percy could only nod. They were out of time. "To the shuttle!" They ran, Percy's optics filling with a new, darker pain. Huffer ran straight for the cockpit, taking the controls and launching before everyone had even strapped in. They had to flee.
Mavlav waited, her optics dimming on the dead-mech switch in her hand. As long as she lived she would hold down the button, but if the Decepticons killed her, or she died first she would take them and this station with her.
Heavy treads drew nearer, vile voices filled with cruelty and battle lust rebounded along the corridor. Then she finally saw the evil Shatter Star. The Seeker Commander and Megatron's faithful lieutenant grinned vilely as his optics fell upon her broken frame. "Look mechs, they left us a pleasure slave as a gift." Shatter Star's nasty grin widened, optics filled with a dangerous lust as his optics devoured her lightly shielded data ports.
As Shatter Star approached Mavlav could only smile. The entire Decepticon assault group was here. "Yes, Shatter … they left me … as a present." She panted, cringing from the pain wracking her systems. She waited, let Shatter kneel over her, the others stepping close all wanting to feel her plating and unwilling to wait their turns. "Give Unicron … my … regards…"
Her thumb left the switch. A flash of brilliant light and searing agony –
Orion Pax felt his frame shudder within the temporary quarters, an empty, open cell within the prison facility. His fingers moved deftly over the maintenance of his rifle. His hands kept moving, motion habitual from the long vorns of fighting allowed him to focus on the swirling thoughts in his head.
So much had happened that he could not understand. The suicide battle had tipped him off. Why would command send so many on missions guaranteed to fail? The loss of Sentinel Prime, the mech he had considered as a brother, was too fresh to wrap his processors around. He had worshipped their leader in the beginning. Their Prime had been so strong, once.
Despite the many failings Sentinel had, his passing tore an open wound into the spark of every Autobot. The spark deep coding to follow the Prime made every soldier seethed at his loss. The rumors of Sentinel being a false Prime were now moot. The Autobots now fought without a Prime, and they hungered for vengeance.
For reasons unknown, the succession weighed heavily upon Orion's processor, and though he had been far from where Sentinel had fallen, he still felt responsible somehow. Sentinel had kept him nearby at first, guarding and protecting him throughout the troubled transition from civilian to military life, taking him under his wing, teaching him of leadership and duty to one's troops. Orion had taken those lessons to spark, integrating them into his daily life, hoping to one orn make unit leader. It would prove that Sentinel had not wasted his time on him when others said he had not been worth the effort.
He set aside the rifle as he rose to his feet, needing to walk the corridors and clear his processors. This time the Decepticons had hurt everyone. Orion sighed and rubbed his helm as he walked. Rumors were spreading like a virus through the ranks, all within the regular troops, of the silent tactician, Prowl, feeling nothing at Sentinel's loss.
Orion shook his head. The tactician, it was rumored, had a spark of space ice to never even pause to mourn Sentinel's passing. Nothing affected the cold-sparked slagger, apparently. Pax sighed; he knew it was a lie. Prowl had at one point worshipped Sentinel, and from the troops such thoughts were uncharitable, especially as Orion remembered how Sentinel had found Prowl lost and confused among the ruins of one of the early attacks. No, Orion could not find fault in the young Paraxan; he had gotten them to a secured location, with minimal losses – minimal. He gave a harsh barking laugh under his breath at that. How could anyone list losing their Prime, their brother, as a minimal loss?
He looked to the rifle in his hands, he had no memory of grabbing it, and slipped his weapon into the subspace compartment in his arm, the empty hallways lined with sealed energy chambers holding the sparks and processors of the worst of Cybertron's criminals from over the ages echoed in his passing. Before the war, before the madness, he had been a simple historian and a dockworker, recording the cycles and important happenings therein late into the recharge breems after loading transport-bots and working through the early breems. He had often visited the snarling medic Ratchet in the nearby clinic, bringing low grade energon pulled from transports not worthy of being sold as a donation to the medic's efforts.
He missed the snarky medic who had acted as a sounding board when times had been rough. It was Sentinel himself who had convinced Orion to start making history instead of merely recording it as he stayed near the temple of the Ancients. Somehow, the Prime had bypassed Pax's pacifistic programming and made him into a warrior. He had always wondered why Sentinel had requested that he sign up. Besides, what could a simple worker bot offer besides being just another warm mech on the field?
He strode silently, passing mixed groups of mechs and femmes, none getting too close to either wall as if afraid to touch the sealed cells and release criminals into their world gone mad. Orion still felt so small next to his superior officers as Ironhide, Magnus and Bombshock passed him by. They all seemed so worn, Ironhide looked broken. His duty had once been to guard the Prime, and somehow he felt had failed, maybe because he had allowed Steelhand to replace him as the guard to Prime. Pax could not blame the old front-liner, the bot had been a guard before the wars, and was older than most could remember, except for Kup who seemed ancient even next to Ironhide. Ironhide's loyalty was unquestionable, and yet he held the greatest guilt for Sentinel's loss.
Once past them, Pax kept going, finding solitude in the silence. He had often paced when he had entered the Military Academy. It had helped while his training had forced him to counter his programming, learning to fight instead of fleeing. The hallway was silent, calming, until he found himself in front of the highly sheltered Hall of Ancients.
Pax blinked. This was impossible. The Ancients were in Iacon Base. How could they be here? He looked up and down the corridor, suddenly realizing that the metal halls changed color just around the door. Somehow the Iacon door was here in the prison. Feeling a compulsion in his spark, Pax pressed against the door, and stepped in.
"Everyone hold on tight!" Jack bellowed as the station erupted into a brilliant orb of light. Blue Ward was their storage facility for the unstable experiments. Thousands of devices had been stored over the many vorns they had been working together. Left alone on a shelf the devices were fine, but even the slightest touch could make some of them go off.
Beside him Percy vented raggedly, optics blazing in grief and fury. It was tempting to think that they got the bastards, but the price had been too high. "I'm not joining any more research teams." Percy finally announced. "They came after us. This time I will come for them."
Jack looked around the small group of their last remaining mechs and saw the same grief and fury in their optics. "Then we're agreed. We can serve in the field just as well as on a station." He met each of their optics, "Once we land, split up into small groups. Work your way to the Autobots. We lost our station, but the Autobots will not lose the race for the best weapon."
"Yes boss." The group chorused raggedly and fell into uneasy silence. No one expected an easy escape. Wheeljack cursed as a trio of blips appeared on the rearward radar.
"Hold on tight." Jack rumbled and maneuvered the vessel in the shortest trajectory towards the planet's surface with a prayer that their luck would hold out just a little longer.
Orion stepped further within the room, looked around the grand assembly where the many former Primes, now little more than ethereal phantoms, sat as a council from which they guided the current Autobot leaders and passed wisdom from past eras on to the present. He had been here only once before, and that time too had been on accident.
It had been shortly after he had graduated from the Academy, he had just transferred to the base under Sentinel Prime's command. Orion thought back to those earlier days, when Sentinel had always been there, able to run both an army and train him in leadership and command. Sentinel had claimed Orion bore a sigil, a mark unseen by normal optics but completely visible to a Prime, the sigil of the Primes. It was that orn, so long ago after hearing Sentinel's pronouncement that Orion had gotten lost in the labyrinthine lower levels of the Iacon base. He had feared having to radio someone to find him when suddenly a door bearing a star chart appeared around a corner. Its placement and the stars themselves so alien to what he knew; were so peculiar that his curiosity would not let him just keep going. Instead, he had gingerly pushed the doors open, stepped into the blindingly lit room to an ongoing conversation that appeared decidedly one sided despite the many mechs present.
That had indeed been a strange encounter; Sentinel had stood before a shrouded council, a sad look deepening his optics to a worried turquoise hue. Pax had wanted to approach his leader and proclaimed brother, ask what could place such a careworn expression on his face, but he remained quiet, in awe of the Ancients and the raw energy they radiated. Though it seemed they all turned as one to look upon him almost immediately. Sentinel had seemed to not realize he had a visitor, but had brightened immediately when he finally had looked up, bidding the council farewell and offering in his own gruff manner to lead Pax back to the main hallways.
At the time he had itched to ask what he could offer to his Prime that made him seem worth the asking to join the force despite their supposed bond through the sigil only Sentinel could perceive. Instead though, he had remained quiet listening to the elder's words and wisdom, until Sentinel had bid him good down-cycle and finding himself before the mess hall where he had initially intended on going at the start. He had never had the manifolds to ask what Prime had found within his spark to make him a worthy Autobot, and now it was too late.
: Welcome, Orion Pax, we have been waiting. Orion looked up at the assembled council with bright optics. Here, they sat, all looking at him, patiently waiting for him to fully enter the room and approach the outlined circle upon the floor where Sentinel had stood seemingly so long ago. Yet, the number had not changed between then and now. No new seat had opened for Sentinel Prime.
: There was a question you wished to ask Sentinel the last time you were here, young one. What was it? Pax could not identify who of the many specters had spoken, but he found himself approaching none the less, still enthralled with the aura they radiated and unafraid.
"I – I wished to know why Sentinel asked me, of all bots, to join the Academy and the Autobot forces. What could a pacifist-bot truly offer? He claimed I was his brother because of a glyph he claimed to have seen upon my face, but no one else could see. How can a mere imperfection upon the armor give him credence to claim such?" There were a thousand other questions running through his processors, all clamoring for attention and yet none were close enough to be vocalized beyond those two.
: The answer is that we guided him to you, Orion Pax. He had never seen such a glyph and would have overlooked you, allowed you to fade in anonymity until deactivation. What you can offer? You have seen the history of our world. You know what has caused us failure and what has offered us victory. That is why you were asked to join. We knew, that when Sentinel passed you would offer a unique viewpoint as the next Prime. Pax cycled his intakes swiftly in confusion, suddenly holding up his hands, head bowed slightly from the deluge of data that was dumped into his processors, to forestall the explanation he suddenly no longer wanted to hear.
"What – wait – when I become next Prime? How, I am no leader, I do not have the resolve, strength or wisdom the supreme commanders hold. I'm a – what do you mean a unique viewpoint? Knowing history and believing in pacifism, doesn't that make me the worst candidate for Prime?" Pax was dumbfounded, his processors spinning and his CPU on the verge of lockup.
: Young one, should an enemy leader fall upon the field, proclaiming to lead his followers against persecution, do you slay him before his following?
Pax thought about that one, in their history such an incident had happened only rarely, usually, the Prime had crushed the fallen enemy, which had goaded their opposition to fight with greater determination to defeat the Autobots. "No, to slay such a leader is to give credence to his claims. He becomes a martyr for his cause allowing ten to rise where he had fallen. Such an enemy should only be crushed when he cannot be detained or otherwise countered. They represent the head of the opposition, and only crushed should an opportunity appear that allows them to break the enemy's tenuous loyalty. They follow Megatron, not another. Should Megatron fall Starscream will rise and lead the troops in more devastation. The blatant off-lining of a fallen enemy will only inspire the Decepticons to attack with greater cruelty." One of the Ancients nodded in approval, the others remained unmoving.
: That is the opposite answer we received from Sentinel, and now you know his fate. He gave his life to inspire the troops, he has fallen and only those who saw his spark now grieve. Stand in his stead, lead your troops; do not leave them behind to keep them from harm.
: Stand strong, Optimus Prime, for when your time comes to take the reins, you will be alone no matter how close you let others come.:
Darkness enfolded Pax's systems, he could feel his frame, his circuitry and his armor, yet he could feel them only distantly as if the relays linking his central processors to his sensory receptors had had their gain turned down, and yet somehow he was not afraid. His chronometer continued to measure the time and slowly, so slowly the darkness faded to nothing.
Elita One paced the halls, optics questing each room and corridor for a familiar small blue frame. Her lover was not in his assigned quarters where she should have found him to take comfort in his smaller frame and calm wisdom. When she first found his quarters empty she had gone to seek the rest of his unit. None of the Elite Division Gunnery Unit had seen Orion since they had gone to their temporary quarters. Now, Elita scoured the halls desperately knowing that all too easily an enemy infiltrator could have taken him to use as a demoralizing tactic on the army. A tactic she knew would work exceedingly well. Orion was their final link to Sentinel and the holder of her spark. The smaller mech rarely hid, especially when others needed his strength as she did now.
As the cycles ticked by her spark clenched, debriefings were complete and she would need to report to the other unit commanders. They would need to delegate the responsibilities of Supreme Leader until a new Prime could be appointed. Slowly as she made her way through the older parts of the base through the many hallways, knowing instinctively by the tugging in her spark where he was, but still unable to find him. Gradually the feeling that something was wrong overwhelmed her spark goading her to break into a full run, aching to fold into her alt mode to make better time.
Usually Pax was at her door in astroseconds after something traumatic occurred within the troops, offering her the warmth of his frame and a shoulder to rest on. Yet he had not come to speak with her this time. He was not in the rec room or the mess hall with Ultra Magnus, Nitros or any of the others he had slowly made acquaintances with since following her lead into the ranks and Sentinel's invite. So now, nearly half an orn after losing their Prime she went out to find her friend and lover, knowing in her spark that she would lose him all too soon, but with no idea how, or why.
Before her, down a corridor that was not on any schematic, she found a set of doors, burnished bronze and engraved with archaic star charts depicting an alien galaxy she had never before seen. This she knew was where Orion was being kept. It terrified her that he felt so distant, and yet still so very close.
Slowly, she pushed the door open, expecting to see Orion there, smiling that sad, self-depreciating smile of his waiting for her like he had so many times before. Instead, she found only an empty room. "Orion?" She asked hesitantly, slightly raising her voice she called again and stepped fully into the room, unaware of the doors slowly closing behind her by themselves. It took a nano-click for the stillness of the room to cause her fuel lines to tense up. She felt someone behind her, as if she were being snuck up on, only this did not feel like Orion, it felt like a hunter, or a Decepticon. She readied herself to turn, already brining up her blaster from subspace as darkness engulfed her, throwing her nearly violently into stasis lock.
Endless nothingness. Not black, not grey, a void of absolute emptiness. The ember deep within his spark still burned. Its modulated pulses, the energy swirling within its casing that formed the core of his being, slowly drew him back to consciousness. Orion felt his frame for seemingly the first time. How long he had been here? The internal chronometer he had always relied on was somehow missing. From sensing his spark to registering his frame Orion finally recognized his processors and the scrolling updates his systems streamed along the right side of his inner-optic display.
He paused, his mind pushing the scrolling updates backwards to recheck the data. There it was. His operational mainframe registered a chronometer, but he could not see it. Nor could he feel if he was lying down or standing up. His optics still off, he was literally trapped within his own helm. Mentally trembling at the uncertainty of what had happened, he scrabbled for his boot files. There. With a swift recognition sequence he shoved the boot up into operation only to reel as the transfigured sequence revealed how severely altered everything was.
Memories whirled behind his optics. The Ancients' door. The bowels of the prison base fused with Iacon's lower levels. The Ancients knocked him out! Fury rose, twining with repulsion that they would do this. Then his system files came online. Orion had been a standard height worker bot. Now, he was of the same height as Ultra Magnus. His cooling fans snicked off in shock as his transformation sequence files spooled through his processors. Going from his alt mode to root mode he would bring more mass out of subspace than any mech he had ever seen – save one.
Optimus Prime. The name hovered in his processors, filled his spark with cold terror. He was a Prime. Orion was gone. He was now the Prime. "Oh, Primus." The voice that rolled from his vocalizer was unrecognizable. Filled with grief, and command Orion felt compelled to kneel to that voice – and utterly foolish for the compulsion to kneel when he was the one speaking.
Optics onlined. He stared at the ceiling unseeing. Optics tracked through folders of files new to his system. His mind churned, data frothed through his neural circuits until suddenly a voice spilled from his memory banks.
… we guided him to you, Orion Pax … would have overlooked you… You have seen the history of our world. You know what has caused us failure and what has offered us victory… you would offer a unique viewpoint as the next Prime.
Elita booted up, optics scanning her temporary quarters, an empty cell she shared with Chromia and Firestar. She tried to remember what she had been doing before she fell into recharge, a nameless worry gnawed at her spark. Yet nothing surfaced. Standing, she left the small room to find Magnus. They had to convene on Tactician Prowl's assessment of attacking the remote orbital Command Outpost. She looked down, feeling as if there should have been someone slightly smaller than a standard sized mech walking at her side. She shrugged off the feeling as a random code snippet and deleted the thought. She had no memory of any mech that size standing beside her. Her spark gave a tenuous flutter.
"Magnus!" She called as she entered the prison facility's equivalent to a mess hall. Ultra Magnus looked up and waved her over to the 'commanders' table' as their troops had come to call it. The long table was set up perpendicular to all the others and raised on a platform. Elita silently wondered if some of the troops did this to keep the semblance of a real base here in this disturbingly quiet incarceration facility.
"Elita, how are your troops faring?" Magnus asked as he scotched down to sit with her alone.
"My femmes are resting. I hope your mechs are doing the same." She studied Magnus' face as she spoke, "What is it?"
"I feel like I have misplaced something important, but I cannot remember what it was, or where I last saw it. It happened during the down cycle. I came out of recharge feeling as if –" He shrugged helplessly as words failed him.
"As if someone had blindsided you?" Elita asked, she had felt the same way when she had come out of recharge. "Can I ask you a strange question? Do you remember when I headed for my quarters?"
Magnus shook his head. "We were leaving the meeting with Prowl. You were going to meet with … someone?" He looked up at her perplexed. He could clearly see Elita in his memory files walking out the door talking with someone much smaller, but that other mechanoid was blurry; a strange gray blob that could not be resolved no matter how he processed the memory file. He thought back, seeking when the blob first appeared. "It was someone you brought with you on the drop ship."
The pair fell into unsettled silence, each wondering whom the mech or femme was they had lost all memory of.
"Mornin' commanders," Ironhide rumbled as he sat listlessly next to Magnus. "That upstart ordered me ta hit a gladiator pit. Guess too many good Con's is comin' from there. I'll be gone a few orns. Watch the black an' whites fer me." Hide nodded towards Jazz and Prowl, one white where the other was black, and downed his morning ration in one gulp. "Keep them alive fer me."
Magnus nodded, right now Prowl was the closest thing to a commander they had.
Energon splattered across the ring. Sideswipe snarled ferally at his opponent, smirking darkly as Sunstreaker threw aside the fractured pieces of his opponent. The chop shop wouldn't be putting him back together this time. The last standing opponent, a black and vile green hued seeker stepped back weakly. Wings crumpled, fuselage damaged beyond allowing him to transform, he trembled.
"Please," His voice crackled with static. The crowd roared as microphones picked up his plea. "Please don't kill me!"
Sideswipe's sneer turned up into a disarming grin. "This wasn't supposed to be a fight to the death, but," he shrugged helplessly, "You're buddy decided to damage my partner's paint job. Now we all have to suffer." With an exaggerated exvent Sideswipe extended his claws. He hated hilling with his bare hands – that was Sunny's M.O. With one last glance at Sunstreaker, ensuring his brother was now calm enough to not jump Sideswipe's target the crimson gladiator launched himself at the trembling seeker.
"Down!" Sunstreaker's voice roared across the ring. Sideswipe's face planted firmly into the rough metal beneath their peds. Tracking the crowd carefully neither noticed the flood of guards. They watched in slow motion as their last opponent burst into a shimmering splatter of greyed energon. Their systems slowed and stilled as sedative shots took them down to oblivion.
"Attack!" a voice roared. The crowd collapsed en mass as EMP grenades took out electrical systems and Sideswipe fell into blackness with Sunstreaker on top of him, still forcing him down even in unconsciousness.
Ironhide swore roundly, optics searing with self-recrimination through the carnage. The entire ring had been rigged to blow. Only smears of energon and glim were left in the arena. The stands had been damaged, too many had gotten away, but the few that had been detained had only confirmed his worst fear: Team Sigma had been fighting when they had attacked. Outside of the rings, the many imprisoned gladiators were little more than silvery dripping splatters within their cages.
"It's them, found their cage. Guess it wasn't the Decepticons keeping them loyal, they were chipped with explosives, their cages were rigged with explosives, and the halls, and rings and every training room were rigged with explosives. If they didn't fight, they died." Steelcracker looked at the ruins around them. Even with the destruction from so many explosives the cage – more like stalls – for the pair had stood in complete isolation. Fragmented signs warned to not approach and even energon rations were shoved into their stalls with extremely long poles.
"The Cons were afraid of them." Ironhide breathed as he noticed stains on the ground – old stains, dark from repeated staining – of mech blood. Only the processed energon in their lines made those kinds of marks on floors. This pair had been lethal.
Ironhide sighed, helm hung in dejection. "Get the prisoners on board! Record any data on Team Sigma! We lift off in one groon."
Now he had to explain to Prowl how he had triggered the massive explosion that terminated their best leads to finding out how Megatron trained his best lieutenants. This was going to be fun – like a Decepticon free-for-all.
Wheeljack looked up at the imposing structure before them, Rura Penthe, at one time he would have given anything to have inspected their prisoner retaining blocks. The building held subspace storage for nearly a million mechanoids, yet the building without that storage could only hold seven hundred. It was an engineering miracle. Now, it was their only hope for repairs. He looked behind him, Perceptor took up the rear, the red scientist had fallen utterly silent since Maglav's death. Losing his lover had shattered his spark.
Thirty scientists had fled the Torus Nine; twenty survived the crash. Twelve stood before Rura Penthe, Wheeljack hoped they could be mended, he prayed Ratchet was waiting for them. "Come on, we're almost home."
Huffer looked up at Wheeljack, then back at the straggling group. "If he's not, most of us won't make it to another base."
Wheeljack nodded as he strode forward, behind him the others clung together, supporting each other to keep from falling down. He raised a hand to cover the welded gash along his side. Huffer had a good hand for the smaller wounds, the mechling had never upgraded past minibot or progressed past general medic. Too many had died, too many were lost to the Allspark. He was determined to get the rest home – Perceptor, Huffer – everyone.
They trooped towards Rura Penthe. Wheeljack booted up a protocol he had not touched since the orn he had shipped out to Torus Nine. A small screen appeared on his HUD, he smiled beneath the blast mask that had become part of his face. The doctor was in. The red blip that represented Ratchet winked merrily at him, the first inkling of hope kindled in his spark. If they could see Ratchet, if the medics in Rura Penthe were not over run from battle damage, his remaining scientists might just live another orn.
"State your designations and origins." A stiff voice rose from nowhere. Haughty, cold, superior; Wheeljack stiffened as he sought the speaker.
"Science Division, Torus Nine. All survivors present; Chief Science Officer Perceptor and Chief Engineering Officer Wheeljack reporting." Wheeljack replied, he could feel the force of Perceptor's pinged response, could almost detect a flinch rom their unseen interrogator.
"Follow me. Name's Hound, don't mind Mirage, he's just doing his job." A green mech appeared before them, melting from a hologram projection of the building.
"Hound?" Wheeljack stared at the mech he had not seen in megavorns. "Primus, you're alive. My mechs are hurting. We need Ratchet, can you take us to him?"
"Ratchet?" Hound cycled his optics, "I haven't seen him since I passed boot camp. He's listed as MIA."
"That's impossible. I placed a tracer on him when we went to the Wastes, its still working, and his signal is here, in Rura Penthe."
Hound's jaw gaped, "Mirage, get these mechs to medical. Wheeljack, come with me. You need to speak with the commanders."
"Not without me." Perceptor stepped forward, "There is discourse to be had with Sentinel."
"You don't know?" Mirage appeared, blue and white with rare golden optics only the Elites could afford, "Sentinel died by Megatron's hand four orns ago."
Wheeljack snorted disdainfully, "Four orns ago we were fighting for our lives on Torus Nine. Three orns ago we were evading Decepticon Seekers in an escape pod. Two orns ago we crash-landed in the Wastes, and any spark not killed on the station or in the firefight terminated on impact. Of the thousand strong science complement we are all that remains. And, we have proof that we have Sentinel to thank for that. Our own station had been hacked by that damned false Prime, and used as a relay tower to screw up our transmissions."
Mirage and Hound shared a glance, "Speak with Senior Officers Prowl and Jazz. They need to hear this, all of it."
Wheeljack followed the pair, Perceptor silent and fuming at his side. They had all wanted the chance to rail at Sentinel, to yell, scream, to do something to let their rage and grief be shown to the bastard who had sold them out to the Cons. Now, they probably couldn't even spit on his hollow shell. Even their minor, petty revenge had been denied them.
Prowl listened, his mind taking in everything that was said as the two mechs introduced as the legends, Wheeljack and Perceptor, retold the destruction of Torus Nine. Heavy data packets kept appearing in his inbox, each condensed with decavorns of research, inventions, inventories and revelations that Sentinel had been undermining every Autobot endeavor from almost the orn he was chosen as the next Prime.
"Orbital Command was a first phase prototype low orbital advanced weaponry platform. Design specifications and meteorite mining requisitions had been forwarded to Sentinel in his first vorn as Prime. His reply had been to decommission the advanced weapons platform initiatives and reassign all science division mechs involved to assist with weaponry development." Perceptor's words were buffered through Prowls on-board translation suite. Big words he had never heard before poured out of the scientist's vocal processors at an alarming speed.
'Does anything he says make sense to you?' Jazz asked across their private link.
'Patch into my translation suite, I can not offer a succinct translation to what he is saying.' Prowl opened a small port in his firewalls to allow Jazz access to the data.
"So mech, what weapons were delivered to the Autobots?" Jazz asked. Prowl approved of the question. They had believed Torus Nine had ceased to exist with all hands lost nearly a megavorn ago. Now they had the very mechs alive before them. It sealed the sabotage Sentinel had been planning his entire career as Prime.
The False Prime; perhaps the troops were correct after all. Prowl's mind mused on the thought as the next data packet came in. He staggered as the scrolling data revealed massive weapon, after weapon that had found its way into Decepticon hands, all crafted by Autobot scientists.
"Whoa there, Prowler. Hang on, mech, deep intakes. Open your intakes, and cycle! Prowler!" Jazz's voice sounded distant, the world was hazy and grey.
"I think ya broke him." Jazz looked up at Perceptor in shock. He refused to admit it, but he was terrified, more scared than he had been in the District warehouse in Paraxus. It seemed like a lifetime ago, back before he had linked to Prowl, back when he had lived alone in his own processors. Now, for the first time in many vorns his helm was silent, and he was terrified.
"Stand back, give the mech some room." Ironhide waded in, shoving to kneel at Prowl's side. "The lad hasn't had one of these episodes in ages. I still remember the first one, all of us were terrified we'd lose the new spark. He had been so young, a foundling in the ruins of the old warehouse district." Ironhide looked to the others.
"Believe it or not, this mech is Sentinel's living legacy. Sentinel saved him from those wastes, raised him until he was old enough to be placed with an orphanage in Paraxus. I visited Prowl every vorn until he earned his final upgrades."
"Will – will he – is he –" Jazz swallowed the words he couldn't utter. Is he going to die?
"You mean he's never once done this before?" Ironhide asked surprised. "Huh, well, I'll be. Guess you've been a greater influence on him than I thought. You're the reason he hasn't crashed like this in so long, finding out the mech who saved him, and he had once idolized had been a murder this whole time was too much to take on, I guess."
"What about Ratchet?" Wheeljack asked, "He can treat Prowl, he's here!"
"What are you talkin' about?" Ironhide stood with a menacing growl. "Ratchet's been gone, kidnapped and lost for good since reassignment from Commander Afterburn's unit."
"What?" Jack gapped, "But, dammit Ironhide give me a link here!"
Ironhide extended his hand, offering a link cable extending from his wrist. Jack sunk the cable into a wrist port, synching his optical HUD tracking Ratchet's movement to Ironhide's inner optic display.
"Bleeding Primus!" Ironhide swore roundly. Jazz stepped between Ironhide and Prowl, protecting his friend as the older bot turned fast enough to make a hip joint squeal loudly in the small room. Magnus and Elita flinched from the noise, the other commanders on-lined their weapons systems and tracked the room's perimeter for threats as Ironhide bolted out of the room and down the hall.
Magnus gathered Prowl into the crook of one arm, the young CO looked so fragile. With a nod Jazz raced after Ironhide, following at the old timer's heels as they raced headlong down the one corridor no one wanted to enter.
They had discovered the interrogation rooms on their first orn here, after seeing the glim-coated surgery tables and racks of tools of torture still stained from their last use, no one had neared again. The shredded body parts branded with Autobot sigils had spoken loudly of the 'interrogation' methods that had been used in those silent, echoing rooms. No one had entered since, not until this orn.
They passed by the silent torture chambers, the energon stained and splattered interrogation rooms, and the morbid Unmaker's Ward – the place were a mech's body is dismantled, his spark and core processors placed into a box and stored – forgotten – forever.
Jazz pulled his optics from the Unmaker's Ward, focused on tailing Ironhide and the location he and Wheeljack seemed pulled to. Both older mechs kept repeating 'Ratchet', whoever the mech was, Jazz just hoped he was worth the effort of finding him.
"This is it, end of the line." Ironhide rumbled with displeasure.
Wheeljack shook his helm, lighted fins framing his face pulses worried orange and angsty grey. "This can't be, his signal is behind the wall!" The engineer began pounding his fists against the grey metal, each impact rang solid, not hollow.
Jazz slitted his optics behind his optic band. Prowl had been furious about the missing personnel from medical, the severely injured mechs that no one could mend. "Who is Ratchet?"
Wheeljack pinged a packet with Ratchet's credentials, and Jazz could only whistle. The mech was a Primus-sent blessing – if he really existed. Finding Ratchet would give them the CMO the so desperately needed in a ward full of volunteers, Neutrals, and emergency responders. Megatron had slaughtered all known medical personnel until the identities of each became a fiercely guarded secret. Those that remained with the Autobots were either sequestered in Black Opps, SpecOps, or in Iacon. None were available right now, and with over thirty mechs missing, mostly irreparably damaged, they couldn't leave to seek the medical aid they needed. Jazz just hoped what he was about to do wouldn't kill his best friend.
"Put Prowl in Medical." Jazz ordered, and felt like a fool commanding mechs thrice his size and many times as experienced.
"What?" Wheeljack and Ironhide demanded as they stared down Jazz.
Brilliant, get the big mechs angry when you're the perfect height to get stomped, great idea Jazz. He reprimanded himself as even Elita and Ultra Magnus joined the glaring match. Jazz stifled the sudden urge to bolt from his own troops, with Prowl down he had to hold things together – this was Prowl's forte!
"I see," Elita mused, "With Prowl in medical we can follow up on the rumors of the vanishing troops. Also, if Ratchet is here, somehow sneaking in to capture wounded mechs, he'll appear when the volunteers have all left."
"Exactly." Jazz stood to his full – but very diminutive – height, turned on his ped and headed towards medical. He looked towards the ceiling and prayed Prowl would be all right, without Prowl this army would be slaughtered when they next met the Decepticons in battle.
He stood in a desert. Scorching sand scoured his plating. His systems ran hot. Giant towered over him, their faces massive and disturbing. They were the faces of the past Primes – the Ancients. He could not recognize any of them, names and features lost to memory but the Matrix within his chest resonated with their memories.
"Do you know why you are here, young Prime?" A voice rang above the screaming winds, heard above it, and from within.
"I do not, Ancient Ones."
"Watch, and remember."
Cybertron, wealthy and vast, it is the heart of our empire. I watch the shuttles take off and land from the main trade center ferrying trade goods with our allies across the stars. Life is good, I am blessed to be Prime in this beautiful Golden Age. Primus chose me, and his spark resonates in my chest, next to mine. It is said to be a Prime one becomes the bride of Primus himself.
"Solus Prime, we have a problem."
My guard, ever faithful, I am comforted when she is near. Zicta is always at my elbow. "What is it Zicta?"
"The Shadowed Covenant, there are revolts in the Thetacon districts. They believe the Shadows are the mark of the Unmaker, and should only belong to them, as they hold the Sun-Eater. The Covenant of Light is trying to make peace with them, but more die by the astrosecond."
The one blotch on Cybertron, our only sin, we allowed our exploration scientists to bring back a religion they made while patrolling the distant edges of this galaxy: The Eclipsed Covenants. The shadows, spawn of Unicron, destroy like a black hole. The Light, creations of Prime, creates like nebulas. Together they eclipse one another, cancel light with dark, destruction with creation.
Optimus gasped, sat up in a plane of ice and snow. The air s cold his plating pinged and shrieked as it constricted around him. "She slaughtered the temples!" He felt her disdain for the religions, and her joy in their slaughter. He retched, coughing up the dregs of his last meal. He couldn't breath, his intake froze in the frigid air.
"The Primes are rife with the flaws of normal mechs and femmes. They suffer the same fears and prejudices, only magnified by the Matrix."
The Ancient Ones spoke in his helm, their words etched themselves into his processors. He felt the lives of dozens – hundreds of Primes pouring into his spark, his mind. He felt overwhelmed, sickened and horrified at every turn.
Iacon, it is beautiful. I watch the construction crews finish the last details of the newest city on Cybertron – my city. I designed it, I crushed Tarkin below it, the old trade city falling to dust. With a swift sweep, and a few misdirections, the feeble minded masses believe we ensured Tarkin had been cleared.
Fools. Tarkin, the relic of the old Eclipsed Covenants and its so might Temple of Light, is gone. The clerics, the warmongers, the zealots; no one will challenge our glorious rising. I watch the stars and wait, soon they will be here, our customers.
"Prime Nova!" I watch as my guards point to the skies. Raiders. Filthy scum from Antilla, Cybertronian colonizers and now interstellar pirates. I nod to my security chief. It is time. They will get what they are due.
"Send the Rust Bomb."
"NO!" Optimus bellowed, fists pounding into glowing floor panels. He looked around, he was alone. The Ancient Ones were gone. Only his echo replied to his screams.
"They made a Rust Bomb." He shivered. It was the most heinous type of warfare – one even Megatron had yet to venture into – they had harnessed the Rust Virus. The deadly disease eats away at any mechanoid life form, it devours its internals, and leaves nothing of its victim but the most fragile corpse composed of rust. If another mechanoid touched the corpse, the fragile remains would crumble to dust – and the virus would spread.
"Is this my legacy? Is this what I have been chosen to do? Am I to continue the path of destruction you, my predecessors, began?"
Coolant leaked from his systems, lubricant coated his fingers. How he had gotten to the desert, the frozen wastes, he did not know, but both had left their marks on him. His plating was scratched, creased and gouged. His hands looked aged.
"How long will you keep me here?" He asked the silence around him. No answer came and the silence followed him as recharge claimed his exhausted systems.
They watched from the nurse's station. Five mechs, all but one massive, squeezed into the space for three small mechs; Jazz constantly shifted, praying he would not get stepped on. Ultra Magnus and Ariel had demanded to stay neither gave their reasons. Ironhide had just claimed the station's only seat and Wheeljack – Jazz knew why Wheeljack stayed. Jazz refused to leave Prowl's side. It hurt to not hear his friend in his processors, the constant white noise of calculations and plans had fallen silent. He had to see Prowl, to know his friend was still functioning. He looked to Wheeljack and saw the same desperation in the older mech's optics.
Time trickled by, the astrosecond scrolling by on his internal chronometer, but each time he glanced at the spiraling numbers, Jazz was positive they went still. Time froze each time he looked at the numbers, as if laughing at his despair. He looked to Prowl. His spark felt suspended in his chest, as if hit with a null ray. The wall behind the medical ward had opened.
"Move out!" Jazz bolted over Ironhide, slipped between Elita's legs and raced into the medical ward just as a mechanical claw extended from the glowing opening in the wall and grabbed Prowl. Jazz followed, below the claw and into the wall. A berth slammed into the opening, blocking whatever mechanism kept it open. Peds pounded behind him.
"Dear Primus, Ratchet!" Wheeljack's voice gasped, but Jazz had optics only for the path his friend's captor led.
The arm set Prowl down on a med berth. Only when he knew his friend was safe, only when white nurse-drones stepped forward did Jazz look around. Then, he wished he hadn't.
Suspended in he middle of the room, hanging by claws holding the figure like a hung corpse, was a medic, coated with so many dried fluids of different types his color could not be discerned except for the white arms and crimson hands. Offline, the figure seemed unreal, the fluids had dried into a grey caricature of the terminated. A collar encircled the medic's neck, attached to it were feeding tubes: pink energon, yellow coolant, and green lubricant. All the necessities of life filtered through those tubes into the mech that had not seen a wash rack in likely many vorns.
Behind them, the metal arm shoved the medical berth back into position, and the wall closed. Jazz watched, spellbound, as the medic was lowered onto a berth and jolted into consciousness with an audible snap of electricity.
"Primus just take my spark already." The weary, gravely voice made Jazz jump. The defeated optics that lit, dark cobalt, and landed on him – Jazz knew those optics.
"Ratch?" Wheeljack asked, hands raised harmlessly as he approached.
"If you're a hallucination I'm terminating myself right now." Ratchet rumbled hollowly. Despair resounded in each word.
"Ratch, its me, its Wheeljack. C'mon buddy, you can't terminate yourself now, you still owe me six cases of Paraxan High Grade."
"Paraxan – it is you. Your still lost in your laboratory." Grief welled up in Ratchet's optics. "Paraxus fell. I tried to help."
Jack knelt down beside Ratchet, and nearly fell on the mech when the dingy arms snagged around him as Ratchet keened into Wheeljack's chest. "Whoa, buddy, hand in there. I'm here, we're here."
Jazz stared. He swallowed tightly and held Prowl's hand. He trembled. In Ratchet's despair his energy field had flared and hit him. Jazz knew Ratchet. Prowl knew Ratchet. Ratchet is – was – Ratchet had been 3:1:0. Ratchet had made them.
Creator.
To be continued.
... and it ties back together. ^.^