Author's note: All characters are copyright their respective creators. I do not own Transformers and I am not affiliated with Hasbro or Takara, Mainframe or Alliance, nor should any affiliation be inferred, implied or assumed. Enjoy the fic. Historian's note: "Indeterminate Timeframe" events occur shortly after Aftermath, following the Coming of the Fuzors, and before "Other Visits". G1-set chapters take place shortly before Transformers: the Movie, dates as given.

Year of the Snake- Part 2

**The Beast Wars, Indeterminate Timeframe
"Decepticon Air Commander?" Pantera asked, tending to some of Jaxyl's more superficial wounds. "He really honestly said that..." Her expression turned grim. "That could mean one of two things," she muttered, grabbing some swabs from the table and dabbing at Jaxyl's wounded shoulders (apparently, the "harmless" CR energy had reverted to noxious cybervenom moments following the snake's departure).
"Don't keep me in suspense, Tera, what does it mean?" Jax asked, before being silenced (with an audible hissing noise between his teeth) by Pantera and some antiseptic liquid.
"It means that either Starscream's back to find me... maybe he's possessing some poor sap... or..."
"What, Mama-YOW!" Jax howled as she rubbed more of the disinfectant onto his wounds. "Tera, watch the paintjob!" Jaxyl seethed as he rubbed the antiseptic away.
"Sorry," the elder replied absentmindedly.
"So what was the OR?" Jaxyl demanded.
"Right, the or... or he knows Starscream."
"Who's Starscream?"
Pantera snapped at Jaxyl, something she rarely did in such high spirits. "None of your business."
Jax whimpered- both at Pantera's scolding and the painful goo on his chest. "Are you done yet?"
"Yeah," Pantera replied apologetically. "You can go annoy your sisters now." Tera stood, shaking off the stiffness in her joints, and put the disinfectant and swabs away. "Be more careful next time..."
"What're you gonna do about the goon that attacked me?"
"He knows I know him from somewhere, but..." Pantera trailed off, stalking into the night. Jax heard the familiar whirrs and clunks of Mamacat returning to beast mode, and he knew not to follow.

* * *

**Earth, 1977
"Wasn't that just... I mean... gahh..." Sandy stammered.
"It was only a movie," her companion retorted.
"Only... guhh... I need to sit down..." The young oceanside-blonde haired girl stumbled (she had to have been only playing) onto a nearby bench. "It was..."
"A half-rate sci-fi flick with terrible acting." The incredulous teenaged boy crossed his arms in frustration.
"It was the first in a series of what will be the greatest pieces of cinema in history."
"All that for... Hell, I don't even remember the title. Space Fight?"
"Dan, you're kidding, right?" Sandy cupped her chin in her hand. "Star Wars, Daniel. Star Wars."
"Whatever... it wasn't even Roger Corman bad... this was Ed frickin' Wood bad."
"See if I ever take you to the movies again." By now, Sandy had stood, and was ushering her companion over to the pretzel stand.
Janss Mall stood, a large open-air concrete presidio, on the west side of Thousand Oaks, a sleepy suburb of Los Angeles. It was a commuter town where residents, for the most part, lived in overpriced crackerboxes with shake roofs (also known as tinderbox roofs for obvious reasons), and puttering in their smog-mobiles the 40-some miles to Los Angeles every morning, and the 40-some miles back every night.
Dan Witwicky was different, of course. He was near 30, lived alone, and worked as a clerk at the drugstore, filling orders for pharmacy customers, restocking shelves when they ran empty, doing menial chores. Pay was okay, he could afford a modest apartment. Dan spent most of his time with Sandy, the woman he'd want to marry one day, strangle the next. Dan lived what most would call an uneventful life. No adventure. No thrills. The occasional trip to Knott's Berry Farm. That was it. He didn't know what he was missing.


Sandy gazed skyward, looking at the vapor trail streaking across the sky. "I wanted to be a pilot when I was little," she muttered, yanking her glasses off and wiping them with her t-shirt. "But my eyes kept me grounded." Pressing them back on her nose, she turned to see Dan stock still, staring at the door to the Safeway... no, past it. "Daniel, something wrong?" she asked, waving her hand in front of his face.
"Nothing," Dan replied blankly.
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely," again with no inflection whatsoever.
"Come on, we're meeting the Fairebornes for dinner."
She had to physically drag Dan off his spot, at which time, his attention snapped back into the real world. Sandy could tell this was the case by Dan's yowling in her ear to "leggo" and "geroff".
"Ok, ok, spazmo..." Sandy conceded, releasing Dan's arm.


"What's up with you?" she asked as the two drove. "You zoned on me at the Safeway."
"I did?"
"Yeah, for a whole minute, you were staring at the door. Thought you'd gone mental." Sandy yanked the steering wheel into a sharp left turn, causing Dan to lean into her. A slight smile crossed the woman's face as Dan's head inched closer to her shoulder. She was taller than he by about a head. This always pleased Sandy- driving fast, making abrupt and sudden turns and stops, just to see Dan's reactions. It was a hate-hate relationship. Maybe a little love thrown in, as an afterthought.
The evening passed slowly, smalltalk and red wine with chicken (Dr. and Mrs. Fairborne silently cursed the pair's lack of culinary expertise in the subject), stale streusel and Sanka. Dan almost leapt for joy at the prospect of going home to his nice warm bed, his heart sinking to realize the air conditioning was off in his apartment. Make that sweltering bed.
"Dan, you zoned again at dinner," Sandy scolded as she parked. "You sure you're all right?"
"A hundred percent," Dan replied vaguely again.
"You're doing it again!" Sandy exclaimed, punching Dan in the arm.
"Am not," he replied without conviction.
Sandy rolled her eyes, and huffed. "Dan, go home," she ordered.
"Right," Dan droned, opening the door and stumbling out.
In a growl of engine and a squeal of tires, Sandy was off, and Dan continued to stand there, looking like a dope.


If only Daniel Witwicky had known his great uncle... he would have known quite a bit about Transformers before they were even discovered. He would have known how his great uncle was vaporized by a wayward Seeker jet-type, long before Mt. St. Hillary ever blew its top. Long before the Great War spread its blighted finger from Cybertron to Earth.
Long before the Death of Optimus Prime.

* * *


**Earth, 2003
"Ten klicks to Autobot City," Hot Rod reported. Daniel didn't respond. "You okay in there, big guy?" the Ferrari's dashboard asked the young sandy-blonde haired boy in the driver's seat.
"I guess. Dad's been gone too long."
"I know... but Sparkplug's here to keep you company. He's LIKE your dad."
"It's not the same. Dad and I used to go fishing. Dad gave me flying lessons in the Cessna."
"You mean Powerglide."
Daniel rolled his eyes. If only the machines in his world DIDN'T talk to him every chance. "Right," he replied without enthusiams.
"3 klicks to Autobot city," the onboard computer pinged.
"Hear that, Dan-O? 3 kilometers and you'll be home."
"Yeah..."
The rest of the trip was silent. Hot Rod knew when he was beat.


"If you don't tell him, I will," Arcee fumed, looking over the technical schematics. "Prime HAS to know that the Metroplex cog won't be operational for another decacycle. And these defense grid components aren't acceptable." The femme designate shoved the datapad back into the arms of a cringing Wheeljack. "And you call yourself the greatest Autobot technician of all time. Get outta my sight!"
No one had ever seen Arcee in so foul a mood. From dawn that morning she'd spit and cursed at her subordinates, never satisfied with the way work was proceeding on Autobot City. Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Sparkplug got the worst earfuls. Some of the Omega Ceti Tauian curses she fired not even Kup recognized. But Springer, O Noble and Naive Knight of Cybertron, persevered.
"She's just stressed," he defended, patting his comrades in arms on their backs with a chuckle. "You'd be unnerved too if you had one of the greatest engineering feats in Cybertronian history to oversee."
Wrecker Hook and Build Typhoon, between them, decided it was best to grin, bear it, and work their skidplates off. Not that Arcee was ever satisfied with their work, but, try as she might to negate their travails, Autobot City's construction continued unabated.
Until one day, it was finished. And there was much rejoicing. Banners waved, flags fluttered, trumpets blared the opening of a new stronghold. Better defended than the Ark, more powerful than the Nemesis, capable of withstanding the blows of even the strongest Decepticon battle crews.
No Stunticon could break its walls. No Insecticon dared sully its battlements. No Constructicon challenged to scale its turrets. Not if they wished to live, that is. The Metroplex would be the end-all be-all of Autobot bases. Never before, and (with luck) never again would there be the supremely powerful fortification that was Autobot City.
Arcee huffed. It wasn't what she wanted at all. Of all things, the color was wrong. Grey where it should have been Autobot Red, orange where green was supposed to go. This made Arcee more irritable than a petrorabbit during an energon shortage. But, for the good of the Autobots, Arcee put on her happy face. Took her three hours to realize that, despite the colors of the fortification being slightly wrong (they still blended well, she'd later note), Autobot City was complete. It shone, it sparkled. Polished and primped for the unveiling. Rumors swirled that Optimus Prime himself would be taking a special shuttle from Cybertron just for the occasion. Arcee knew that the new City Commander's shuttle would be touching down soon, and with it, some of the new crew members. The roster said there would be fifteen factory-fresh Cybertronians joining the cause, causing Arcee's spark to jump. More like fifteen babies, she'd said to Springer over hot mech-ale after work. I haven't had to train fifteen new-bots and re-train thirty older ones in millennia... This is going to be hell."
"I'm always here to help," the green and gold triplechanger offered.
"Like that's going to be any help," she snapped.
"Chibi-car, why're you being like this? I kept trying to tell the others you were just stressed, but this goes above and beyond stress... something's really bothering you."
"I'm fine, Springer, now can you go back to your quarters now? I've got loads of work to do, I'd like some peace and quiet." She all but shoved Springer out the door and slammed it shut, clicking the lock three times for good measure.
She felt horrible, but that was the point. She had to put on a good show for the others... only so long until... yeah, then I'll be free...
==Not doing too good a job, are we?== came a chuckling voice, echoing around her head as if it were an empty metal shell. ==You'll have to do better...== The chuckle loudened, becoming more of a manic cackle.
"Get out of my head... I thought..." Arcee scowled.
==Thought we'd discussed this? Nah... the more I talk, the better the chances are that I'll be caught... and I can't be caught.==
"Why are you...?"
==To get to her== the voice resounded. ==You should know this!==
"Get to who?"
==Artemisssss....== the voice hissed before fading.
"Who..." Before Arcee realized it, she was face to face with the new crew roster. At the very top, right before Motorhead and right after Mastershot was, written clearly in Cybertronian normal: Moonrace. The vehicle description followed: jet black Terran vehicle: something called a "Pontiac", a make year, model number, right down to the genuine corinthian leather seats. Energon usage ratings followed, and a few barely intelligble lines of adminstrative codes. "Artemis," Arcee muttered, looking over her dossier. "This says her name's Moonrace."
==A rose is a rose is a rose.==
"When does she arrive?"
There was no answer from the echo inside her head, but the pad took up the slack. Two days. There was something going to happen in two days, Arcee thought to herself. And given the malevolant tone in the thoughts that weren't hers, Arcee knew that something would probably be bad news.

***

"I bring news from the front lines," Ultra Magnus stated grimly, addressing the assembled Transformers below. "The Autobots have been forced back from mainland Cybertron, onto the Tryptichs. Moonbases one and two are the last Autobot installations in Cybertron space... Decepticons have overwhelmed Cybertron, and we are deeper into a war than we've ever been."
The mutterings and murmurs coming from the crowd below only served to make heavier Magnus's spirit. "But there is, as always, a glimmer of hope. Work continues on new weapons to fight the good fight with. Classified though these developments may be..." Whispers of the word 'transwarp' flittered through the throngs. "...It is the opinion of this grizzled veteran City Commander that this war is not over yet!" Magnus's tone lightened, to lift the spirits of his new troops. "Optimus Prime himself sends word that the ore and energon processing plants on the Moonbases are working overtime and ahead of schedule in the construction of Cybertron's liberation!"
The Liberation, Arcee thought... the ship Magnus had travelled to Earth aboard. Coincidence, probably, she thought... a nice icon, good for morale. But a thought crossed Arcee's mind as she sat upon the dais with the senior crew. There's always trouble where one would least expect it, and Arcee knew with almost utter certainty trouble had been readying itself to show its face.
==You act like you've never spoken to a ghost before== the voice clamored in her head. Arcee couldn't speak at this point- the others were watching, and her talking to thin air would have a chance of arousing suspicion. ==I can tell what you're thinking, and no, I'm not actually dead.== Arcee's brow furrowed. ==No, I can't tell you my designation. But you know my mission.==
Magnus had finished speaking, and was ushering the other senior crew off the platform to mingle with the bots below. "Never look down on your fellow Autobot," Magnus said, probably not believing a word of it. "They're the ones that help you, so it's best to help back." Primus, what slag he was spewing. He couldn't be buying what he was spouting, could he? Obviously, he did, and it made Arcee's stomach turn.
Hers wasn't the only one. As Artemis overheard this, her marginally Autobot self sneering internally at Ultra Magnus's drivel. Primus Artemis wished she was back at the front, doing what she did best. But no, someone's hairbrained idea had put her on Mudball Prime, also known as Earth. Terra to some, Gaia to others, it was the same miserable backwater orb, tucked away in some stinking recess of a tiny star system. Sol, the name of the puny, cold star, sounded like the bottom of someone's foot, and the system proved that. It was not Artemis's favorite part of the galaxy... but there were worse places to be. At least she was among other Transformers, despite not sharing their quote-unquote politics. Autobot, Decepticon, the denominations made no difference to her. Among the Autobots, divers political factions, radical groups, unorganized anarchic subversion organizations all held equal sway among the populace. There was no paramilitary faction within... they left that to the Decepticons. Speaking of the Decepticons... Artemis felt ready to strangle the next Decepticon general she saw, not because she was an "Autobot"... she wasn't, not by choice, anyway. This was a bad way to encourage loyalty, to be sure. Shockwave had assigned her this little trip aboard the Liberation to Earth, for the purposes of espionage. For that reason alone she wished his death. Artemis hated spyjobs, she felt they were below her. Dishonorable, as well. Wasn't war about overcoming unforeseen obstacles? Shockwave's orders- and the general attitude toward spying as well- made the honor aspect of war moot. Distasteful, to say the least.

Lest she forget her mission, Shockwave had built into her an "allegiance failsafe"... pain coursed through her body with almost every thought of disobeying his orders. More distaste. She considered herself Decepticon. She fought for their cause, the freedom from the place they'd been forced into. Second class citizens no more, their credo, a way of thinking Artemis agreed with wholeheartedly. But some, those who had become corrupt in their quest to liberate the Decepticons, lost sight of the truth behind the revolution. No longer did those disgraces to the name Decepticon wish to be equal to the Autobots, they didn't wish to live along side them. No... The concept of Ambition emerged. And it claimed its first victim in Megatron. As the young despot gained power and, ultimately, followers, the concepts Artemis and some of her more honorable Decepticon brethren held paramount faded. Thus, the Decepticons, the "bad guys", emerged finally as a force that fought the Autobots not for recognition of some quashed rights, but for the control of the very world... and after the vanquishing of the Autobots, domination of the galaxy.

**Tokyo: 2003
Rocksteady and Sledge grunted and chuckled at the crumpled femmebot at their feet. No match. Not even a challenge.
==You might want to rethink that== a voice snarled in Sledge's mind, but as he turned, there was nobody there. ==Dumbskid== the voice chuckled. Sledge's arms were off in a second, an invisible force bludgeoning his head in with them. Rocksteady was just as unlucky. Maybe moreso. His torso plating was shredded in an instant, mech fluid gushing onto the pavement. It wasn't long before both of them were dead on the pavement and the femmebot- a boxy exostructure betraying the slim and sleek Dodge Viper vehicular form- was swept up in the arms of her unseen savior.
==You have a dez, kid?== the voice echoed in her mind.
"Fantome," she replied, still shaken from her near-rape experience. "You?"
Instead of thinking his answer, the bot- invisible and manipulative- finally spoke aloud. "They called me Skystryke until a few stel ago... codename's Parseltongue. You're Decepticon?" he queried.
"Convert. Born 'Bot, raised 'Con. You're pureblood, aren't you?"
He said "My brothers are Thundercracker and Skywarp," with a slight snicker.
"And Starscream?"
"And Starscream, curse the name. I'm... I was... Air Captain of the homeworld defense fleet."
"How come I can't see you?" By now the two had found an alley to duck into. Fantome stood against a wall, still in a state of near-shock. Her companion was, as usual, invisible.
"Oh, that." Another small, unsettling chuckle. "I'm not supposed to let myself be seen. They can know my designation because it's only a codename. There are sixteen other Parseltongues on Cybertron, did you know that? Of course, now that you know my alt form... I'll have to kill you."
Fantome let out a slight chuckle and a nervous smile. "Funny."
"I'm serious," he replied blankly.
"Oh."
A pause. "Psych." Parseltongue's laughter swelled to a chuckling audible from a klick away, or so it seemed. "Ok, I'm letting you in on a secret because I know I can trust you."
"And how do you know that?" Fantome asked, mock indignantly.
"I read your mind. You're too scared that I'll injure you in some way that you wouldn't dare betray me."
"Wow... a psion?" Fantome asked, her naivete showing through, eyes widening. This was obviously one of the more recent additions to the Cybertron race. She was clearly not used to seeing psionic Transformers.
"Yep. One of the first off the line, to be honest... for about a hundred stel, me and Orihalcon were the only two psychic Cybertronians, Decepticon or otherwise. You've heard of General Whisper Orihalcon, right?"
Fantome nodded. "Who hasn't? Only the greatest military mind our side of the Ridge."
Parseltongue snorted. "Our side?" Fantome's optics caught a flash of a yellow and green Seeker jet body, shimmering like mist against the wall, a vision which promptly faded. Parseltongue's concentration was faltering. "You were born an Autobot, little girl."
"So? It's not who your parents were..."
"I've heard that more times than I care to remember," Parseltongue scoffed. "Listen, kid, you want me to take you back to your post?"
"No... I'm on surface duty. I have to get back to my garage or my... human designate will be worried."
This sent Parseltongue over the edge. "Your WHAT?! You're slaved to the meats? You cannot be serious... You should be obliterating them left and right. What kind of a Decepticon--"
"I have my reasons!" the pearlescant sportscar retorted. "How do you know I'm not spying on the elite of the Humans?"
"Because you're a sportscar. The only Terrans you can spy on are middle aged males with receding hairlines."
Fantome crossed her arms, this time in sincere indignation. "You wouldn't understand."
"I'm eight million years older than you. I've understood a thousand times more than you can even process." Parseltongue quit speaking, and Fantome wasn't even certain he hadn't left. A few minutes passed, after which time Fantome took a step forward, lowering herself and shifting to her alt mode.
==Leaving me here?== Parseltongue shot into her core processor, making her backfire.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Fantome snarled, revving her engine and peeling out. Even a powerful telepath couldn't track her... she was long gone.
Parseltongue floated into the air, transformed invisibly, and jetted back over Tokyo, over the Pacific ocean, to a hidden island stronghold- last holdout of the Earthbound Decepticons following the Earth phase of the war and their subsequent defeat.
The jet slowly lowered itself from the sky, dropping speed. Landing gear deployed, Parseltongue's forward wheel caught the immense rubber band laid across the runway, slowing even moreso, until finally, the green and yellow F-15 found itself at a dead stop.
"Wonderful work, Parseltongue," came his a meek voice from behind. "I definitely see a raise in your future... possibly a promotion... Primus knows someone so dilligent and hard working as--"
"Can the skid-kissing, Wormtongue." Parseltongue's nosecone folded downward as the immense jet-bot leapt to its feet. "Show me a quiet room and some mech-ale and I won't shatter your core personality programming."
"Of course, Parseltongue, wouldn't dream of..."
Wormtongue fell to the ground, twitching, as Parseltongue stepped over him, stalking into the hangar. "Why must Primus taunt me?" Parseltongue thought aloud. "Megatron's going to hear it... Starscream too."


The clunking of Parseltongue's boots combined with the steady drip-drip-drip of the leaky roof gave Scylla and Charybdis the chills.
"We're gonna git it now, I bet."
"Yeeeep. He's not pleased."
"Nosir."
"Not a chance in the Pit he's gonna..."
"WHAT are you two doing?!" Parseltongue bellowed, bursting into the comm room. "Your orders were to scan any Cybertron frequencies for communiques from the moonbases. You don't look like you're scanning."
Parseltongue sneered, threatening the two with the glowing V-shaped ember on his forehead. That was all that was needed. Charybdis and Scylla went straight to work as Parseltongue stormed out.
Another room, another pair of annoyingly slackened work ethics. Kalypso was playing cards with her partner, Kierce.
"Something you're forgetting, ladies?" Parseltongue queried sarcastically.
"Nope," Kierce replied. "What's it to you, flyboy?"
"Ooh, I love it when you're bitchy," he snickered. Moments later, Kierce's head was on the table, out cold. "Kalypso, do your job or you'll be joining her."
"Yes, sir!" she barked, overturning her chair and rushing to her station.
This made Parseltongue smile from aural to aural. He turned on his heel, mood lifted, and clomped happily to his quarters. Tomorrow, he'd find and murder Artemis, loath as he was to do something like that. But today, he'd relax.

End of Part 2-Stay Tuned for Part 3!