I apologize for the very long wait. It turns out, this chapter was a pain to write. Not that I don't like the material, but it was just very difficult, and came to me very slowly. I finally finished it, and decided that, rather than wait until next Friday, I would break my schedule and post it now. I hope you enjoy.
As usual, thanks to go those who reviewed or favorited or followed since last update.
TheSilentOne - Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he feels like he is. And in the end, that is what cripples a person.
Guest (Chapter 29) - Rearranging Cortana's serial number as a subtle nod to the Halo series is not a breach of cross-over rules or copyrights, otherwise every author who uses the numbers 3-4-3 at any point in their work would have to pay royalties to Microsoft (the owners of 343 Industries), and that is clearly not the case.
Beam weapons and a disintegration effect on a target has also been present since sci-fi came to be. In fact, I would point out it appears 343 borrowed heavily from Bethesda's Fallout series when designing the disintegrating effects of the direct-energy-weapons in Halo 4 and 5, and Bethesda themselves appear to have drawn inspiration from previous science-fiction franchises. As such, 343 does not own a concept that came before they were formed.
As a general reminder: due to how long it's been since the last update, I recommend re-reading the last one.
Thanks go to Crystal Prime for beta reading.
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro. I only take credit for this story and my
She was going to kill him.
Arcee stormed through the space bridge, naturally good posture very undisciplined, slumping forward, steps aggressive and loud. She probably looked like she was trying to break the floor beneath her pedes, but she didn't care. She didn't care at all.
Prowl was standing inside the ops center, servos behind his backplates. He'd been the one who gave her permission to return to base, as Optimus had returned to patrol not long ago. "You have twenty klicks."
Arcee just growled and stormed by, heading for the brig. How could he have done this to her? How could he have done something so fragging stupid?! AGAIN!
Her servos curled into fists, cables stretching audibly. Anger built up in her spark, spreading through her entire frame. Her energon was boiling, frame shaking, CPU on overdrive. All filled with fury.
… And pain.
She arrived at the brig. Jazz was leaning against the desk, servos crossed, looking at the door as she entered. To his side, she saw the Decepticon prisoner she'd heard about over the communications channels, injured and sitting quietly in his cell. And behind Jazz, she saw Ratchet and Moonracer were in the cell, gathered around the berth. Arcee continued storming in that direction.
Jazz stepped in front of her before she got very far. That caused her to growl. Loudly. Gutterally. Like a ferocious animal giving a final warning before an attack. "You're in my way."
"Uh-huh."
"Don't be."
"Ah think ya might wanna take a klick."
"Don't tell me what I want. Don't tell me to calm down. Step. Aside." The words came out like burning metal grinding against rock. As unfemme-like as she had ever sounded before. And she still thought her voice wasn't showing her anger properly. Even so, she'd found through experience there were few who had the courage to stand their ground against her when she was angry—truly, passionately angry. One of them was in stasis.
Another was blocking her way.
Jazz stood there, servos crossed, motionless. Unfazed. Like he hadn't even heard her speak. "Take a klick."
Arcee's withering glare bored into Jazz's visor like a power drill. He remained unmoved. She growled again and spun, moving away from the saboteur and beginning to pace. He wanted her to take a klick, fine. She was a patient femme. She'd pace for exactly one klick, then she'd storm into the cell. Simple.
But even as she decided on that course of action, she felt her emotions shift. Her CPU allowing rational thought to run alongside her burning anger. What was she doing? How was this helping her? Why was she letting her emotions control her? Why did they keep breaking through her walls?
Because she was missing her family. Because that family had been keeping secrets from her.
Because she'd been betrayed.
Arcee's fist unconsciously curled into a fist at that thought, but she forced it to open again. She hated feeling betrayed—hated the control it had over her actions. And yet, she couldn't help but feel betrayed. Why hadn't he talked to her? Why hadn't he tried to? They had been doing well, despite the current difficulties of him being in a cell the whole time. Now this. This betrayal. This unbelievable, insane, selfish, thoughtless, uncaring betrayal!
"Arcee."
"What?"
"Stop lettin' ya thoughts wind ya up."
She just let out another small growl.
"Arcee," Jazz said again. This time, he had no accent. He wanted her to take him seriously. "Stop it."
"I'm fine."
"You aren't and you know you aren't. This isn't helping you."
"So what if it isn't?" She rounded on Jazz, pausing her pacing. "It can't make things worse for me."
"You've seen enough to know things can always be worse."
With her emotions in their currently poor state, Arcee didn't want to listen to Jazz's point. She forced herself to. It was what she would have said to someone else in her position. It was logical. She needed to listen to logic. If she didn't, her emotions would never stop.
As if they had stopped at all since her sisters fell.
Arcee released a heavy sigh and rubbed a servo against her browplate. "I know. Recent events just…"
"Just what?"
"Just…" What was she expecting from Jazz? Pity? Assurance? Answers? She knew what she wanted: to be freed from her worries, stress, and bottled emotions, just for a little while. But the one mech who could give that to her had added to her turmoil. "Forget it."
The saboteur stared at her for a long moment, optics hidden behind his visor. Then he nodded. "Okay." He let her keep pacing for another long moment, then asked, "Ya good, now?"
Not even close, but her time at base was limited. She had to suck it up. "Yeah. Open up the cell."
Jazz moved to the desk. The Hard-Light cell's outer door powered down a micro-klick later. Arcee forced her emotions completely to the side, then moved toward it. She entered the cell as soon as Jazz opened the inner door.
Moonracer turned to her as she entered. "Arcee."
"Moonracer."
"How long do you have?"
"A few klicks." She looked behind Moonracer and to the berth, to where her courted laid flat. Motionless. His size meant most of him was visible to her, even with Ratchet and Moonracer standing in front of the berth. Still, she couldn't see his faceplate; Ratchet stood in front of it. "What did he do?"
"He refused to drink his energon." Ratchet voice was flat and dull. Arcee knew his voice only got like that when he was just as angry with himself as he was his patient. "He forced my servo. I had to… I had to put him into stasis."
Arcee stepped forward, moving around Ratchet so she could finally see her courted's faceplate. He looked as if he were resting, not in stasis, an improvement over the first time he fell into it.
What had been going through his CPU, in those last moments before the lights went out? Why did he refuse his energon?
Why did he leave her?
Arcee blinked, then without looking away from her courted, asked, "Why?"
"He turned into a threat."
"No, why did he do it? Why did he force you to put him down?"
Ratchet sighed. "Honestly, I'm not even sure. He wasn't himself leading up to it. He kept going on and on about discoveries he thought he'd made. I'm not sure what to make of any of it."
"Maybe I can. Tell me what he was saying."
Ratchet did. By the time he was done, Arcee was left just as confused as he was.
"He really said he thought Optimus was under Cold's influence?" She asked.
"He did. And that he needed to be in stasis to fight Cold himself. And all the rest." Ratchet sighed again. "Did he mention anything about thinking Optimus was in danger, that he believed to be rid of Cold he had to enter his own Animus?"
Arcee could feel his optics on her then. Staring at her, waiting. Hoping for answers to questions she hadn't even known about until now. What had driven her courted to act so strangely? For from what Ratchet said, his behavior had been nothing but strange. What made him act so rashly, so quickly, so foolishly?
She looked at the mess he'd left behind—at the crates of Wildwing's drawings. They all open, their contents partially on the floor. Ratchet said even as they had talked, he searched them. What had he been looking for? What had he found? What had changed him?
What made him betray her?
He left her alone… Just everyone else did...
"I'm guessing your silence means no."
Arcee put her walls in place. Her emotions were fully replaced by logic. Her thoughts going from emotionally-charged confliction to coldly rational. They would remain so for half a breem or so. Then, her emotions would start seeping through again. "It does."
She could practically feel Ratchet's disappointment. "Then we have no ideas."
Arcee noticed that, on the floor, there was the data pad containing the Kaon census data. She walked over and picked up. She noticed there was now a search option on the menu. How did that get there?
Moonracer asked, "Do you want a few klicks alone with him?"
Arcee sub-spaced the data pad and turned back to the two medics. She didn't look at the inactive form of her courted. "No. I need to return to patrol." She moved to the cell door.
"Are you… Sure?" Moonracer sounded worried. Worried and wary. Investigative. A doctor trying to look into Arcee's CPU.
Arcee didn't want anyone in there.
"Yes. Inform me if he onlines." Even as she said the words, they sounded emotionless. Loveless. Even harsh. She knew how she'd sounded, but couldn't help it. She was hurt in more than one way, and she didn't want to deal with it. She couldn't. Not without bringing up a tempest of emotions she'd been struggling to process even with her courted doing what he could to help her.
Now, Shadowstreaker had added more pain to crush her. Only this time, he'd done it on purpose.
Why was it that no matter what she did, she always got hurt in the end?
Arcee made her way out of the cell, out of the brig, and into and out of the ops center.
She was so lost and numbed by her struggle against her emotions, she didn't notice Prowl staring at her, both when she first left for the brig and when she returned to patrol.
Nor did she see the emotionless, searching look in his optics.
The constant motion of the cube structures—or Rubions—was comforting in a way.
There was something in how they moved, the way every square nanometer of their surfaces shifted, that reminded me of waves. Waves that stretched on and on and on across each Rubion. Rising and falling. Turning and folding. Bringing life to an object that lived only as a thought in my own state of existence.
I was just confused about when I'd thought about it in the first place. Or when I'd thought of a black metal floor with circuity in it. Or of a gigantic green sphere.
There were a lot of things I was seeing here that I never thought of.
I felt someone walk up next to where I stood at the edge of the platform beneath my Apex Archive— the great green sphere. I knew it was Elita; Chromia and the Mech of Light had gone to another part of my Animus for a reason they hadn't felt inclined to share.
"An Animus is a wonder to behold." Her voice was different than when she'd last been in our mutual state of existence. It was still hers, but better. Enhanced. Its natural qualities amplified to a level I thought only Primes could achieve. I wondered if Optimus always heard her voice as I did now.
"Yeah."
"I am sorry you are having to experience its sight in the way you are."
I just had to laugh at that. Here she was, trapped in a universe that existed outside the material plane because I couldn't face my own problems, and she was apologizing to me? After I was the one who got she and Chromia stuck here in the first place? I didn't deserve kindness like that.
"Why are you laughing, Shadowsteaker?"
I turned to her, having to glance slightly upward to look her in the face. Like her voice, her body had changed since we last met. Her optics held depth to them that had not been there before. The color of her armor popped as if it were alive in its own way, leaving her a beacon of rose in the sea of black. She looked entirely different.
And yet, she didn't. She was her, but she wasn't. She was different, but in a way that enhanced how she had always appeared. Her every natural feature had been molded, shifted, improved. Perfected. Like her previous appearance had been a crude shell for her soul, and only now was she as she should have been.
It was weird seeing her Optimus' height.
"Because you, of all people but Chromia, should know that you have no reason to apologize to me," I said. "If anything, I should be the one apologizing to you; to Chromia. Don't reverse our roles."
"I apologize because I feel sympathy for you and what you go through." I found it both fascinating and unnerving how her facial movements remained the same as they always had, yet were so different at the same time. "Do you feel it wrong of me to feel such an emotion?"
I grunted. "You're here because of me. You're technically dead, because of me."
"Cold did this to me. He did this to my sister; you are not to blame."
"Cold wouldn't have done anything if I hadn't been a damn fool in the first place. Don't give me kindness when I deserve everything but."
A new look appeared in her optics. It was both analytical and pitying. I found it infuriating. "When did you decide you hated yourself?"
"Why are you and Chromia taller than me?"
Elita kept looking at me. Her newly changed optics boring a hole into mine. I held her gaze. I couldn't talk about it. Not here. Not now. Not with her.
After a few silent seconds, Elita sighed. "Our Paths have changed us. All Paths change those to Walk them."
"Why?"
That pitying and analytical look came back. "If you Walk yours, you will Understand."
"You sound like the Mech of Light."
"Do you mean Wisdom?"
So she also had her own name for him. "Yeah."
"He is a powerful influence on all things around him. Spend as much time here as Chromia and I have, and you will find yourself talking like him, too." She looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, "How long have we been here?"
"You mean how much time's passed back home?"
She nodded.
"A month," I said.
In the time I had known her, I hadn't seen Elita stunned by something. Surprised, yes. But stunned, truly stunned, not once.
I saw her stunned for the first time right then.
She stared at me for a long time. Lips slightly parted. Eyes just barely wider than normal. Entire frame frozen. Like her mind was working so hard, it had found operating her body unnecessary.
Elita composed herself at last. "Has it really only been one joor?"
"Yeah. Why are you shocked by that? Has it been longer here?"
"Yes… No. Perhaps. Time is a strange thing in an Animus. Sometimes it feels like orbital-cycles have gone by in the time it takes to speak a word. Other times, it feels as if a single moment has no ending—and you are trapped in it; destined to live forever with your regrets and sorrows."
Was that… Guilt I saw in her optics? Guilt over what? "I'll take your word for it."
"I feel you will not require my word before this is through." Elita looked out from the platform, to the Rubions shifting all around. "How are they?"
"Arcee and Ironhide?" I asked.
"Yes. And… Optimus."
I didn't have to ask to know why she added Prime to the list. "Ironhide's… A little rough, to be honest. I've personally only seen hints of it, but he's been angry. Impatient. Surprisingly fragile. He's lost. Not sure what to do without Chromia."
"I expect he would be. Chromia is the same, to some extent. There is only so much I can do for her. It is… Frustrating, watching and feeling her in pain, yet being able to do so little." She paused, optics sad for a moment before she blinked the look away. "What of Arcee?"
"She's been about as well as she can be," I said. "She and I are growing closer. Being honest. Seeking the other's opinion on both critical and unimportant things. Sharing personal stories. Having serious conversations about touchy topics. We're making progress in having a true, healthy relationship."
At least we had been, until I'd gone and messed it up by coming here. She was going to be hurt by that, I think. Deeply hurt. And I'd been the one to inflict that pain.
The hell had I been thinking?
"That is well and good, but it does not answer how she is doing on her own."
"Not having you and Chromia around hurts her, but she doesn't let it slow her down. Ironhide's pain frequently overflows to her, yet she deals with it by helping him in any way she can. You'd be proud of her strength."
A corner of Elita's mouth turned upward in a smile. "I have been for a long time."
"Then why have you been lying to her for her entire life?"
The smile vanished. Her demeanor shifted. Gone was Elita, the sister of my courted—my potential sister-in-bond. In her place was Elita-One. Warrior. Femme Commander. Legend. A legend who had been improved and enhanced in every conceivable manner. A legend whose very presence now drew attention and demanded respect.
A legend who was was not happy with me.
She turned fully to me. Face purposefully blank, optics searching. Body language stiffly professional. "What do you know?" The words came out cool and calm, with a layer of suspicion just below the surface. The tone of a protective guardian.
"Not enough." I put some Steel into my voice. A show that, despite who I was speaking to, I was not going to just drop it. Not when it involved Arcee. "You're not in Kaon's civilian registry—none of you are. Why?"
She didn't answer.
"You weren't legal residents of Kaon, were you? That's why you and Chromia had so many odd jobs when Arcee was growing up. No one could hire you; and if they did, you'd be found by Enforcers and tried for the capital offense of evading a mandatory census. Why did you risk that in the first place?"
Her faceplate and optics betrayed nothing.
"What have you been keeping from Arcee all this time?"
Elita blinked once, her mask unbroken. Then she came to the most accurate conclusion possible, "You know nothing."
"You can change that," I said.
"I will not."
"And you'll hurt yourself even more."
For a split second, I saw a crack appear in her emotional armor. She repaired it almost as quickly as Arcee would have. "You know nothing."
"About this part, I do. I know you care very deeply about your family. You'd do anything for them. You don't like hurting them. Creating conflict between them. Putting them in danger. This secret you keep is doing all three, and that hurts you; I can see it in your optics. Yet you keep it. Why? What good comes from pain—yours and theirs?"
Elita blinked, then straightened, her full height showing even more. "Your interest in my height was a convenient change of topic."
The message in that was clear: you don't share with me, I don't share with you. Not very Elita-like. But with something like this, I understood. I looked back to the Rubions, and Elita did the same. "Fine."
Silence fell between us. It was tense, uncomfortable. A result of the previous topic. Elita was the one who finally broke it. "You did not speak of Prime's state."
My wings twitched.
Elita noticed this. I felt her eyes shift back to me, searching. "What is wrong?"
I dared not open my mouth. Even now, long after the drive to act on my suspicions had passed, I felt my fears over Prime were right. He was being influenced by Cold, just like I was. And Elita had no idea.
How do you tell someone the one they love is under the thrall of something unspeakably evil?
"Shadowstreaker." Her voice was firmer now. More demanding of an answer. "What is Optimus' status?"
I was saved by the return of Chromia and the Mech of Light.
They came back in a flash of Light bright enough to reflect off the Rubion closest to Elita and I. She and I turned, and there they both stood. The Mech of Light in his near-blinding radiance; and Chromia, in her own enhanced state. She was shorter than Elita. In fact, I was still a foot taller than her. But like her sister, her every feature had been improved. Refined. Like she, too, was now as she should have been all along. Her armor was like a clear sky, while her optics were deep and thoughtful and… Tired. As if she long been on a great and lonely journey with no one to accompany her.
… Now I'm being flowery in my description. I think Elita was right about the Mech of Light having an influence on his surroundings.
"We have found no evidence of a breach in the Barrier." The Mech of Light walked toward Elita and I, and Chromia followed him. He stopped in front of me, optics staring down into mine. "It appears my Opposite has not succeeded in following you."
"There was a risk of that?" I asked.
"Yes. It is fortunate that, for once, he has not noted his advantage."
"Advantage?"
"Your mind is what influences everything you see. When you were disconnected, my Opposite's influence was limited. He could not destroy you again, and he could not resume his efforts to subvert my own influence."
"But now I'm here…"
"And still very much affected by his presence," the Mech of Light finished. "My Opposite has power he did not possess before. He is stronger now. More determined. He and I are no longer balanced."
Oh… Oh God. Cold had the power here. Even with the Mech of Light here, he could crush us. Destroy me. Destroy us. And it was my fault. Like it always was.
I'd been such a damn fool.
"What…" I paused, struggling to keep my emotions out of my voice. I was good at keeping them at bay, but Arcee was better at keeping her emotions in check while she felt them. "What do we do?"
"The answer to that lies with you."
"How can it? I don't have the experience here that you do. I don't know how to combat an ancient ex-Xel'Tor raging through my Animus. I don't know their full capabilities. I don't know how to counter them. I don't know what you use to attack them. I don't even know what a Xel'Tor is!"
The Mech of Light shook his helm. "You lack Understanding. The answer to my Opposite may not lie in combat, but Resolution."
"Well, what do I resolve, then? Show me."
He shook his head again. "That, I am afraid I cannot do. I can merely guide; only you can know what you need."
"I'm not really the best at identifying my own needs. I tend to ignore them."
"Then do not ignore them."
"It's not that simple."
"It is as simple as you make it."
"Why can't you just drop the whole personal growth thing and just tell me?!"
"Because I do not know."
I went silent. My frustration turned to surprise. My surprise to worry. My worry to fear.
The Mech of Light, the unfathomably old former Xel'Tor who possessed—or had possessed—power equal to Cold's, didn't know what to do.
There was something horrifying about that.
"But… I don't understand. You live in here. You see what I see. Hear what I hear. How can you not know?"
The floating portions of his armor shifted back and forth. "I meant it when I said only you can know what must happen. We stand in your Animus. What we face are your demons. Your actions. Your plights. Only you know precisely what must happen. For difficulties so personal, one requires something equally personal. Any other solution would cause even further damage."
As he spoke, I knew his words were true. They seemed to color the very air with fact. Truth. A subtle tone of gold. But even then I didn't want to believe it. I looked at Elita and Chromia, and they were looking at me in the same way the Mech of Light was, only more open in expression. Expectant. Honest. Grim.
I looked away, taking an unconscious step backward. How could they expect me to fix this? I caused this. Elita and Chromia wouldn't even be here if not for me. Any answer I found to Cold would just… Make it even worse. I couldn't solve this problem.
No. There had to be something else. Some other way—a way that didn't rely on my own abilities. But what was it, and where was it hiding?
I gazed out from the platform we all stood on, searching. Searching for… Something. Anything. Anything that could get me out of this mess.
But there was nothing that helped me. Nothing that spoke to me. I had nothing.
Such a failure.
A great boom sounded out in the distance. A deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake my entire body. My head snapped in the direction of the sound as it echoed again like a great drum. It came from the edge of the white dome of Light surrounding the entire area.
Oh, no…
The Mech of Light stepped forward, gazing in the same direction that I was. "He has pinpointed your location."
"How long do we have?" Elita asked.
"That will be determined by how much control he gains." The Mech of Light turned back to me, leaning down so he was staring directly into my eyes. "This is vital, Shadowstreaker. Focus."
Boom.
He was coming…
"Focus. Think not of my Opposite. Live in the strength you have."
Boom.
What strength did I have? All I'd do is fail again...
The Mech of Light hummed, standing to his full height. "Perhaps a different approach is needed at this time. Who is a force in your life? Whose strength do you admire?"
"Arcee," I answered without thinking. I felt Elita and Chromia give me intent looks, but I paid them no mind.
"Why?"
"Because no matter what happens, she continues. Finds some inner strength to hold herself together. She's not breakable like I am."
"Only One is unbreakable, and she is not He. Why do you truly admire her strength?"
"I gave my reason."
BOOM.
I hadn't realized the hammering stopped until it resumed. This time, it was louder. Stronger. It echoed again and again around the space under the dome. Elita and Chromia looked to its origin point with barely-contained worry.
"A partial one," the Mech of Light went on, unheeding of his attempts to break the dome. "But there is more."
I hated how he saw through the honest answer. Saw that there was another, more personal reason behind my admiration of Arcee's strength. One I hadn't shared. Hadn't spoken of. Had barely thought of. "That is why I admire her."
BOOM.
I winced as the strike hurt my audio receptors. But the Mech of Light kept standing there. Unmoving. Unworried. Staring at me. Waiting. I growled at him. "Do something! He's right there!"
"Only the full truth will help you."
Like I could really help anyone…
BOOM.
"The truth…"
"Because she loves me!"
Nothing hit the dome.
Elita and Chromia looked back to me. Confused, surprised. Curious. Waiting, like the Mech of Light was waiting.
"Because she loves me," I repeated. "Me. A failure. A killer. A threat. She loves me even though I am that and more. I admire her strength not just because she finds a way to carry on, but because she does something I can't: love who I am, horrible character flaws and all."
The Mech of Light said nothing. He kept staring at me, the floating sections of his armor idly shifting.
It was then I noticed Cold hadn't struck the dome for a while. I turned my head in that direction, listening, but nothing came. No great blow that shook the ground. No sound that hurt my audio receptors. Not even the usual feeling of dread that came from just knowing Cold was near.
My eyes flicked back to the Mech of Light. "What did you do?"
"It was not I that made my Opposite leave, but you. The Truth is a Weapon…"
"May it Free you from Spite," Elita and Chromia both finished. Like it was a saying they'd heard a thousand times.
It sounded oddly… Biblical in nature.
I looked between the three of them, frowning. "I don't get it."
"Despite not being aware in your true state of being, you still influence this one," said the Mech of Light. "That is why my Opposite holds power greater than my own. Not because he is greater than I, but because he has broken you."
Cold, phantom hands seemed to grab the sides of my head and squeeze. Squeeze harder and harder, intent on crushing my helm.
I flinched, turning from the Mech of Light and rubbing the spots where I'd felt the phantom pain. "Thanks for bringing that up. Do you also want to revisit all the mistakes I've already made in my short life?"
"Peace. I mean no insult. It is simply Truth. As was the Truth you shared regarding your affection for your Conjunx Endura."
"And that helped. How?"
"The Truth is a Weapon. As are the Lies of my Opposite. Combating one with the other can bring you Freedom, or condemn you to Darkness."
"Admitting, fully, why I admire Arcee's strength was a Truth," I said. "What was the Lie?"
"That your admiration had no relation to your desire to be the person your Conjunx Endura sees you as."
That fit. I did want to be better, but how could I be? How could I redeem myself from leading hundreds to die? From not even having the courtesy to really think about the lives I'd taken until I was sidelined—barred from taking even more lives in battle?
What kind of person did that?
I cleared my throat. "So, if the Truth is a Weapon, does that mean finding the Truth behind every Lie will help me?"
The Mech of Light shook his head. "No. This was a temporary fix. A delaying tactic. My Opposite will recover from the loss of such a minor Lie. To secure his true defeat, you require discovering a far greater Truth. For difficulties so personal…"
"One requires something equally personal," I finished. That statement was making more sense. "Then what do we do?"
"We search for other Truths that need to be uncovered." A panel—so thin I could see through it—appeared from the floor next to him, and he started working on it.
A thought occurred to me. "Wait. You said combating either Lies or Truths with the opposite can affect me."
"Correct."
The platform we stood on separated from the walkway, floating in the air on its own. I nearly lost my balance at the unexpected movement, but the others were unfazed. Chromia even chuckled at me.
I ignored her. "And uncovering a minor Lie that was negatively impacting how I viewed myself affected me for the better."
"Again, correct."
"What happens if I uncover Truths that were hidden because the Lies were a lot more… Comforting?"
The Mech of Light paused. He looked at me, golden optics old and wise. Then he looked away and back to the panel in front of him. "That remains to be determined."
That wasn't reassuring.
The Mech of Light finished his work. Then our platform flew forward at speeds fast enough to make my head spin.
And our search for Truth began.
Booth turned the vial in his hand over.
It was one of three identical vials. Inside each, there was a liquid. Grey, thick, and reflecting its surroundings like a mirror. It looked more like a melted metal than a virus.
Of course, Booth knew better. He knew its true nature. He knew its power—its strength. Its danger. He knew it was unlike any weapon the S.T.F had ever conceived. A weapon that, if he used right, would force all the aliens—be they Autobot, Decepticon, or some other, unknown group—to leave Earth or continue facing a threat they could not fight.
But, he didn't know how deadly the virus really was. Or how The Concierge's scientists had created it so quickly.
And if he was honest with himself, that scared him.
"What was it spliced with?" He asked.
"Influenza A," said The Concierge, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a quiet sniff. Then he took a drink. "Hmm. Good aroma, but lacking in taste. New glass, new bottle." He set the glass down on the table in front of him, and an attendant took it away.
"The flu?" Booth asked, surprised. "S.T.F reports from the Autobots show their Cybonic plague being even more dangerous than the Black Death in the Dark Ages. Was it wise to splice something like that with one of the most infectious viruses in the world?"
"Yes. You wanted a weapon that would force the aliens off Earth. This is it." The attendant provided him with a new glass, this one filled with a different wine. He swirled the glass, then smelled. "Too much brettanomyces. Try again."
Booth found himself staring at The Concierge as the attendant disposed of the rejected wine. He felt horrified. "Do you really care that little about collateral damage? Combining the infectivity of the flu with the lethality of the Cybonic plague is going to kill a lot of people. Too many. If this were to get out of hand, if it were not fully contained from the moment of release—"
"You think me foolish enough to start a plague the likes of which the world's never seen? Edward, I'm insulted; I'm smart enough to know no money can be made from the dead." The attendant placed yet another glass of wine down in front of The Concierge, and again, he swirled it. He didn't even sniff before handing the glass back. "Poor tears. Another."
"You're not giving me a reason to think otherwise," Booth said. "In fact, you're paying more attention to your drinks than this problem."
"I pay it no heed because it is a problem already solved."
"By what?"
A scientist stepped out from one of the warehouse's glass rooms. She moved to them. As she approached, Booth saw that she was carrying another vial. A larger vial, with a flat bottom. It was filled with a clear liquid.
What was this?
The scientist stopped at the table, then carefully placed the vial just to the left of the new wineglass the attendant had just set on the table.
"Thank you, Sera," The Concierge said. He picked up the vial as Sera walked away. "It's solved by this, Edward."
Booth frowned. "What is it?"
"A cure. The first of what will be three vials, all freshly synthesized by the lovely Doctor Sera." The Concierge swirled his new glass. Then he sniffed the wine and took a sip. Then he nodded. "Good tears and smell. Taste is fine. Needs a better finish. Once more, Marco."
Booth's frown deepened. A cure? How? The Autobots reported that a cure for the Cybonic plague had only been found recently; and as for the flu, the vaccine had to be updated every six months, otherwise it became useless entirely. How could The Concierge already have a cure for an entirely new virus spliced from those two? That was impossible.
Wasn't it?
"How do you already have something to counter this?" Booth asked, holding up the vial of the hybrid virus.
The Concierge chuckled. "You would be stunned if you knew how many advances in science originate from the criminal underworld."
"But you just spliced the new virus. This isn't a matter of scientific advancement: this is a matter of having no idea what we're dealing with. How can you already know how the new virus works, let alone know enough to create a cure?"
"I don't pretend to know how my scientists work, Edward," The Concierge said. "But I do trust their word. They have done much work for me in the past, and never once have they failed a task I gave them."
"There's a first time for everything."
"Maybe in your world. Not in mine. In this world, there's no room for mistakes of any sort, for any reason." Marco placed another glass in front of The Concierge, and The Concierge repeated his ritual of examining the wine. At last, he took a drink, and smiled widely. "This is it. This is a complete wine. Complex, harmonious, balanced—with a simply marvelous finish. Oh, this takes me back…" He turned, handing the glass to Marco. "Call Bal. Tell him to find where this bottle was made. Have him acquire the vineyard for me. Price is no object."
"Right away, sir." Marco returned the glass to the cart, then wheeled it out of the warehouse.
"You're that confident in your people?" Booth asked. "You'd bet thousands—potentially millions—of lives based on something they made in a day? What if you really are wrong? What if that cure doesn't work?"
"It will."
"How can you know that? How can you know something will work before it's ever been used?"
The Concierge didn't answer. Instead, he gave Booth a smile. Thin. Hollow. Not reaching his unnaturally intense green eyes. As unreadable as a blank page.
What was he hiding?
What was Booth missing?
"You will need to be quick when deploying the cure," The Concierge said, ignoring Booth's questions. "If you aren't, then what happens after will be on you, not me."
"You're the one who made this."
"And you're the one who wanted it made."
Booth hated how right The Concierge was, and how far he had twisted the truth. Yes, Booth had sought a biological weapon. But this? This was beyond what he had desired. If he made a mistake, life on Earth could be altered forever. That wasn't a weapon; that was suicide. And The Concierge seemed completely unconcerned.
Too unconcerned to not have some other play. Some angle. Something he hadn't shared with Booth.
Something that was weighing on Booth's mind like a freight car.
"You knew the risks long before now." The Concierge stood from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket. "Don't act surprised when someone else refuses to take responsibility for your own design."
Booth felt that weight in the back of his head, but he ignored it. He had to. The Concierge wasn't someone he could push. If he did, there was nothing keeping The Concierge here. Keeping the virus here. The Concierge could deploy it on his own, only to have his operatives mess something up. The world couldn't afford that.
In the end, The Concierge was right: Booth had to take responsibility.
With a sigh, Booth set the virus' vial down and picked up the cure's. "How does it work?"
"Both the weapon and the antidote can be absorbed through the lungs or directly into the bloodstream," The Concierge said.
"And how do you know that for sure?"
"I told my employees to go with the usual."
"The usual?"
"This is far from the first time I've caused a viral outbreak. Also far from the first time I made sure there was already a cure in place." The Concierge smiled. "We have a system."
Booth found the casual remark disturbing. But it was too late for him to do more than keep that to himself. "And what method of infection have you chosen in the past?"
"Airborne. Direct injection is inefficient. Messy. Strapping the vial to a small explosive device will maximize the effects of the pathogen across a medium-sized area."
"Then how would you administer the cure?"
"Same manner. Different charge. I recommend a larger blast out in the open, where the wind will carry it over the initial blast sight."
"What if an infected individual leaves the area before they inhale the cure?"
The Concierge gave him a look. A look that was very close to confusion. "Why would that matter?"
"If just one infected individual gets away before the cure is deployed, then the cure will have done nothing. That one person will spread the virus elsewhere, and we'll have no way of knowing who else they infected. We'll have started a pandemic anyway."
Of all the reactions Booth expected from The Concierge, the one he gave surprised Booth the most.
Laughter.
Loud laughter. Laughter that Booth—in his inability to read the other man—couldn't determine was genuine or a truly impressive display of false mirth. But laughter nonetheless.
What had he said?
After a moment, The Concierge mastered himself and looked at Booth with that, for the first time, reached his eyes. The way it did sent shivers down Booth's spine.
"Oh, Edward. I thought you were intelligent." The Concierge shook his head, then continued, "The cure is not like a vaccine. It's another virus."
Booth took a few seconds to process that. "You created two viruses in a day?"
"Yes. One harmful; the other healing. The cure acts as an antithesis to the other's lethality. Anyone who inhales the virus spreads the virus, but anyone who inhales the cure spreads the cure. And if you deploy the cure correctly, it will outpace the spread of the virus. Leaving the population surrounding the weapon's deployment immune to its effects."
"Then you've created a method of deploying a vaccine to… Everyone. With no needle. No IV. No doctor's visit."
The Concierge chuckled deeply. "I told you that you would be stunned if you knew how many advances in science originate in my world."
Booth conceded that he would be. He was stunned by the one he'd just heard. It didn't seem possible. Release a weapon of mass destruction, only to focus it on a comparatively small group. There would still be an enormous psychological affect on the masses—the fear of what could have happened, if the virus had spread. And that fear is what Booth needed to inspire.
"And what about those caught in the initial explosion?" He asked.
"An outbreak without casualties isn't much of an outbreak. But it also doesn't have to be an epidemic."
Booth figured that would be The Concierge's answer. "You've done this before. Do you have recommended deployment zones?"
"Somewhere populated."
"So you have no suggestions?"
The Concierge smiled hollowly. "I can't hold your hand for everything, Edward. You're the leader of your little troop. You decide where they go."
In the time since he ran from the S.T.F, Booth had often thought of targets to strike. London. New York. Shanghai. Tokyo. Paris. Berlin. Other cities of significant economic or historic value. Attacks on locations such as those would create the greatest impact, draw the most attention. But in reality, any city would work for cluing in the masses of the alien threat.
As for attacking the aliens themselves, he had some ideas for that, too.
The Concierge suddenly perked up, raising his head up and looking at the warehouse wall behind Booth, as if listening intently. His hollow smile turned genuine, and he looked to the warehouse door. "Ah. It seems they're right on schedule."
Booth heard it right after The Concierge spoke. Approaching engines. Large engines. That meant large vehicles. He was on edge immediately. "Who's on schedule?"
The Concierge put his trench coat over his suit, then picked up his fedora and placed it on his head. "My final gifts to you, Edward. Come. Walk with me."
Booth left the vials on the table and followed The Concierge.
They crossed the warehouse floor in silence, then came to the door. One of The Concierge's Knights opened for them, and they stepped outside.
A wave of heat and humidity hit Booth immediately, followed closely by the smell of the swamp—similar to composting earth and animal matter. Light from the setting sun shone from clouds overhead, creating a dazzling array of red, orange, yellow, and pink. In stark contrast to the light above, everything at ground level was dark. A product of the thick canopy of trees that kept the warehouse hidden from the air, and in many ways the ground.
A few paces outside the warehouse door, The Concierge came to a stop. Booth did as well. Out here, the sound of the approaching vehicles was louder. Much louder. Their exact tones varied greatly, ranging from the deep roar that came from from a vehicle with eight or more cylinders, to the high-pitched whine of an engine hardly larger than a motorcycle's.
The engines grew louder and louder, until finally, the vehicles to which they belonged appeared over the hill.
There were twelve of them. They were vans, SUVs, and sedans. They varied in make and model, and few were the same color. The largest of the group were the two Chevrolet Express and Cadillac Escalade ESVs, and the smallest vehicle in sight was a Mazda 3. The only common feature among all of them were the presence of heavily tinted windows.
The group of vehicles parked in a line. Then their drivers stepped out and stood next to the driver's side door, arms held at ease, right hand grabbing their left wrist. Waiting. Booth noticed the driver who'd taken Booth to this location among them.
"What is this?" Booth asked.
"I told you, Edward," said The Concierge. "My final gifts."
"Vehicles for transport?"
"Oh, that and much more." The Concierge looked at one of the camouflaged, prefab housing units. Dima was just stepping out into the open, guided by one of the well-dressed staff. "Kind of you to join us, Mister Sokolov."
Dima just narrowed his eyes.
"Well," The Concierge said. "Now that you're both here, shall we begin show and tell?"
"I didn't bring anything," Booth said.
"So there is a sense of humor in that depressingly serious soul of yours. How delightful." He walked to the vehicle closest to he and Booth—the Mazda 3. "But more on that later. Let's begin."
Booth followed The Concierge again, and he and Dima joined him at the Mazda 3.
"The bodywork is entirely custom," The Concierge said, rapping his knuckles against the car's hood. It made a dull sound like hitting concrete. "Vindium. A composite-alloy created by a group of inventors under my employ. Its strength and resistance to heat is unrivaled, even by the materials of the Special Tasks Force. Even a thin coating turns a compact like this into a tank. It's also very expensive, I might add."
Booth was lost. "Wait, you built us armored cars?"
"Yes. Just shipped them up from my plant in Rio. Used the shipment to help a friend who needed some contraband moved as quickly as possible."
… Was he talking about the Bainsworth? The Concierge was the owner, not the Espadas Oscuras? The Concierge had used Booth and his men to guard their own armored cars, before Booth had ever been offered The Concierge's services?
How far ahead did The Concierge plan?
How did he know Booth would say yes?
"Moving on from the bodywork." The Concierge nodded at the tinted windows. "A synthetic compound was added to the windows as they were made. The result is it would take a direct hit from RPG-29 to crack one, but it also darkens the glass. We managed to direct the tinting to one side, but I would recommend behaving traffic laws; the DoD plates will only keep law enforcement away if you obey the rules."
Booth looked at the license plate, and saw that, indeed, the vehicle had plates matching vehicles used by the Department of Defense. So did all the others.
"And the final feature of this particular vehicle." The Concierge opened the back door, then—smiling hollowly—he gestured for Booth and Dima to look inside. They did.
Booth felt his eyes double in size.
The backseat had been replaced. Instead of seats, there was a slanted, vertical gun rack with four M-320As and a collection of magazines and miniature missile pods in neat ammo bins. Booth could see a series of C-4 charges and an identical gun rack with more ammunition in the trunk.
Booth heard Dima whisper something in Russian. It sounded awed.
"Roughly two-thousand rounds of ammunition, give or take," said The Concierge. "About one eighth that in rockets."
"Why?" Booth asked.
"Why what?"
"Why give us armored vehicles and advanced weapons? How did you even get the advanced weapons?"
"Do you honestly think you won't have half the world after you, once you release that virus?" The Concierge ignored Booth's second question.
"It's already after us."
"Yes, it is. But not the public. Once they are clued in, you'll quickly find it impossible to remain hidden for long. They have this annoying habit of finding the people who don't wish to be found. And once that happens, you'll have more than the S.T.F converging in on you."
Booth knew he was speaking of the aliens. The Autobots, and maybe the Decepticons, too. "So the S.T.F weaponry is to even the odds?"
"No. My weaponry will." The Concierge reached into the car and took out of the M-320As. He took a magazine out as well, then loaded the weapon. "The main problem the S.T.F has with their weapons isn't with what they make…" With one arm, he pointed the M-320A at a tree—a large one, at about four feet in diameter—beyond the protective perimeter of his Knights. Then he pulled the trigger.
The sound of the rifle's report was drowned out by a bright, deafening explosion.
Booth clutched at his eyes, ducking instinctively to avoid flying pieces of tree. He blinked away the seared image of the blast in his eyes, and looked back to the target.
The tree was lying in the swampy water. Its trunk was blackened and smoking, and a portion of it was simply gone. The stump was smoldering, quickly filling the air with the smell of burning wood. Booth heard Birds flying away.
"... But how they use their creations," The Concierge finished, clearing the M-320A and deftly catching the round that had been in the chamber. "The explosive compound used in S.T.F missiles is the single most powerful non-nuclear explosive ever conceived by humankind. When concentrated further, it is even more destructive. But when confined to missiles, its true potential is lost. I've seen to correcting that error." He tossed the round to Booth.
Booth could see that in the destruction in front of him. And that was from one round fired from a rifle. What would ten do? Or twenty? Or a hundred? Would they take down an alien?
"And each vehicle has weapons and ammunition like this?"
"No," The Concierge said, expertly unloading the M-320A and returning it to the gun rack. "The SUVs and vans have remote-controlled 20mm cannons inside. They use the same type of rounds."
Even more firepower. Something about that was sending off alarm bells in his head. "Why?"
"Why give you a chance to survive?"
"No, why all of this? Why the weapons, the vehicles? Why not provide something that helps us disappear?"
The Concierge shook his head. "Edward, do you really think that's still possible for you? The CIA is starting to understand it needs to hunt you. The S.T.F has been doing that since you started running, and they share intelligence reports with the Autobots. The only reason they didn't capture you when you came to the US was because of me. And the moment you leave here, there's nothing else I can do. It'll be only be a matter of time before you're cornered."
"And why will that matter to you?"
The Concierge smiled. "I want to see you succeed just as much as you do, Edward."
And Booth was the President of the United States. What was The Concierge hiding? What was motivating him? Booth hated not knowing.
The Concierge glanced at his Rolex. "It seems to be getting late. Might I suggest familiarizing yourself and your men with the equipment here? The drivers will provide training." He walked back toward the warehouse.
"Why would we rush?" Booth asked.
"The sooner you're on the road, the better your chances at success," The Concierge said. Then he was back in the warehouse.
Booth didn't like how The Concierge was right. Now was the time to set his plan in motion. He had the virus. He had a cure. No one in the outside world knew he had either. "Dima," he said. "Get the others out here."
Several hours later, Booth was overseeing final preparations.
It was dark, now. Quiet, save for the swarm of insects. Everyone in his group had been taught how to use the new weapons, including the remote-controlled cannons in the larger vehicles. The Concierge's scientists had provided the last two vials of the cure, along with strong containers in which to store them. Booth was relieved about that.
Just as he was about to enter one of the SUVs, The Concierge approached him. "Yes? What is it?"
"Just seeing you off," The Concierge said, arms crossed behind his back, looking up and down the line of vehicles ready to move. "My drivers will take you through the submerged road, then you decide where you go. I've told the security checkpoints to let you through."
"Kind of you."
"I could always tell them to kill you all."
"Then you wouldn't be looking me in the eye as you stab me in the back."
"But I would have given you a fair warning."
Booth hummed, turning to Dima as the ex-Zaslon loaded the last bag into their SUV. "Ready?"
"Da," Dima said, then got in.
Booth looked back to The Concierge. He offered his hand, with as much sincerity as he could give without loosening his guard, said, "Thank you for your help."
The Concierge took his hand and shook it, cracking Booth's knuckles. "Don't thank me yet. You haven't succeeded." Then he pulled Booth close, staring into his eyes. It felt like he was looking through Booth instead of at him. "Just remember that story I told you. The one about the poor man who exhausted the compassion of the shop keeper."
Booth shivered at the reminder. He managed to free himself from The Concierge's handshake, then opened the door and climbed into the SUV.
"Good luck, Edward."
Booth shut the door on The Concierge. Then the driver pulled away, the other drivers in the other vehicles following.
Even as he drove away, Booth felt like The Concierge was still watching him.
The Concierge smiled as he watched Edward and his group leave. The boy really had no idea.
How amusing.
He turned back toward the warehouse, where Doctor Sera stood just outside the door, arms crossed, looking at him for direction.
He gave it. "Start making the rest."
We hadn't spoken since the platform left my Apex Archive.
That was, what—twenty minutes ago? Thirty? Forty? Or… Or was it ten? Or five? I couldn't tell. Elita was right; this place did mess with your sense of time.
I didn't like it.
I was standing at the edge of the platform, staring out at the sights of the Animus. It really was a wonder to behold. The impossible Rubions all around, floating in place, shifting and morphing like their every shape had a different purpose. The white dome of Light in the distance, keeping the Darkness at bay. But it was weird to occasionally see a copy of me walking around the smooth floor below us.
It was too bad I couldn't enjoy the sights without the pretext of an ancient entity trying to kill me for the second time.
My life sucks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw flashes of Light. Similar to the Mech of Light's flashes, but different. Softer. Dimmer. More refined. With a tint of… Blue? Definitely not the Mech of Light. I turned my head to my left—in the direction opposite where Elita stood with the Mech of Light—and to the small flashes.
Chromia was their source. Light danced in her hands. Sometimes as a spark, sometimes as a brilliant blue thin streak that cut through the air and had an afterimage effect—lingering long after she had dismissed it. A collection of Light was in front her, never dimming, like the Light she created at her fingers.
What was she doing?
Slowly, so as not to disturb her, I stepped closer. Not close, but just enough so that I could see what was in front her.
It was a painting of Light. Blues, reds, yellows, and greens brighter and more vibrant than any I had seen before. The painting was a work in progress, with just the background of a Cybertronian city yet finished. But even so, the detail was beyond any painter or illustrator I knew of, and that was including Wildwing.
Who can match the Creativity of Inspiration?
"I didn't know you were an artist," I said quietly.
"There's a lot about me you don't know." Chromia's voice had always been a bit unrefined and more blunt than both Arcee and Elita, but here it had the same qualities as Elita's. Just a little less on the refinement, and more focus on the intensity.
"I concede that there is."
"Yup. That's what happens when you don't talk to someone very much."
Maybe I'd jumped the gun on Chromia's voice. That sounded very much like her old self. "We've talked."
"About surface things. Battles. Guns. Earth's weather. Nothing important. Nothing meaningful. That formula isn't a good way for a mech to get to know his potential sister-in-bond, or for that femme to learn more of the mech who holds her sister's spark."
The words were correct, but brutal in delivery. There was a bite in her tone. A frustration just barely kept out of her voice. She was upset with me.
That probably made me three-for-three with Arcee and her sister's today. Proper social interaction. Something else I'd apparently become poor in.
I was going to have to start a list or something.
Chromia sighed. "I'm sorry—you didn't deserve that."
"Maybe I did. You aren't wrong about my conversational habits. There's a lot of times where I'm not very good at talking."
"Not as many as you think. You just sometimes need to be pulled into a topic before you talk about it; you internalize. Me and… 'Hide are the same. That's not a good formula for meaningful conversation, either."
I didn't comment on how her voice quivered when she mentioned Ironhide. "Arcee would call that an excuse on our part."
Chromia gave a sad smile. "Yes. She probably would."
"Which is ironic, considering she's the same."
Her smile grew sadder. "Yes. Yes she is." Chromia turned back to her Light painting, adding the outline of three bots into the center. "What I wouldn't give to see them again…"
Probably the same things I would.
We fell silent, simply standing there. With me gazing out at the Rubions as we flew beneath or around them; and she working on her painting. She was adding additional detail to the buildings in the background when I asked, "How long have you been an artist?"
"For as long as I can remember," she said, crafting a window with a delicate touch of yellow Light. "I once wished to have my pieces in the Great Galleries of Crystal City, but then… Then…"
She trailed off, her sentence hanging. She looked confused. "Then?"
"I don't… Remember."
I frowned. "How can't you?"
"I don't remember that, either. My memory of my creative work is just feels… Incomplete. Like there's something more I should remember, yet know there is no more. It is strange."
"Tell me. Please."
"Why do you wish to know?"
"Meaningful conversation."
She paused for a few seconds, continuing to idly work on her Light painting. "My first memory of painting is in the first little apartment Elita and I were able to rent. We were young—too young to be renting. Arcee was so small, and cried so much. She was recharging at the time. Elita was speaking at the door with our landlord—a tall mech with the most intensely serious optics I've ever seen. I painted an image of a white tower."
The most Grand of Secrets are those Hidden within One's Sight.
I shook my helm lightly, dismissing the processor ache. "And what feels off about that?"
"It was too good to have been my first painting, yet I don't recall ever painting before that."
"Really? Not once?"
"Not once. I only have memories of life on the streets. Begging. Stealing. Living out of trash bins. And… Regret. A great regret that pierced my spark."
Her voice grew heavy with those last words. As if just thinking back to those times weighed her down. But there was something else in her voice. Something that was unmistakable.
Sadness. A deep sadness that nearly crippled her.
"What caused that regret?"
Chromia looked to me, not needing to see her digits to add a young, feminine faceplate to one of the figures in her painting. "Has Elita told you?"
This was related to Arcee? "No."
"Then I won't be discussing this."
I looked at her incredulously. "Are you joking? All that, then nothing? Because Elita doesn't want to talk about it? That's foolish."
My words came out harsher than I intended, but Chromia didn't seem offended, or really surprised. Her fingers continued dancing over the painting, creating detail from nothing. "You need to Understand."
There was that phrase again. "What does that even mean?"
"It means you lack it. When you find that Understanding, you'll gain a lot from it."
"Like?"
Chromia didn't answer. Her hands flashed with Light, then she reached down and through her painting, breaking it apart into hundreds of fragments of Light.
But then they reformed.
What had once been an image barely large enough for her servos became a life-sized painting of Ironhide, Chromia, and her sisters. They were standing at a balcony somewhere in what appeared to be Iacon, laughing and holding up cubes of energon.
"You'll gain perspective," she said.
"A painting doesn't have much in common with what we're talking about." Still, this looked so real. Stylized, but real. Even down to the transports overhead. I could practically smell the high-grade in the air.
"Perhaps, but from your perspective, did it appear I was working on something like this?"
"No. But now that I see the entire painting, I know you were working a layer of it. One of many."
"And what you want to know has just as many layers to it. Just not from your perspective."
Dammit. How did I not see that analogy coming?
But, she had a point. I didn't know why Elita was keeping a secret, so I only saw it as something that needed to be brought out into the open. I didn't see it from her perspective. Her reasons. Her…
Sorrow carries Pain.
I rubbed the side of my helm as my processor ache returned, then glanced at Elita. She was speaking quietly with the Mech of Light, their words silent due to the constant wind from our travels. "I upset her by asking."
"About the secret she keeps?"
"Yes."
"Then I now know for sure why I felt her anger spike before."
I sighed. "Arcee is scared, back home. She knows there's something that's been kept from her, but she can't find out what. She's agonizing over not knowing. It hurts, seeing her like that."
Chromia's optics became sad. "I understand that feeling. But imagine how much worse it would be to know, and say nothing."
Another good point. "I should apologize, shouldn't I?"
"Only you know if that's the right thing."
My protective instincts said no, but my humility said yes. I wanted to protect Arcee as much as I could, but I also knew Elita wanted to protect her. And I had told Arcee that her sisters wouldn't lie unless they felt there was no other choice. Not listening to my own words would make me a hypocrite.
I didn't like hypocrites.
"I think I need to," I said. "Thanks, Chromia."
"Thanks for the meaningful conversation."
I left Chromia to work on a new painting and walked to Elita. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I could have approached the topic differently. Maybe I could have gotten an answer out of her with a more polite tone. Or told her more detail of Arcee's suf—
The blade of pure Darkness pierced the platform not ten feet in front of me.
I barely had time to register the horrifying sight before our platform was pulled out of the air.
The four of us fell. Fast. I tumbled head over heels. Seeing Rubions, the ground, the dome of distant Light. Then everything over again and again. I tried to transform into my F-22 mode, but I didn't feel any part of my frame shift. I kept falling, unable to control my spinning.
Then, suddenly, I started floating.
My tumbling stopped. My falling stopped. Light covered my frame. A quick check of the air around me showed Elita and Chromia had stopped as well, and were covered in the same Light. The Mech of Light hovered in place, the only one of us the right way up, his entire frame shining with an even brighter Light. He was what kept the rest of us from falling.
The Mech of Light gestured with his servos, and we resumed our downward journey. We soon reached the floor. The Mech of Light landed first, touching down so lightly he barely made a sound. He righted the rest of us with a flick of his hand, then let us land on our feet.
As would only be fitting, I was the only one not facing the same direction as the Mech of Light. I turned.
Then immediately wished I hadn't.
Cold walked toward us, slowly advancing from his position a few hundred meters away.
No…
"How kind of you to join me," Cold said with chilling laugh in his voice.
"You have not breached my Barrier." There was no worry in the Mech of Light's voice, but there was no confidence, either.
"Funny thing, that." Cold stepped up onto a mangled a heap of metal I realized had been our platform, casually grabbing his Blade from the wreckage before continuing his advance. "Turns out, I've been going about breaking them all wrong. When you can't force your way through something, you simply go under. It is so much more simple." His gaze shifted to Elita, then Chromia, then me. "Now we're all here. Ready to have some fun. Marvelous, isn't it?"
No, no…
"What do we do?" Elita asked quietly.
"We fight, or we shall perish," the Mech of Light replied. He held out a servo, and a sword of white Light appeared in his open hand. It was simple, yet elegant in design, with a line of gold Primic runes written along the center of the blade.
"Ooo. There's a reaction out of you, Sparkles. Are you finally realizing your only hope lies in trying to kill me? This should be amusing."
We were all going to die...
I felt frost begin to form under my feet.
"What about us?" Chromia demanded. She sounded so much calmer than I. So much braver... "We don't have our Shards of Oblivion."
"Summon. Attack at range. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to stand against his Blade."
"Oh, don't spoil the fun, Sparkles."
We had no hope...
"And him?" Elita gestured to me with her helm. "He's paralyzed."
"Defend him, no matter the cost. If he falls, Hope is lost." The Mech of Light fell into an unfamiliar combat stance—legs just over shoulder width apart, holding his Sword with one hand while he folded his other behind his back.
Cold came to a halt, head cocked to one side. "Really, Sparkles? You really want to try fighting me? Very well. Let's see how this plays out for you."
His Blade increased in length, growing longer and even more jagged. He gripped the weapon with two hands, falling into his own combat stance. Then he went still. Multi-lensed optics staring, unblinking, at the Mech of Light. Waiting. Waiting for us to start the fight that would end our lives.
We were doomed…
The Mech of Light rushed forward in a flash.
A thunderous clang rang out as Cold's Blade met the Mech of Light's Sword. Both combatants became blurs of motion. Left, right, up, down. They moved with unnatural precision and speed, attacking and parrying one another with such force, I felt their strikes impacting. They were two Opposites clashing. One as bright as a star; the other as dark as dead space.
Elita and Chromia glowed with Light—Chromia the same blue as her armor, and Elita the same red as hers. They launched projectiles of Light at Cold at blinding speeds, each one radiating destructive power.
But even they were too slow, their aim unable to properly track their target. Always, before their Light hit him, Cold darted out of the way, letting them pass by before resuming his duel with the Mech of Light with brutal, savage attacks that left deep gouges in the floor.
The Mech of Light, for his part, never backed down. For as brutal as Cold was, he was just as graceful. When I was able to follow their blindingly fast movements, he danced out of the way of his opponent's strikes, deflecting those he could not. Never fully blocking, and never allowing Cold's attacks to hit him with full force. His movements were breathtaking. Purposed. Inspiring, even as he fought like Cold could chop him in two.
Maybe… Maybe we had a chance.
Somehow, one of Elita and Chromia's attacks hit Cold. It did no visible damage to his terrifyingly dark form, but he snarled with rage, optics flashing. He glowed with red Light. Not like Elita's red, but twisted Light. Used for the wrong reasons by the wrong individual.
He launched a ball of that Light at us.
"Down!" Chromia and Elita tackled me, the action further snapping me out of it. The ball of Light zipped above us, hitting the floor far behind us. I felt a wave of heat even from here.
The three of us got back to our feet just in time to see the Mech of Light hit Cold with a ball of golden Light, launching Cold back into the destroyed platform. But only for the briefest moment, as Cold directed his own Light-based attack on his Opposite, who just managed to dodge.
From there, their fight became too rapid to even call a blur. They became lines of color. Formless sounds as their weapons met. Throwers of Light that lit up the immediate area surrounding us deep red and rich gold as they deflected each other's powers.
They were beautiful… And terrifying.
Then it all came to a screeching halt.
Cold cried out in pain as the Mech of Light's glowing free hand struck him across the faceplate, cracking one of his reversed Primic runes and sending his Blade clattering to the floor. He launched two balls of Light at the Mech of Light, but the Mech used his Sword to send the attack wide.
The Mech of Light pressed his advantage. He hit Cold with a Light attack, then sent Cold spinning around with a slash across the chestplates.
Then the Mech of Light plunged his Sword into Cold's exposed back.
All went still.
Cold stood there, mouth hanging open, staring down as he rested a hand on the Sword jutting out of his chest. Abnormally dark energon—darker even than Dark Energon—coated the weapon.
"You… You're more skilled than I… I thought… Spar… Kles…" Cold's voice was strained. Genuinely shocked. Nowhere near as frightening as it normally was.
Vengeance is a Cycle; It Blinds the Eyes.
"I have been called to Duty many times." The Mech of Light sounded strained, too. Out of breath from their fight. "You are not the first fellow Xel'Tor I have been forced to fight."
But… Did we just… Win?
Cold kept staring at the Sword in his chest. Then he smiled. Then he laughed, sending the temperature plummeting. "No, but I am your last."
There was a sound like shattering glass.
Then the Mech of Light's sword broke.
The hand Cold had on the Sword swung back behind him. A large shard of the Mech's own weapon embedded itself deep into his neck.
No… No, no, no!
I was frozen in place, horrified—just as Chromia and Elita were—as the Mech gasped and fell to his knees, one hand grabbing his neck, the other fragments of his Sword falling to the ground around him. His optics flickered, the dome of Light above us all flickering with them.
"So the mighty fall," Cold said, rolling his neck as his wounds healed themselves. "I was hoping for a few surprises, Sparkles. Too bad."
With unnaturally bright blue energon flowing down his chest, the Mech of Light weakly looked to us. He raised a shaky hand as Cold turned to pick up his fallen Blade. "Find… Truth…"
We went sailing through the air. I heard the vortex appear just as we passed through it, impacting the ground in an unfamiliar, dark area of my Animus surrounded by towering structures. The Light from the dome was a faint glow in the distance.
I leapt to my feet, a surge of bravery powering me, and ran back for the vortex. I had to save the Mech of Light. He was our only chance. If he died, we would have no chance. If I could somehow grab him…
Through the vortex, I saw Cold grip his Blade with both hands and swing downward.
The vortex died when Cold's Blade made contact with the Mech of Light's head.
My outstretched hand met freshly empty air. I rolled to my feet on the ground behind where it had just been, staring back in fear. Fear shared by Elita and Chromia.
Numbly, I looked to the dome of Light in the distance. It flickered once. Twice. Three times. Each time shining dimmer and dimmer. Then it died.
Like its creator.
The Mech of Light was gone.
Cold would be coming soon.
And now we were on our own.
So... That happened.
This has been a long time in coming, though the exact way in which it came about has changed from my original vision. In a good way, however. I may have written the ending quite late at night, but I actually don't mind how it came out. It'll make next update quite fun. And that's just accounting for Shadow's plot; I have others that are coming to fruition.
This chapter's credit song is "Oumi Kapila - Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, OP. 43: Variation 18" The title is quite long, but the track's intense atmosphere is provides is an excellent fit to the last few moments of the chapter, where Shadow' and the others can only watch on in horror as the Mech of Light falls to Cold - and again as they watch the dome disappear.
Thank you for reading. If you liked what you read, please share or suggest it to a friend. And if you really liked it, leave a comment. They are the lifeblood of all writers, and it takes just a few seconds to leave.
See you soon.