Author's NB: Sorry about the time its taken for me to get this up, but I've been busy and I didn't want to do this any disservice by rushing out some pile of rubbish.

Chapter Forty Nine

1st January, 1789

1430hrs

"Ladies and gentlemen, I offer sincerest apologies to you all on this crisp new year's day for the rather… unsavoury conditions you find yourself in. But I assure you, if your patience prevails you will witness something extraordinary!"

It was a strange sight indeed, finely suited men with delicately dressed women standing ankle deep in the foul sludge of the earth. Large boots pulled over their pristine shoes, the ladies holding up their skirts and dresses ever so modesty to avoid the mud that sloshed about. It was indeed an ask to have such high class individuals to trek down into the deep damp bowels of the earth for this event.

If only one thing could be said of Mr. Wilson, it was that he was a show man; he enjoyed the spoils of popularity and placing upon his name a reputation that would garnish his home with wealth. And Mr. Wilson had gathered to himself that day some of the new world's most prominent names. There were a few politicians, a couple of generals who had been invited under the promise of a "great military splendour", there were bankers and business owners and men of vast historical wealth, and of course, the ladies were daughters and wives of those fine men, only a few, six ladies accompanying fifty men in good standing. Of course, by the time darkness would slip across the earth all of them would lay dead in that place, their jewels and fine clothes meaning little to the cold earth that would caress them with rot.

So, Mr. Wilson, who's first name Bill couldn't recall if he'd ever been privy to hear, stood on the stage that Bill and his "co-workers" had to construct down in this ill gotten pit, his finest suit placed upon his form, holding his arms in the air, gave his speech:

"There are so few words of such finery that could describe those beautiful ladies and respected gentlemen that sit before me, truly your grandness is all that makes this bog worth a moment of patience. And since you have all given me humour to venture down into this sludge that you are hear to further enhance your knowledge of the world about you. For what I am about to show you, my respected friends, is something so marvellous that words fail to give me an explanation, so, instead of continuing to bore you with semantics and torture you with suspense, I will simply reveal what I discovered down here, a discovery that God Himself could not be prouder of!"

Mr. Wilson reached behind him and pulled the gilded velvet rope that was attached to a large curtain of satin that covered the ship from the wooden railing that ole Bill himself had to craft and install, a dangerous task indeed. The satin parted, and it was revealed, revealed to gasps of surprise, shock and awe.

"Mr. Wilson, pray tell us, what is this thing?"

One of the ladies stood, her large frame pushing outwards against the silk and cotton dress she wore, but still a woman of great fame, being the wife of the General who often thanked her in victory speeches for the fine home she had crafted him, the succulent feasts she served him and the twelve brave and strong sons she had bore him (few mention of the six daughters).

Her husband added his agreement to the question.

"Lady, I implore you to believe that this vessel behind me is not crafted by the hands of mere men, but rather, the tapering limbs of aliens".

The consensus amongst the crowd was one of shock and surprise, and the occasional outright disbelief. A few huffs of "preposterous" were heard to be uttered.

"For I too was stunned to believe such a thing, but creatures of a metal nature have frequented this world of ours many, many winters past and have left upon this earth one of their, as this simple Negro boy admits to, "a metal horseless carriage". And truly, I say to you, as the Great Lord God is my witness; this is indeed a carriage from another world. What purpose it had upon our home I do not care to fathom nor could I, for those beings that reside within have long since suffered the loss of breath".

"You mean to say there are aliens within that structure, Mr. Wilson?"

A businessman by the name of Merry Petershire stood and expressed loudly. He was a man of generous finance, his empire stretching beyond the shores of America to many places in Europe; he was known to holiday in a home near Paris and had many slaves working his many plantations.

"OH yes indeedy I am saying just that, good Mr. Petershire, in fact, I extend the offer to those of a firmer constitution to step inside and view said aliens. Of course, I must request the ladies wait here and enjoy some of the pleasant refreshments, cucumber sandwiches, cup cakes and tea as the men see to the hard sights".

There were pleasant mutterings amongst the women and anticipatory mumbles from the men.

"Well, ladies, if you would be ever so obliging to me to make your enjoyment from the tasty morsels prepared, and the men shall accompany me to the sights meant only for the stauncher sex".

The women made their way to the finely decorated table laden with all manner of sweets and other delectable's. Their husbands and fathers stood and followed Mr. Wilson towards the craft.

He gave another self-indulgent speech before the dull entrance – he'd had the slaves attempt to polish it to a gleam, but the alien metal refused to relent and only the native sod had yielded to the cloths and "elbow grease". Mr. Wilson, beaming, with an unnaturally large smile accessed the shuttle, opening the doors to a world none of them and their primitive science could have ever gifted their imagination with.

"Who amongst you will be the first to witness the wonders of another world, long since disposed by age and perhaps wanton stupidity?"

There were a few mumbles when Merry Petershire stepped forward.

"Such silly men you have gathered that none would transgress into a dead shuttle with, as you claim, Mr. Wilson, dead occupants".

"Dead indeed, Mr. Petershire, and hence the hesitation from myself, and I would hope, my fellows, is based on the respect of those unfortunate departed".

A man by the name Chester Walshberg, who had found his fortune in a way most here had not, he'd worked hard for it, spoke up.

"And what need of respect do the likes of aliens possess?"

Petershire remarked.

"Should not your dog, who guards your chickens, be in need of respect? Or the cow that suffers her young and your servants indiscreet pulling of her mammaries to provide your milk? And the Negro who sweats his brow and breaks his back pulling your cotton? Or perhaps the tree that provides you shade when you swelter in the heat of summer? Such things may not be human, sir, but truly, I inform you, they are, indeed, worthy of our respect, if not our utmost!"

"Then we are in agreement to disagree, sir! I say again, I will suffer no creature that within his chest does beat no human heart!"

Petershire pushed his way passed Mr. Wilson and into the gloomy shuttle, lit only be the dim candles and lamps Mr. Wilson had had Bill and his fellows place about the claustrophobic structure.

"This is it? This is the great alien you gave great words too? My five year old son with a brain enfeebled could have crafted something of more realism in the swamp mud of the Mississippi!"

The man scoffed as he crossed his arms over his chest smugly. His fellows found the ability to forgo any respect for the dead and entered. Mr. Wilson looked a tad sheepish, and truly had thought they would be awed by such a sight – Lord knows, he had!

"Mr. Wilson, sir, what be in existence behind that door?"

A portly chap by the name of Bernard Sundale asked, a doctor by trade and finding work plentiful in this relatively new world, fraught with many an unpleasant way for a man to come to harm.

Mr. Wilson turned and viewed the door with some contempt, they had been unable to find a way to open it, even the strongest slaves and free with their ropes and pulleys had been unable to budge its hinges.

"I say to you, what sits behind that door is the wonder of a world unlike we've ever laid our human eyes upon! However, I say this gentlemen, such a room has not yet yielded our secrets, but perhaps, to one of you, it may open and endear us with imagination of a science too great for us to comprehend!"

"Oh by the stool of bulls!! You have not been able to open such a door because it's all an elaborate fraud! I would wager ten of my best horses and all of my slaves that this is just a cheap parlour trick, which may wow the minds of children and women, but not me, good sir, not me! And nor should any of you fine fellows fall prey to this charlatan!"

Petershire's previous level of excitement was gone from him and he no longer held in his heart the curious lust that had once fuelled him only moments ago as he sat in the audience listening to Mr. Wilson spin his tales.

"I am leaving! To the rest of you I beg you do the same, if only to ensure your finances stays within your purses and not in the hands of this… this… scoundrel!"

Had the others heeded his warning, then all of their lives would have been spared that day. As it was, Mr. Wilson, keen to do right by his reputation, he demanded two sticks of dynamite to be brought and the explosive carefully removed and laid along against the slight gap under the two large doors.

"A show indeed! If not the likes of Petershire desire to watch, then I will say to him, poor luck! I will enjoy myself in this hole and an explosion is always of something that does just that to my senses! Huzzah, Mr. Wilson, if all that comes of this day is the full belly of my wife and an explosion I will have been placated!"

Mr. Woodrow Potter had more dollars then sense, and was thought of as a complete idiot, if it were not for the fact of birth he would have known only poverty, but the money his father, his grandfather and his great grandfather had sweated their skin for and the money his wife's father had paid out, and that continuance kept him in riches and not rags.

The excitement picked up its pace within their veins once more and they brushed aside the momentarily distraction that was Petershire's outburst.

Ordinarily, under any other circumstance presented, no human explosive, short of a nuclear blast, could disrupt the integrity of a Transformer craft; of course, this one was aged and damaged by the accident that had caused it to slam into the soft earth it was now buried deep within. The explosion was muffled and seemed almost muted in its effect, but it caused the doors to give way just enough for a human male to slip through into the hell that lay behind.

There were no words uttered by any of the men as they stood staring up at the bodies of the dead aliens dangling from the ceiling, their metal flesh spotted with the energon that had long since dried.

The fear was deep within their souls, though they hadn't recognised it yet, Mr. Wilson was grinning ear to ear standing there brimming with pride. He could never have known what this place was, what those beings were or how they met their violently obvious fate – or whatever fate, how they met the actuality of being hung from the ceiling. Was it tradition? Part of their burial ceremonies? Or perhaps they were hung like meat to be dried, with the intention of simply preserving the body… but they were not of flesh and blood, so delicate and short lived, but metal.

No one noticed the slight clicking sound, of metal brushing against metal, the twitching of alloy fingers.

The men continued to stare, mouths gaping, the women continued to eat, mouths filled.

No one noticed the sudden onlining of optics.

Nor the slight movement of the head, carefully lifting to view those who had dared violate its sanctuary.

A cursory evaluation of its systems revealed its body worn by rust and destroyed by time, unable to extinguish those who had invaded. A mind so evil with a spark of pure darkness sought out a channel, a vessel with which it could reach out once again. It recalled a history where this had been done, the creatures that stood within this essential tomb, they were of the same species that had invaded once before, though, that first meeting had been from of ignorance, a sin that could be forgiven yes, but not to go unpunished! But it was these ones that came with a different intention within their hearts and minds, and those intentions were without honour and without concern for the respect and sanctity of this place.

And then a vessel was found.

Ole Bill was sitting there on a damp rock watching the fat white woman help herself to another handful of sandwiches, something came over him, a hatred like he'd never known, the pain of his ancestors the destruction of their homes the rape of their women, the kidnapping of their children who would be thrown into the shackles of slavery! So many of his kin had died on their wooden ships, suffering pain and humiliation and horrible illness so these white men could make their wealth, and watching that fat white woman, who's hands were soft and delicate, never having worked a day in her life, those fat saggy breasts were that way only due to age, not due to the feeding of children. Black slaves may not have been good enough to be free but they seemed acceptable to provide milk to the precious white babies that would grow to be tyrants like their fathers. The hatred took him, and Bill Strongman, slave, Negro, human being, ceased to exist.

He became the barer of the Matrix.

The Decepticon Matrix.

A collection of the most evil of sparks, sparks that could not accept their deaths or their requirement to pass on into the next existence, to pass into their Hell to pay for their grievous sins. So, it was a Decepticon leader by a name that became the worst of curses who crafted such a thing, a collection of all the evil, of every dark secret and malice thought.

Megatron had not so much feared it as a Matrix, but rather as a possession that was capable of great destruction, destruction that had since prevented itself from recognition of its kin. Decepticon and Autobot alike had no safety against it. The beings that existed within the ball of energy had become polluted by the sparks of the others, and any good, any honour any memory of Decepticon purpose had been wiped from their sparks so only cruelty and pitch remained.

Megatron saw it for what it was; a danger to all Decepticons, something that's power could never be contained and so must be cast aside to the deepest reaches of the universe.

This ball of hatred was what had driven Star Scream to such a point where he activity rebelled against Megatron. It was the second in command's assumption that such power should not be feared by the Decepticons, but he was but a sparkling who had no comprehension of what it was, what it had become.

Those that had piloted the shuttle were Decepticon warriors of various injury and infirmity, some had cosmic rust, others had diseases of the CPU, they were locked in stasis and the Decepticon matrix placed within one of them and then laid within the shuttle which was launched from the Nemesis before it attacked the Ark.

The bodies laid deep within the vessel, still functioning, but their minds offline.

The Deception Matrix awoke, and within the body it found itself in, it woke. It rose. It sought out, and destroyed the bodies of its kin. It dangled those forms from the ceiling to drain their energon into a pool so vast he licked it from the floor.

But the body of the barer was weak and frail from rust, it had been unable to escape the staunch metal and so its form had starved and then expired. It fell to the floor, its head breaking from its rusted body and rolled into its current placement.

Yet, evil is stubborn.

Evil doesn't like to be destroyed, it continued.

The first body of flesh it had taken had died, it had rotted quickly, unlike the rusted forms that took many millions of years to disintegrate, and once that small human form had been lost to the ages, only its skeleton remaining in a dried state, the evil within seeped out and floated into the surrounds.

And then it found Bill.

And it took Bill.

And Bill, like the child many years before him, ceased.

Bill was Bill no more.

Bill had become evil.

And evil hated.

And the body of Bill rebelled against those around him and Bill slaughtered.

The fat white woman was the first too fall.

She was enjoying the last of the cream covered scones when what was once Bill approached from behind.

She turned.

"What do you want, Negro?"

She asked, annoyed.

"Ooh, are there more scones? These are just such delectable treats that I'm sure my ample body will not protest at such a bounty".

Of course, Bill was not within the body that reached out and tore her throat from her neck. Blood and chunks of half chewed scone sprayed over his body. She was still alive, just for a few moments, the few moments it took for her brain to realise her heart had stopped, that her blood was escaping too quickly, and regardless of what her last thought was, she had no voice to utter it or to scream warning. She dropped, her large body flopping into the soft mud covered with the rugs laid down to provide some civilisation to the cave.

The evil stepped over her and punched his fist through the back of the head of the next woman, a young lass who of course, had no idea that she was dead. She hit the table and the sickening crack and the loud noises that resulted from breaking China and spilling drink caught the attention of the others.

Women began screaming.

Slaves began imploring.

The evil continued to kill, not moved by the pleas for mercy or the cries of shock and the yells for help from the men.

The men ran from within the vessel and one by one faced their deaths at the hands of the possessed.

And their deaths were very unpleasant.

Some put up a fight, pulling muskets and swords from their belts and firing into the large black body of flesh that was no longer Bill, but the evil within caused his existence to be uninterrupted by lead or steel.

The screams and shouts and shots reached the ears of Petershire who was almost to safety, but he would never make it. The cries were so horrid, so awful, pleading, begging, he was a man of honour and bravery and the heart of such a man would not allow his logic to turn him from the assistance needed by his fellows, no matter how foolish they had been. So Petershire turned back to offer whatever help he could. Such bravery had him killed.

It was Petershire's ghost that gave warning many centuries later to the Autobot staggering aimlessly through the tunnels.

But at that point, the slave to man who was now slave to evil found himself free of the living and began his assent to the surface, to spread a darkness further beyond the confines of a mine.

--

Author's NB: And there it is. I've spent the last twelve chapters trying to decide how to slip this explanation in, and instead of the bulky uncomfortable ability of Kup to regale us all with his ancient stories, including what he knows of the Decepticon Matrix, I liked this method better, hence the reason for the creation of Bill.

Anyway, it amazes me to think the American Supreme Court once said that Black people were only like 1/5th of a person!! How twisted is that?!?! Of course, there are those amongst the human family today who are not even considered human enough to be given the auspicious title of "person" and who are culled at the selfish whims of those meant to be their first protector. Sad how low humanity can stoop, really.