Almost every Autobot poured out of the Ark, scattering in seemingly all directions. Gathering in small troops, they kept one audio on the ground and one audio tuned in to the surnet. The group crossing_wires_in_reality stood at posts across the entirety of the field—the twins rolled up to the front line, limbering up their joints. Beachcomber and Groove drove up to light cavalry, transforming back to altmode.
High above everyone else, Bluestreak took his position on the upended landing gear of their base. With his finger off the trigger, he looked through his scope, scanning the sky, then sweeping across the ground. He frowned.
cusswords: okay I don't know what you two are doing but I don't think that's a really great use of time before we start fighting everything with a purple mark on the whole planet. Like, where did you even get the idea? Is it supposed to be threatening? 'cause it's not. It's really not.
Over-The-Edge: IRONHIDE'S ORDERS
Lube'nSlide: yeah hell if I kno
Zapwing!: finish up quick so you can do your combat check, kapow!
Over-The-Edge: NEVER GOTTA COMBAT CHECK
Over-The-Edge: ALWAYS READY TO KILL SOME CONS
Over-The-Edge: BUT ARE YOU CON FUCKERS UP TO THAT?
Hippie-mech:...
Lube'nSlide: bakk out now if u cant
Lube'nSlide: aint no luv fest here
Mech892352: dOnT WaNt mEcHs bReAkInG DoWn bEfOrE ThE FiGhT EvEn sTaRtS
Hippie-Mech: ...
Hippie-Mech: the most vulgar word in the universe
Hippie-Mech: is war
vibin-with-the-universe: preach it bot
Hippie-Mech: and so much the worse
Hippie-Mech: because we must partake
vibin-with-the-universe: taking up arms against the universe
Honey-Bot: mechs, I don't think I'll ever been overenergized enough to get either of you
Honey-Bot: but I know I never have to worry about my back with you
Hippie-Mech: that, my mech, is one groove we both fit
Over-The-Edge: IF YOU NEED COVER
Over-The-Edge: IRONHIDE'S GOT US DIGGING IN SOME WEIRD FACE
Over-The-Edge: YOU CAN RUN CIRCLES ROUND ANY 'CON THROUGH IT
Hippie-Mech: just may take you up on that offer
Mech892352: fOrMiNg uP ThE FrOnT LiNe nOw
Mech892352: kEeP BaCk wItH ThE LiGhT CaVaLrY
Mech892352: tHiS'Ll bE HeAvY SlOgGiNg aT ThE StArT
vibin-with-the-universe: Primus forgive us what we're about to do
Red Alert put the Armada's estimated time of arrival at Earth time 6 pm.
Thundercracker's advanced force arrived ten minutes after that, announcing themselves with screaming afterburners as they flew in close. The Ark's defensive fire kept them from coming straight down, pushing them off to the side as both the base and standing infantry put out enough anti-aircraft fire to warn off any cocky fliers. No one expected any early casualties, and the jets banked left and right as they soared higher and came around for another run.
Any injuries? Thundercracker asked, taking the left flight.
A few grazes, a singed wing, Skywarp said, at the head of the right. Scans coming in—can we get a composite on the base and troop arrangements?
Storm Cloud's on it—I'll send him, Tailwind and Nightflight around on a quick pass over the mountain, see if they can't pull any fliers with 'em.
Skywarp snorted. I'll send the rainmakers with 'em—maybe they can pull that aerialbot Acidstorm's sweet on.
Thundercracker considered that. Think we can put out tags on some of the 'bots, like 'do not kill' tags? I mean, no one seriously tries to hit the young ones anyway, but—
No one needs a pissed off rainmaker engaging in a little friendly fire, Skywarp muttered in agreement. Just keep it coded. If Lord Megatron finds out—
Don't jinx it, Thundercracker said. And...yup, there goes at least one Autobot flier. Nightflight's finally good for something.
I'm taking my wing up, Skywarp said, already leading his group of Decepticon jets into the clouds. Coming back for a strafing run as soon as we get those scans.
Thundercracker sent an affirmative ping, bringing his own flight in a wide loop and twisting so that they dropped down out of the clouds directly on the base. He came in close and waited until he could see the Autobot optics go wide to let go a concussive burst—several Autobots flattened on the sand before it hit and began returning fire, but it was a stray bolt from one of the snipers that streaked across his sensitive wing.
Wincing, he went high again, his jets following after him. As they banked one more time, the scans finally came in.
There was a brief silence as the blurry image of the Ark and the grounds around it sharpened, and now they could see it clearly, an image of curved lines and dots in the sand before the Autobot base. It loomed into view as they flew over again—somehow the grounders had drawn it deep enough that the flyover didn't smudge it at all, and the design rose before them as they came close.
(・`ω´・) ノﾞ
What in the primus-damned hells… Skywarp siad.
Oh...oh fuck. Thundercracker would have grit his denta if he'd been in root mode. As it was, he began to put distance between him and the image and sent out a warning to most of the Decepticon forces to do the same.
Stay the slag away from the main base entrance. Megatron sees that, he'll rip apart any mec nearby, 'Con or 'Bot.
Why? Skywarp said. It's just a weird face.
You ain't a reader, Thundercracker said. Trust me—you value your wings, you stay up here.
Then whatta we do? Skywarp demanded. If we can't fly close—
Stay on the sides, pen them in, keep our casualties light, Thundercracker ordered. And...look for their Prime.
The prime? Why? Aside from starting bombing runs—
I recognize that face. That's a message straight from their Prime. He'll be out here fighting and...I want to see what he does.
Thundercracker didn't add the other reason to watch for Optimus. Once Megatron saw that reminder of his very humiliating defeat, he'd want to find the Prime for his own revenge, and wherever their angry commander went, Thundercracker wanted to stay far the hell away.
"Red Alert, Priority One Override—all hands at battlestations. Keep priority channels clear. Use chain of command protocols for reporting updates. Red Alert, Priority One Override—all hands at battlestations…"
The clarion repeated over the base intercom. A last few stragglers rolled past at high speed, leaving tire treads on the floor as they turned tight corners out of sight. The empty corridors echoed with their steps as Soundwave walked Prowl along.
Walking with painkillers in his cortex felt like walking on marbles. He clung to Soundwave's arm, leaning heavily with deep vents, and the thought of his comfortable chair and dark office called to his spark. Even in his haze, Prowl understood where Soundwave was taking him—his office, with a half-dozen screens and expanded work station. Familiar place, familiar calculations, even in the midst of a battle.
So he felt like he was pulling out his own cords by stopping and turning toward the lift.
Prowl, lost? Soundwave asked. Office, down this hall.
Change of plans, Prowl said, pushing his hand against his faceplace, over his throbbing left optic. Get me to the command center.
The Ark floorplans blossomed in Soundwave's cortex as he received the information, already picking out the quickest route. When he saw how much farther it was, he sent the wordless query to Prowl, who hesitated only a nanosecond before nodding once.
Bending, Soundwave put his arms under Prowl and scooped him up. With his optics shut, Prowl told his internal gyros to deactivate—he didn't need the mismatched feeds contradicting each other and making him nauseous. Soundwave's arms curled more securely around him.
I'm not a cassette, Prowl reminded him.
Prowl, assertion correct, Soundwave said. Carrier model, programmed for loyalty. Few other ways to express that loyalty.
Prowl gave a small, satisfied smile. We'll simply have to work on that.
The first wave of jet engines rumbled through the base as Soundwave reached the command center. Before he could request entry, the double doors slid open. And despite himself, Soundwave froze.
Red Alert sat in the center of the command room, magnetized in his chair, optics shut. Numerous cables ran from the work station to his cortex, linking him directly to Teletran I. Red Alert looked like a spider in the center of his web, and every access port was taken with thick cables splintering off into the console.
On the floor, similarly wired to Red Alert's cortex, Inferno sat with his back against the wall, pedes stretched out in front of him.
Inferno half-opened his optics, glancing at the two of them, then lowered his helm again.
"Red says you can bring your walking heatsink," Inferno murmured, half in the real world, half in his partner's cortex. "Plug in."
Soundwave was setting Prowl in the nearest seat when he realized that Red Alert meant that Soundwave was Prowl's peripheral. And Inferno was also serving as a glorified peripheral. Inferno had probably spent full shifts like this, defragging and processing and siphoning in the background, a quiet secondary unit in Red Alert's shadow. The link was not something that would have happened willingly among Decepticons—intimate and risky and yielding far too much trust—but these two made it seem natural. Or, at least, natural enough that Soundwave took his place in the seat beside Prowl's, allowing him to cross cables.
More securely tethered, the data flowed smoothly between them. Prowl sighed in relief as multiple background calculations faded and he could focus on the bulk of planning, maintaining communications and a live battle grid for the entire faction. A normally daunting task became simple as Soundwave eased the weight of pinpointing every bot and their movements.
Good that you're already on pain killers, Red Alert said to Prowl. The additional load of tracking Decepticon forces is considerable.
Ratchet's code is still live in my systems, Prowl said. I'll send over a duplicate of the first upload. Just don't tell him I have his pain relief signature copied.
Agreed, if you keep Inferno's presence a secret, Red Alert said.
You've been sparking again, Prowl said, venting out. Hardly a secret with how much you've had to shoulder above your usual load.
At least we should be fine with two peripheral units, Red Alert conceeded. But as Soundwave and Inferno being used in that function, we will need additional security.
Prowl spared a nanoclick to search the list of available mechs. Soundwave's cassettes?
Negative—clearance not yet established. Not for command center proximity. I can authorize their defense of the interior base. Updating criteria: established command clearance.
Suggesting Skyfire, Starscream. Warbuild, handler. They are grounded otherwise.
Starscream? Hardly orthodox.
He's under Skyfire's control. Just...loud.
Acceptable. Sending request. Initiate secondary scan: front base, set one, set two, set three. Array complete.
Recording, Prowl answered. Plotting points. Coloring enemy fighters, hex code #80080. Laying vectors.
Compensating motion uncertainty, Red Alert said. Receiving confirmation, warbuild, handler. Up array full all, covering set one.
A steady rhythm of code flowed between them, flying faster and faster as they settled into their task. With the addition of Soundwave's considerable processors, their own commands sped up without overheating their systems. Prowl swayed slightly, still off-balane, and Soundwave moved to hold him steady.
They sat still, optics shut, seemingly oblivious to the war raging around them, keenly aware to the tiniest movement of every player on the board. Through them, Soundwave saw the battlefield spread out like a giant map with pieces thrown in all directions, blurring at the edges as mechs moved in and out of range. His own knowledge of the Decepticon forces brought new tags and notes to each mech, deepening the statistical model of the fight. Percentage points floated every mech, updating every moment.
To his surprise, both forces were evenly matched, down to a decimal point. Logically, he had known this. He'd sparred too often against Prowl—luck had as much to do with their victories as strategy or tactics. But it was one thing to know it and another to feel and internalize it. The Autobots were mostly ground-based vehicles, civilians, pacifists even. And yet they held their own.
Prowl's satisfaction at Soundwave's acknowledgement was small, compartmentalized away from his main work, but Prowl still gave a small smile.
Which vanished as Starscream's voice grew audible in the outer corridor, a steady complaint that rose in volume as he and Skyfire approached.
"—then have my armaments replaced! I am the commander of the entire Armada—I should be in the sky taking the fight to the enemy—instead you have me grounded—I know their flight patterns, I know their—"
Sorry, Skyfire said to announce their arrival. The fight has him scared.
Understandable, Prowl said. Try to quiet his ravings. It is a distraction.
Skyfire's wordless vent express how impossible that might be. As Starscream continued, now certain that he was simply being paraded about like an overload toy, Soundwave felt a setting change in his internal hardware. He examined it, then frowned at Prowl.
Prowl, shunted audio functions to Soundwave, he pinged.
Apologies, Prowl said. Starscream—distraction. Compensation for audio distraction above unacceptable limit. Set array one, set array two, set array three, broadcast on signal 990Σ.
Soundwave's optics narrowed. Prowl had fully immersed himself in the Ark's systems, a spark in the vast processor. Meaningful communication was impossible.
"—I am a jet fighter with millenia of combat experience! I demand to be put where I am of the most use—"
Soundwave vented and opened up on a local signal.
Starscream—
Pivoting on a dime, Starscream went from ranting at Skyfire to raging at Soundwave, barely missing a beat.
And now the stereo speaks! Don't think I have anything to say to you, you rusted glitch! If I ever have the chance to launch a missile right up your aft—
Starscream, desires further chapters of 'Starscream, Starburst'?
Outside in the hall, Skyfire looked down in concern. Starscream had cut off as if his vocal unit had been disengaged. He put a hand on Starscream's shoulder, holding him close. Had the jet ruptured a gasket?
...you have more? Starscream asked slowly.
Affirmative.
But...you stopped updating.
Could not update—access to surnet blocked. Continued with regular writing schedule. After access regained, did not post.
Although he couldn't see him, Soundwave knew that Starscream's look had darkened.
Skyfire wondered if he needed to put stasis cuffs on a suddenly silent, glaring Starscream.
Why not?
Admission—began writing story to use as bargaining chip in future. I did not post when future chapters could prove useful.
Soundwave—
Starscream, can have chapters in return for silence for the foreseeable battle.
Starscream's engines revved—could he beat his way through the door? Probably not—it was solid reinforced steel and likely rigged with electrical traps.
...deal.
Twelve chapters uploaded to the surnet all at once. Immediately Starscream's revvs faded to a low rumble, then purred at the discovery that each part was twice as long as usual. He didn't thank Soundwave—promise be damned, the glitch had held out on him deliberately—but his wave of pleasure rippled through Soundwave and echoed at Prowl.
Who rolled his optics and continued with his work.
"Leashed in via magnetic tether, Starscream flew just under and behind Skyfire, following his flight pattern through a vast earth sky. Where once he'd led the exploratory scans, he now listened to his master unit's commands and executed them flawlessly. Skyfire's satisfaction filtered through their connection, and Starscream discovered that there was relief and comfort in this chain of command. No longer abuse, no longer pain, no longer the faltering empty struggle for conquest—the conquest was of himself, and the deep joy he would receive later as their sparks bonded yet again."
Outside, as the base shuddered under another attack, Starscream began to read. It was drivel, absolutely insane—Starscream would naturally lead any atmospheric scanning, and the struggle for Decepticon command would have been successful if he'd had just a little more time. But he still smiled and leaned against Skyfire and enjoyed the warmth there, and felt a shiver of pleasure at the pure white of his paint where the purple insignia had once lay. Skyfire's hands were large and sure enough to hold him securely, fingertips trailing lightly over Starscream's wings, occasionally tightening when a missile came too close.
Poor Skyfire. He was so large that Starscream sometimes forgot that he was a civilian. He would make sure to protect him if it came to that.
Outside the base, the ground vehicles of the Decepticon army finally reached the flats surrounding the base. The front liners of the Autobot army sped forward, using the plotted points from Prowl and Red Alert to choose their targets. Coming at an angle, they lay down crossfire, spraying high caliber rounds and energy bolts between themselves, and the Decepticons rolled straight into the rocky terrain.
Thick armor plating protecting most of their warbuild systems so that only exposed controls were hit. Hit early, Brawl and Swindle pushed forward, sparking at the armor joints, searching for their other combaticons. Static screeched in their audios, turning so high pitched that the sound turned nauseating—both of them disconnected from the main Decepticon channel and resorted to yelling out, taking refuge behind a large boulder inexplicably sitting in the middle of the sand.
"Slag, slag, slag," Brawl cursed, tuning a dial for any clear signal. "Blast Off, Vortex, where the primus-damn pit are you! I swear, it's their damn rusted Blaster—"
Another 'Con rolled up beside them, venting hard, transforming and leaning against the stone surface. He already had a streak of gunfire across his faceplate that had left a molten line just above his optics, partially blinding him.
"Blaster, nothing," Breakdown said, wiping the steel from his right optic and only smearing the screen worse. "It's White Noise—Megatron's turning on us—he's left us out to dry—anyone he thinks was on that damn board—"
"Knock it off," Swindle said, pulling a kevlar patch from subspace and knocking away Breakdown's hand. He applied the patch, clearing away the dripping metal. "You owe me one, you paranoid aft—you're almost as bad as Deadend."
Breakdown leaned out of his reach, scooting higher upright. "Yeah? Then where's our glorious leader, huh? I'm telling you, this whole action is just to thin out the ranks, feed us to the grinder—not enough energon to go around anymore—"
An explosion swallowed anything else he tried to say—an Autobot frontliner came around the boulder, softening his targets with concussive grenades that sent the three of them scattering. The battlefield was in full fury, with bullets and bolts filling the air so that it was impossible to find any lines or points to rally to.
With a bolt searing his wheelwell, Swindle almost glued himself to Brawl's heavy treads. It would be all too easy to lose him in the blowing dust and screams and missile-fire—
"Stay with me!" Brawl yelled back to him. "We'll try to find the rest of us—combine up!"
Swindle tried to call out an affirmative, but the dust choked his vocalizer. As he coughed it out, a chain of mines went off beneath them—too light to do more than sting, he recoiled more from surprise than pain. He skidded and spun out 180 degrees, braked hard, then tried to turn around and found himself completely disoriented.
"Hey!" Swindle vented faster and faster. "Brawl, where are you!"
How had he lost him? Brawl was the loudest thing on the battlefield—at least he was when there weren't two armies pounding each other's armor around him, a whole armada overhead dropping carpet bombs in tandem.
Heavy treads came roaring up out of the blowing dust. Swindle turned, relieved to see Brawl returning, only to discover the familiar paint of the Autobot Warpath, his turret pointed right at him.
"Zapwing!" Warpath yelled, charging the turret so that it glowed in its depths.
Swindle transformed and began firing, taking a direct hit that took his arm off from the elbow. Agony hit him before his repair functions shut down the pain in that sector and clench off his oil and energon flow. Splashed with his own fluids, Swindle backed away, still firing, then turned and ran into a mass of frontliners. It was dicey and he took two more hits, one friendly, before he vanished into the confusion, still calling out for Brawl, Breakdown, anyone.
Getting kinda hot here, Mirage said. Even with my shield up.
Just a little difficult ground, Jazz said, grunting as he jumped a pitted crater. Push on.
Special Ops usually saw their work in the dark of night, under camouflauge and stealth and subterfuge, slicing throat cables, setting charges, and blowing depos. Sometimes they had to insert or extract a spy, commit an assassination on a suddenly vulnerable target with little prep time. Most mechs never saw Jazz or his team on the battlefield and assumed that they went on nothing but specialized missions.
Losing that dust cover, Jazz said, kick it back up on the left.
Damn jets keep pushing on that side, Smokescreen said. I can't keep it solid much longer.
Hound, you heard the mech. Give the 'Cons another reason to give us some room.
On it.
Despite the engines and clashing steel, their voices were tense but low. There was no rush—they were professionals at work. No one even knew they were there. Only a few bots would have recognized the way another hundred mechs suddenly rolled out of the smoke, their wheels hovering an inch off the sand, a massive hologram firing wildly enough to scare any approaching Decepticons back.
Jazz checked the scan coming from Prowl. Part of it was glitched, shredded by Decepticon interference, but more than half was readable, boosted through Blaster's signals.
We there yet? Bumblebee asked.
Jazz pinged an affirmative. Coming around behind 'em now.
He took one more glance at his favorite manual. Prowl and the rest of them knew he loved earth culture—art, music, literature—but he never let on about how everything here was interesting. Mechs knew he was a little off kilter for his taste in atonal music, going so far as to rename himself on this planet. Few mechs knew that humans had crafted literature and histories about something as vile as warfare.
There certainly was an art to war. Jazz took Sunzi's advice and used the high ridge of Prowl's training grounds for a vantage point of the whole fight.
The Armada had everyone pinned in the flats surrounding the Ark. The grounders hammered each other in the middle, while the more specialized mechs moved through the combat, giving support here, acting as glorified hot spots for each other's signals. Jazz spotted FirstAid speeding along with Tracks, escorted to wounded mechs and taking them back to Ratchet at the Ark's shielded entrance. Great plumes of dust rose as Groove and Beachcomber stirred up the sand and lured Decepticons into the unexploded minefield.
What do we hit first? Mirage asked. It's pure chaos down there. I can't find Prime or Ironhide—
On encircled land, devise stratagems, Jazz said, smiling without humor. I want a nice, big target, something ain't no one but us wanna tangle with.
On cue, a space cleared in the center of the battle as a twisted mess of metal swirled and locked together, uncurling as it stood up, towering several meters over every mech on the field. With a wordless roar, the newly formed Bruticus reached out and grabbed the nearest mech and threw him into a group of Autobots and Decepticons who couldn't speed away fast enough.
Jazz's Special Operations Unit audibly groaned.
We wanna tangle with that? Bumblebee asked. Just us?
You kidding? Jazz said. We can't wait!
He was already speeding down the rise, sound system opened wide, screaming out the last Kaonitics song Blaster had played. Behind him, fanning out, his team cruised in Jazz's wake, taking easy potshots at anything wearing purple as they found themselves surrounded by stunned Decepticons.
Better get there soon, Hound said. We're kinda target rich alla sudden.
Hound, Smokescreen, keep us covered, Jazz said. 'Bee, go high. Mirage, in and out, give that giant something else to think about.
With a collective affirmative, they fell to work.
It was hard not to stare at the emoji. Centered on the field, it somehow stayed clear despite so many mechs trampling over the upraised fist and angry eyes. Megatron refused to look at it.
Moving in with the advanced guard, he'd broken away to take up position on a high ledge, watching the battle unfurl beneath him. He felt the absence of his two highest officers—Soundwave and Starscream should have been here, moving the pieces on the board according to his orders.
His army was crumbling. He should have had another gestalt on the field—but with DeadEnd turned traitor, Menasor was missing a pede. His forces were riddled with traitors. Once he could have rooted them out easily, but with Shockwave on Cybertron and Soundwave—
His fist clenched. His most loyal Decepticon—could he be blamed for not seeing that coming?
He would find Soundwave and personally crush him under his heel. He would rip Starscream's wings from his back. He would find DeadEnd and Whisper and the rest of the scheming traitors and personally tear them apart and throw them living into the smelter.
This fight would thin his ranks badly. Good. If the combat didn't kill enough traitors on the damned Deceptively Yours board, then some of his loyal mechs would starve. A necessary sacrifice—it had taken time and careful hoarding, but there was so much energon in this gambit that he'd been hardpressed to keep it stable.
He took comfort in the knowledge that this attack would cripple the Autobot forces in one fell swoop. And while he would lose one gestalt, it was a small price to pay for the ruination of Optimus' army.
He just had to wait.
Onslaught had the order. Bruticus would execute the command.
And the Ark would vanish.
It happened faster than even Megatron could hope for.
Bruticus grabbed at the small bot racing across his shoulders, howling as Bumblebee slashed any visible cords. Energon and oil and coolant mixed in streams down his multicolored back and pedes. It was impossible to to get a clear shot—in front of him, Mirage blinked in and out of sight, taking shots just long enough to catch his attention, then vanishing into dust and holographic reinforcements. Bruticus was already sparking as Jazz's sonic array struck him and any Decepticons who dared to come close. His pede buckled where Swindle had lost his arm.
It would have taken several more minutes to tear Bruticus apart, but the outcome was still certain.
Then Bruticus started moving, taking long steps toward the Ark.
What the hell? Smokescreen said. Why's he suddenly taking a walk?
Something's changed, Mirage said. Look at his optics—he must have received an order, or something triggered and—
'Bee, get down from there! Jazz yelled.
I'm trying, but it's hard when everything's swaying—
Bumblebee's communication scrambled to static as he slipped in coolant and tumbled, sliding, catching a grip on cords and slipping again. In freefall, he slammed against Bruticus' pede and crashed in the sand. Jazz pulled up beside him, providing cover with full blasts aimed at the lumbering giant.
The mood of the battle changed. Autobots who weren't engaged with an enemy aimed instead at the titan on the field, peppering the knees and hips—thick armor absorbed their shots, slagging in places, cracking in others, its core form untouched.
Bruticus' helm snapped back—direct sniper fire had shattered one of his optics. Screaming in pain, Bruticus covered his faceplate, whipping to one side as another shot pierced straight through his shoulder.
Perched high, leaning dangerously forward, Bluestreak snapped open his rifle, loosed the spent cartridges and reloaded, aiming for the other optic. Bruticus was almost tall enough to be on level with him, coming close enough to reach out. Bluestreak held still, chattering constantly as he fired again.
"—little closer you walking junk heap, gonna be the last thing you ever see, slam your helm so hard you fall backward and smash up all those little 'Cons under your giant aft, Primus damned slag, right back into the pit, all five of you or whatever you're made of, ain't scared of you ain't scared of you ain't scared ain't—"
His shot missed. Bruticus had bent to snatch up a mech from the ground, holding him high above his helm in both hands.
Motormaster, still in vehicle mode, raging at the idiot to put him down, what did he think he was doing, that something was wrong, put him down, it hurt, i̶t̵ ̷h̴u̵r̸t̴, i̸̧̓t̷͖̑ ⱧɄⱤ₮ —
Up that high, everyone saw his trailer suddenly awash in a bright glow.
The sides began to melt. The doors slagged off. As if he were being smelted, Motormaster began to dissolve in Bruticus' hands just long enough for both armies to see that he was loaded with energon so unstable that it was sparking, flaring, expanding—
Get down! Jazz put out in a wide public burst, not realizing he'd broadcast that to everyone, Autobot and Decepticon alike. Get—
Bruticus smashed what was left of Motormaster into the Ark.
The battlefield went white and silent.