Shockwave
"Terrestrial." The sound of the command was immediately followed by the condensed gear-shifting sound of a transformation, and a moment later a predominantly tan and slightly purple alien structure that was very vaguely similar to a standard Polyhexian battle tank was in the center of the vast laboratory. Shockwave walked around the vehicle, examining it closely and keying in a few notes on his data pad.
"So, what do you call that thing?" The leaner and shorter, though still quite tall by most standards, of the two robots standing off to the side questioned.
"It is called a Type 61 main battle tank in Japan, a nation of Helios 3, or Earth." Shockwave gently tapped the tank. "Aerial." With the command the Terran tank transformed into a winged and far more aerodynamic construct, one that was now predominantly purple with tan accents. "And this, Octane, is called a Mikoyan Gurevich 25, or MiG-25 for short. It is from an empire on Earth called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, which despite its name is not a conglomeration of various equal republics, but a centralized government and economic base bordering on totalitarianism, but ultimately the indigenous governments of the planet are on borrowed time and will cease to exist once the Decepticons expand to that planet in force. This particular fighter jet is still in the prototype stage, though Starscream's intelligence gathering suggests that it will be making its first flight very shortly." Shockwave stepped back away from the fighter jet. "Alright Blitzwing, robotic mode."
With that the jet transformed again, this time to a hulking twenty-four-foot-tall robot that was a nearly equal mix of purple and tan coloration. "Those jackasses at my adolescenter said my shell mode wasn't remotely aerodynamic enough for a flight mode."
"You're over a million years old." The largest robot in the lab, a thirty-foot bulky dark gray and purple individual leaning against a computer bank muttered. "Can you even remember your adolescenter days?"
"Ignore Astrotrain, Blitzwing." Shockwave pre-empted the grumbled snap-back as he studied his data-pad. "Your natural shell was too blocky for an aerial mode. But like with Trypticon and your two colleagues here, you're a triptych, your frame has multiple points that allow for degrees of folding far beyond those of the baseline transformer, allowing you to have an additional alternate shell mode, one which in your case is aerodynamic enough for a flight mode." Shockwave looked over toward Octane and Astrotrain. "The same is true of Octane. Astrotrain had the opposite situation, when forged his large shell mode was noted to be adaptable for either flight or terrestrial locomotion. Flight being rarer and more valuable, they went in that direction, but he is still a triptych, so we've fashioned him with a terrestrial mode. Deluge pushed for a submarine mode, but the only higher-functioning species on Earth is terrestrial and they've barely dipped their toes into the depths of their oceans, so practicality won out."
"So, short story long, you're saying the jackasses at my adolescenter don't know shit." Blitzwing chuckled.
"Digression over, back on topic." Shockwave dismissively replied. "Your transformation times involving robot to terrestrial mode and vice versa are sixty-two percent faster than the mean transformation time for healthy Cybertronians. The transformation times involving your new aerial mode average out to thirty-seven percent faster than the mean for healthy Cybertronians. That's for transforming to or from aerial mode to either option."
"Yeah, my transformation cog earns its energon." Blitzwing quipped, but then a worried look came over his face. "Which makes me wonder…"
"We're at war, Decepticon battlefield medics have already been tasked with examining the dead on both sides for reusable parts, and the bio-metrics of all triptychs are cataloged and prioritized above any non-command class Decepticons, and matching transformation cogs will be collected and kept in storage for all of you in case yours wear out." Shockwave, anticipating the concern, interrupted with the answer.
"Oh, alright then." Blitzwing replied before the jarring sound of the doors to the lab being thrown open turned everyone's attention to the front. "What the hell?"
"No way, Shockers!" The booming voice of Motormaster thundered through the room, followed by one of the guards, a blue robot with yellow accents and looking concerned that he may have to try to intervene physically with the vastly larger gray and black robot. "Your crazy slaggin' experiment didn't work, total failure, I'm not doing that again!"
"This is not how you address a senior officer, Motormaster." Shockwave cut him off as he marched toward the intruder, casually placing his current data-pad on an organized desk covered with other data-pads and picking up another one as he went with his one hand, his menacing march causing a look of fear to come over Motormaster's face. "Nor is it the way to bring up any objections to what is expected of you and your team." Shockwave stopped in front of Motormaster, who was trying not to show how cowed he was. Shockwave raised the data-pad, glanced down as he thumbed a few pages, studied it briefly and then replied further. "And it is made all the worse by the fact that your roared assertions are factually incorrect. The gestalt version of your team demonstrated extraordinary physical power, a degree of endurance that exceeded our estimates by seventeen percent, and while still slow by normal standards, your team's speed and agility were significantly greater than those of Devastator."
"I can't conceive of a lower bar than being smarter and faster than Devastator!" Motormaster grumbled back defiantly.
"I said you were faster, I never said smarter." Shockwave corrected. "Frankly, Menasor is the least intelligent of the gestalt's we've created so far."
"All the more reason I'm not doing that again!" Motormaster snapped. "That slaggin' monster you cobbled together with us is the most moronical of the morons, and they're all slaggin' morons!"
"I've theorized that the underlying contempt brewing within your team has contributed heavily toward Menasor's disappointing intellect." Shockwave explained.
"No shit! I hate those slaggin' twats!" Motormaster snapped.
"And they hate you in equal measure." Shockwave replied, his voice devoid of emotion despite there being no way for him not to know the impact the words he spoke would have. "The utter lack of comradery and trust has led to a fractured personality and an almost complete lack of the ability to reason."
"Oh, like Bruticus is Alpha Trion reborn!" Motormaster shot back. "He's as dumb as Devastator and us, and those ever-drilling exhaust polishers worship that stringy shower-bag Onslaught!"
"Yes, there seems to be room for improvement in terms of intellect, as well as speed and agility to our gestalt models. Effectiveness may be related to a level of synchronicity of members beyond merely spark compatibility." Shockwave mused. "Something for me to consider." Shockwave glanced back down at the data-pad and thumbed a few pages over to an overview of a team of candidates from Altihex, then flicked it off and turned back to glare intently at Motormaster with his one burning optic. "Regardless, the initial tests of Menasor's effectiveness overwhelmingly indicate that he will be an asset on the battlefield, so when ordered to do so, you will merge with your teammates or face the wrath of your superiors. Pray that the wrath comes from someone other than Megatron." Shockwave allowed his words to sink in for a moment before looking to the guard that had followed Motormaster into the lab. "Counter-Punch, escort Motormaster out of here, and see that all data related to the two recent gestalt endeavors are brought to Megatron. And let him know that I'm on my way to oversee the repair work on Trypticon. According to the latest report I've received from the Constructicons it shouldn't be too much longer before he's combat ready."
The blue and yellow face-plated robot nodded and bowed. "I'll deliver the good news regarding Trypticon and place the gestalt data-pads into his hands personally, sir."
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Rung
The short, slender light orange robot raised his large optics, which were nestled under even larger optic-brows, up toward the chronometer on the wall above his patient, Crosshairs, hoping that his glance would go unnoticed by the soldier that counted himself as one of Guardian Prime's elite and who had been dormant for a bit over one million years. Rung had been expecting such a revelation to have taken a major toll on the psyche of the soldier, but the green and black Crosshairs seemed genuinely unphased by the passage of time that he had missed. He came across as the type to be unphased by most things normal individuals would be deeply troubled by, and excited by things that normal individuals would be, well, also deeply troubled by. Sociopath didn't seem a proper fit, but after listening to the proud soldier go on about his beliefs, opinions and exploits for the last fifty minutes, the diagnosis wasn't extremely far off.
"So, I'm poppin' the sharks one after the other, head-shot, head-shot, head-shot, they're droppin' like flies," Crosshairs chuckled, "takin' out plenty a' the gators too. Even me mate Drift popped off a few good shots, which is rare. Don't get me wrong, he's a fair shot, but it's really melee that's his bag. So we're litterin' the street of this alien shit-burg with mech-beast guts and brains, when Prime squawks about findin' the objective…" the green and black patient twisted his head slightly and stared the therapist directly in the optics, "ya' sure you have clearance to hear this stuff?"
"Yes, I assure you Guardian Prime has granted me clearance higher than even yours." Rung presented him with a smile. "In fact, I will be having a session with the 'objective' itself tomorrow," Rung glanced around the room, "though we will be unable to have it here."
"Fair 'nuff." Crosshairs replied as he leaned back in the sofa and stared up at the pristine metal ceiling. "So, we track the big beast, or rather big beasts, though they say it's the same critter, just able to control separated pieces of itself in different places. I guess you can ask him how he does that trick yourself tomorrow. Anyway, his Quint handlers try to bug out, flyboys intercept them and it's just us and the big boy. Or rather, it's just Prime and the big boy, he wants to flush it out himself, which he does, he nearly buys it but we've got air support who smacks it down with a vamparc. Jhiaxus is a dickhead, but he does make some pretty impressive shit."
"You mean he was a dickhead and made some impressive shit." Rung corrected but noted the slightest of smiles twisting on the side of Crosshairs' mouth.
"Yeah, yer right Doc, he was a dickhead." Crosshairs chuckled. "Still comin' ta' terms with all the changes while we were nappin'." The soldier then twisted his head and continued. "So, the vamparc saps both halves of this thing into a more manageable level of power, and Prime takes him down like a champ, giving this heroic, justifyin' speech as he often does. And that prissy arrogant highborn Autobot cunt Magnus starts throwin' shade at the big man. I mean, on Lanarq he was still bein' a little bitch, but I can understand wantin' ta question the giant shitbag before sprayin' its brains all over the alley. But on Zamojin he's cryin' about Prime's ultimatum to the bird-cat, like an engraved invitation to join us with the option of walking away was slaggin' viable. Who the slag is he to question Prime, or any of us? We was protectin' and servin' Cybertron long before his big prissy ass was shat forth from the metal."
"I read several reports regarding the mission." Rung replied in a soothing voice. "Including the debriefing of Ultra Magnus. The subject of his apparent disapproval was brought up, and he replied that it was more to the reaction of a pair of soldiers to Prime's speech than to the capture and conscription of the entity known as Sky Lynx, though he was discomforted by that as well. He claimed that the soldiers were in awe over what Prime had said, when in the opinion of Ultra Magnus it was less than inspiring. It could be justified he supposed, but it was not to be seen as inspiring."
"He's a twat!" Crosshairs snapped. "I was one a' dem soldiers the prissy twat was yappin' about, and he was wrong! Prime was as inspirin' as he ever was, that's why he's Prime! That blue, white and red tosser is probably just whingin' about any little insignificant thing 'cause he thinks his idiotic big kinsman shoulda been Prime."
"I have not yet discussed this matter with Ultra Magnus, so I really can't opine on his motivation for finding Prime's words during the apprehension of the ignus numen to be less inspiring than you found them to be." Rung replied. "Perhaps his time as an Autobot and serving under a Pax has solidified his view of all sentient beings being equal and above being drawn into slavery."
"It ain't slaggin' slavery!" Crosshairs snarled. "It's conscription, and them Autobots, especially their naïve school-femme leader can polish my skidplate!"
"You're not a fan of the Autobot leader?" Rung asked, a bit of surprise in his voice.
"Helluva brawler, that footage a' him yankin' that flamin' spark-kabob outta the head sparkeater's chest and getting' blown up lubes me' gears, but I just can't stand whiners whinin' about how things are when they've been that way since the dawn of time." Crosshairs grumbled. "Like he knows better than the countless generations that have preceded him. I had hoped he'd be on another planet by now, but I guess Prime wanted him to stick around a bit longer to provide a bit of added security, so he and his Autobitches are still around spoutin' their tripe."
"I'm was under the impression that you were common-forged." Rung followed. "It seems odd that you're so opposed to the views and goals of the Autobots."
"I worked my ass off to get out of the gutter. Seems unfair that them cryin' should get them to my level." Crosshairs explained. "Plus, I just hate whingers."
"Alright." Rung replied.
"Hmmm, figured you was goin' ta tell me that me an' them shouldn't have to work our asses off to get out of the gutter we was born in." Crosshairs muttered, slightly confused.
"Not my place to question your political and social beliefs," Rung replied, "just to get you to question them."
"Eh, I agree, most highborn fops are undeserving bitches, but I just hate social justice twats." Crosshairs muttered. "Anyway, I think I served my time, or close enough to round up, so til next time brows." The green and black robot rose from the slanted couch and started toward the door of the small room. "Noticed you shootin' glances toward the clock most of the session, so I ain't the only one itchin' ta move on." He turned and grinned at the smaller Rung. "So, what is it, annoyed with me or ya' have a hot date?"
"Neither, I assure you." Rung replied. "If I came across as unprofessional, I deeply…"
"Don't fret doc." Crosshairs walked through the opening white metal door. "I won't be cryin' inta me dormancy slab over it." The green and black robot turned toward the waiting room and laughed. "Ah, so that's whatcha were waitin' for!" Rung followed him to the door and looked excitedly into the waiting room, knowing that his next appointment was there. "Commander Pax, we was just talkin' about what a great scrapper ya' was. Name's Crosswise, maybe we'll get assigned to a mission or somethin'. Kill some quints, maybe some cons, whatever Prime points us at."
"It's a pleasure to meet you Crosshairs, I've read your dossier." Orion Pax replied as he stood from the chair he had been seated on. "And yes, perhaps we'll work together in the future."
"You kids play nice." Crosshairs muttered as he continued past the Autobot Commander, reaching up to slap him with contempt masked as playfulness on the shoulder, and to the opening door to the office. "Though given it's you two, I don't think that'll be a problem."
Orion watched him leave and then turned toward Rung. "Doctor, it's a pleasure to meet you. My friend Ratchet says that you're the best in your field."
"Ratchet?" Rung smiled as the two shook wrists with one another. "That's very high praise, he's the best there is in several fields. Please, come into my office and make yourself comfortable." Orion smiled and nodded before walking into the smaller room with Rung right behind him. "Wherever you'd like, but traditionally the patient takes the couch. It allows he or she to relax a bit more and possibly feel more open about what they divulge."
"Sounds good." Orion said as he sat down on the chaise lounge sofa, his optics gliding over the room. "A fan of deep spaceship models I see."
Rung smiled as he sat in his chair, sending a sideways glance toward the back of the room to what the patient was referring to. "Yes, I have a keen interest in models, and have always been fascinated by our exploration vessels." The psychiatrist twisted in his seat to face the display shelves mounted on the far wall, each lined with models of space craft, and pointed at the large one in the center of the highest and most prominent shelf. "Obviously that one should be familiar to you, what with you being the first to lay optics on its glorious return."
"Technically I only had one optic at the time to lay on the Manifest as it returned." Orion chuckled, but ceased as another model on the end of one of the shelves caught his attention. He stood and walked over to the ship, staring at it in awe and pointing hesitantly at it. "What's the name of this craft?"
Rung stood up and followed Orion to the ship in question. "That was the Lemuria, a deep space supply vessel. An obscure but fascinating craft. Large and legendarily durable, it was lost to the far reaches of space. Her final resting place remains unknown."
"Is that so?" Orion muttered with a grin as he studied the model. "Her hull was made primarily of cybertanium."
"Why yes." Rung said with surprise. "Nearly sixty-four percent of it. I take it you've studied the Lemuria."
"No." Orion said as he turned around and headed back to the sofa. "But I did make a bit of armor and a pair of axes out of some of it. One of the axes is currently stuck in the Spear of Paxus."
Rung followed Orion with disbelieving optics. He had no doubt that every word coming out of Orion's mouth was the truth, but… "You can't be serious. Orion's Axe is made from the hull of the Lemuria?"
Orion shrugged. "That's the ship I got the metal from, so if that's the Lemuria, then Orion's Axe is forged from a portion of the Lemuria's hull."
"Where did you find her?" Rung asked as he retook his seat.
Orion's face took an uncomfortable look. "I'd rather not say. Those that sheltered me would prefer to remain forgotten. I would ask that you not mention this to anyone."
"I can't. Confidentiality." Rung smiled. "Though it does make my intended journey to Tyger Pax all the more exciting."
"A foundling's unintended vandalism has made Polarus a tourist attraction." Orion chuckled lightly.
"You use self-deprecation and self-dismissiveness as a way of avoiding or deflecting strong positive feelings toward or about you." Rung stated as a matter of fact. "You divert attention away from yourself whenever possible and are uncomfortable receiving gratitude or any form of adulation."
Orion squirmed a bit as he laid down and seemed to surrender to the therapeutic process. "Well, yes, but that's true of most people, isn't it?"
"It's not uncommon." Rung stated. "But it stands out more when the individual is as accomplished as you are." The odd-looking robot smiled. "Humility is a good thing, but you would have us believe the impossibility that you're just an ordinary citizen."
"I am an ord…look, this isn't why I'm here." Orion smiled sheepishly. "One of the reasons Guardian Prime requested that I delay my mission was because rumors of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder came to his attention, and he wanted me evaluated and treated if need be before jaunting off into space."
"You sound as though you feel this to be unnecessary." The therapist replied, having dealt with this doubt from many patients before.
"The flashbacks during my active hours have stopped, and those during my offline dormancy have decreased in frequency and intensity." Orion replied. "Frankly, the only times it's ever been an issue while awake is when I come across footage of the fight without knowing I will be viewing it, and the last four times that's happened I had no reaction, either physical or psychological."
"Or perhaps you're quite good at suppressing the impact this trauma has had on you." Rung offered. "You've endured hardship for the vast majority of your life, frequently alone…"
"No, I have never been alone." Orion corrected. "Even if I'm physically by myself, I have always been able to draw support from the love and memory of many."
"Alright, good, you had some sort of support system." Rung replied. "But you were still forced to mourn the loss of Arlon Pax on a distant world, wherever that world may be, without that support system. Years later your ability to grieve over the loss of the one that raised you and the maiming of the one you consider a brother had to wait while the world looked to you for salvation. Even upon your awakening, you were called to duty before you could properly come to terms with the loss of Torenia Pax and the irrevocable change to Roller Pax."
"I was able to say my good-byes, to Torenia, to Arlon, to Stronghold, to so many, and I've come to terms with what happened to Roller and his changes." Orion replied. "And I recognize the damage that can be done by ignoring or suppressing trauma. That's not what's at play with me, at least not consciously or deliberately. Yes, several times in the past the dealing with traumatic events has been set aside temporarily, either by me, by outside parties, or by a greater and immediate need. But I have genuinely tried to circle back to acknowledge how that has impacted me, I recognize the importance of my mental health, I recognize that I have limitations, that my robust physicality likely does not translate to an equal degree of robustness in regards to my ability to bounce back psychologically after vast damage. At least," Orion paused and looked off to the side, "at least there hasn't been the evidence to support that possibility yet."
"But you consider that possibility to be likely?" Rung pressed. "That because physical injuries that can cripple and kill others are shrugged off by you, you think there's a likelihood that traumatic events that are crippling to others are equally ignorable to you?"
"I'm pretty sure I just stated otherwise." Orion replied.
"Yes, but at the end you seemed to only give that statement credence because evidence to the contrary has yet to present itself." Rung countered. "Normally I'd attribute this to arrogance, a god-complex that's not uncommon for highborn or bearers of ignis superious or especially both, and while even beyond those traits you certainly have reason to be arrogant, I don't think that's the case here."
Orion chuckled. "Very happy to know you're not planning on diagnosing me with a god-complex. I did learn a painful lesson about assuming my abilities were without limits. Years ago, Ratchet accused me of just that, and he was right, but I ignored him and was nearly beaten to death. That was related to my physicality, an area where I really do stand apart from most of our species due to my green spark, yet I was forced to accept an irrefutable limit to what my green spark can enable me to do. That spark offers no strength to me intellectually or psychologically, there is nothing setting me apart from the populace on those fronts, I'm aware that I'm as susceptible to damage and injury psychologically as anyone else, but despite this fact I still think I'll be alright. My belief that I'll be alright psychologically is not arrogance, at least I hope and genuinely believe it's not." A more serious Orion continued. "I've studied post-traumatic stress disorder a great deal, and I've been evaluating myself regarding it since an incident on my return to Tyger Pax the day I woke from my coma. I recognize that I'm neither qualified nor unbiased enough to determine the degree to which it is impacting me, but I'm quite familiar with the symptoms, and I swear, by and large they no longer apply to me. But I will happily acknowledge and defer to your expertise."
Rung smiled and nodded. "I don't doubt your devotion to the study and evaluation, and I certainly don't doubt your intellect, but psychological self-diagnoses are frowned upon for very valid reasons. So, let's humor Guardian Prime and approach this with our best and most open-minded effort, shall we?"
Orion smiled and nodded. "Of course."
"Well then, tell me of your earliest memories." Rung leaned back in his chair and watched as Orion fell back into a relaxed reclining.
"The sky." Orion recounted. "Rocking gently. At the time I wasn't sure what was going on; how could I? But it was rocking because I was on a boat, and then it wasn't the sky before me anymore, it was her face looking down at me, with a smile I somehow instinctively knew to be…home." The tiniest of weeps escaped the war hero's metal lips.
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Minimus Ambus
Like with most things on Cybertron, the double swinging doors to this particular Iaconian public house were designed for much larger individuals. Despite the fact that the standard deviation regarding height in Cybertronians was far greater than with nearly all other species, most things still needed to settle on standard sizes that seemed to provide a comfortable accommodation to the largest percentage of the potential clientele, and in nearly all cases Minimus fell outside this range. But it was something he had grown used to early in life and he barely thought about it anymore, especially now when so much was weighing on his mind. Minimus's raised arms pushed the lower portions of the doors and he walked in, hoping that there wouldn't be a larger robot or group of robots barreling their way out of the establishment at that exact moment. Fortunately, he wasn't knocked to the ground by inebriated patrons, and walked into the moderately crowded bar and scanned the room.
He had been informed his quarry was likely here, decompressing from his off-world mission and what some observers considered to be a bit of ostracizing from other members of the mission. For once the intel was correct, as at the far end of the room seated alone at a small two-chaired table was Ultra Magnus. The massive robot was hunched over his drink, the cup looking comically tiny in his large hands, and he was giving off the vibe that he wished to be left alone. Minimus chuckled to himself that while it was not his desire, it seemed his lot in life to consistently violate such vibes. Sometimes his desire to intrude wasn't important and he could or should disregard it, but this matter needed to be brought to Ultra Magnus's attention, so Minimus carefully made his way through the unobservant crowd and was soon standing next to Magnus's table. "Mind if I join you?"
Magnus looked down toward the voice and provided the compulsory diplomatic smile. "If you wish, but I should tell you that I'm not the best company at this moment."
Minimus pushed the chair opposite Magnus out and gave a hop to get into it. "Unfortunately, I haven't hunted you down just to chat and catch up." The comment got an inquisitive optic-raise out of Ultra Magnus. "There's something I need to inform you of. Something regarding you departed kinsman and former emir."
"Yes, I've heard." Magnus grumbled as he raised his cup and gave the slightly tainted energon within a light swirl. "His ghost has been giving the Decepticons a bit of trouble according to the rumors."
"There's some degree of truth to the reports." Minimus cautiously responded.
"There's no such thing as ghosts. Even the Mechigahara Woods hauntings has been explained away." Magnus muttered before bringing the edge of the cup to his lips and taking a swig. He gulped as he pulled the cup away from his face. "And I know Delta's dead, so whatever degree of truth there may be to these outlandish reports, it doesn't involve my departed kinsman and former emir."
"No, not directly, but his armor is involved." Minimus explained in a low voice and watched as the cup was lowered to the table and the expected look of rage came over Ultra Magnus's face.
"What?"
Minimus paused a moment for one last girding of his resolve. "Another individual has been attacking small groups of Decepticons, masquerading in Delta Magnus's armor."
Magnus's look of anger twisted a bit. "This darkly colored Convoy-looking individual that some of the reports have mentioned?"
Ambus nodded. "Yes." He twisted slightly. "Obviously by wearing the Magnus armor the intent is to spread a sense of supernatural fear through the Decepticon ranks. The goal in the anonymous Convoy appearance is a sense of…well, reverence and penitence felt toward the extinct…nearly extinct house."
Magnus stared intently at the much smaller Ambus for several moments before finally giving voice to the thoughts in his head. "I was fairly certain that I was more tapped into the intel coming out of the Decepticons than you were, but any sense of motives or intent for this individual or individuals have not reached my audio receptors yet." He leaned forward. "So, tell me Lord Ambus, how is it that you are so well informed on this matter?"
Minimus looked down for a moment, then back up and locked onto Ultra's optics. "Dominus survived the Grand Convocation. He altered his appearance, and his core robotic mode is this phantom Convoy. His load-bearing spark enables him to wear your kinsman's armor, which he does to, well, you're aware of what he's been doing."
"Delta's corpse?" Magnus asked, barely keeping his rage in check.
"Likely moved, but when I confronted Dominus, he, the armor and Delta's corpse were within the Jewel of the Jungle." Minimus answered. "It's a vast…"
"I know what it is!" Ultra growled. "An Ambus estate within Magnus borders. I'd almost say it was an appropriate base of operations were this whole idea not so fucking wrong!" The massive Autobot stood up suddenly, nearly knocking his chair over.
"Hold up, I'm sure he's no longer there." Minimus held out his hand to slow Magnus. "And the last thing we need is for the two of you to kill each other."
"Delta was a force! Dominus Ambus, even with Delta's armor, wouldn't last a minute against me!" Ultra growled.
"Probably not, but that still doesn't change the fact that you don't know where he is now, and that I really don't want Dominus hurt." Minimus explained in a pleading tone. "Please, sit down. I will do everything I can to help you find him and end this situation where both Dominus and Delta are returned home with no further damage." Minimus stared intently into Ultra Magnus's optics. "Please." A moment passed. "Please, just please sit down."
Ultra glared at the smaller robot for nearly a minute before lowering back into his chair. "Know this, Ambus, I will find Delta, and I will be returning both his frame and his armor to Citadel Magnus, and Dominus will not be stopping me. Whether he has further damage or not will be entirely up to him, but if he puts up a fight, I will not hesitate to win that fight."
"I understand, I'm just asking that you do not do more than is necessary in terms of fighting him." Minimus pled. "And that if there's a way to attain our goals without violence, that we do our damnedest to go that route." Minimus looked down and paused. "Just know that while I do not doubt that you can defeat him, I don't think you understand how physically powerful he really is, especially with your kinsman's armor."
"I know his spark is like mine." Ultra muttered. "And I know that he's received extensive combat training and has done his best to keep that training under wraps to most. I'm not going to underestimate him."
"All that, and he believes that he has nothing left to lose or live for, making him even more dangerous." Minimus muttered. "I don't want you confronting him thinking he'll go down easy, and then as you realize this not to be the case you increase the force to an unnecessary level."
"I…" Magnus seemed to calm a bit, "I'm not going to tell you I'm not angry, that I'm not angry as hell, but I have no desire to harm Dominus. I give you my word that I'll do what I can to end this with minimal friction."
"Thank you." Minimus was genuinely relieved, enough so that he looked over to the server, a lean purple robot with antennas on his shoulders, and waved him over to take his order. "Do you think that you can talk Guardian Prime into helping with this? Let him know that Delta deserves a hero's farewell, and that Dominus, once given proper help, could be a tremendous asset to the new government."
"I…" Magnus looked over to the right, at the wall pressed against their table as he hesitated, "I'd rather keep this circle small, and not involve Prime."
"But his resources…and he'd find out about what we're doing anyway." Minimus protested.
"Prime's government is still fairly heavily reliant upon the Autobots, and he's granted us a significant degree of autonomy. We'd be able to track and subdue Dominus and bring him in safely before Prime found out." Magnus explained, knowing that the explanation would create even more questions.
"I fail to see why that would be a goal of ours." Minimus muttered in disbelief.
"If you were afraid that I would be heavy-handed in my apprehension of Dominus, you'd be terrified of Prime and several members of his inner circle's involvement." Magnus explained.
Minimus stared intently at Magnus for a long while before finally breaking the silence. "What hap…"
"Hello sir, may I take your order?" The server interrupted.
"I'll have a vial of Damaxus Rouge." Minimus replied without looking up at the server.
"I'm sorry, but many of the southern vintages have not yet been restocked." The purple robot apologetically provided.
"Damaxus is considered southern?" Minimus asked skeptically.
"For Iacon, yes." The server replied with a smile.
"It was the end of the world up until several weeks ago." Magnus shrugged at Ambus, then looked at the server, the two nearly optic-to-optic even though Ultra Magnus was seated. "Please bring him a Cybertropolis Voltage."
"Excellent sir." The server said before turning to retrieve the drink.
"I can't stand the polar garbage." Ambus muttered. "I mean, I'll drink it, but they really don't know how to taint energon north of the Mithril."
"All they have is what's brewed north of the Sea." Magnus replied. "It'll be months before the pubs of even the largest cities are fully restocked."
"Shit, that took me off my question." Minimus blurted. "What happened on your mission with Prime? What gave you such a negative view of him?"
Magnus shifted in his chair and pondered how to answer the question. "It's just…I suppose I've grown used to a more measured approach to conflict."
"Really?" Minimus questioned. "I always thought that Delta swung a heavy hammer." Ultra Magnus gave a wry smile as he lightly pointed to the face of the Common Man on his chest. "Ah, your short time with the Autobots has tempered you a bit, is that it?"
Magnus nodded a bit solemnly. "They're kind of big on the sanctity of life…and the importance of freedom."
"Some would say that it's the right of all sentient beings." Ambus chuckled, his words getting a grin out of Magnus.
"They were just words, pretty, thoughtful words to be sure, but just words…" Magnus looked down, "until he made them more than just words."
"Which would lead me to believe that would increase your opinion of Prime." Ambus asked, genuinely confused.
"Prime wasn't the one to make them more than just words." Ultra Magnus continued his downward stare. "He just reacted in a way to ensure he was beloved in this new Cybertron and standing shoulder to shoulder with those responsible for saving it."
"Ah, so we're talking about 'that' he." Minimus looked down at the table to grab his drink, remembering with a frown that it had not yet been delivered. "And whatever Prime did in outer space, it's not something the kid would have done?"
Magnus continued to look down deep in his thoughts. "I suppose it's possible that he may have had to; even to those for whom life is sacred there are situations where killing is necessary; I've personally seen him take lives. Though, right or wrong, I can't see the kid forcing another being into servitude, no matter how badly we may need that being." The hulking white, blue and red robot marginally raised his optics to peer into those of Minimus Ambus. "But even had he followed the same course of action; it'd at least warranted a second thought in that head of his." Magnus leaned back and threw his gaze up at the ceiling in frustration. "Maybe I really am being a twat, but seeing that, it just seemed wrong, it seemed…un-Prime-like."
Minimus went silent for a few moments, his gaze vacantly cast straight ahead focusing on nothing. "Did you know that I learned the Mahpop Code when I was a few weeks old? It's a maritime numeric code, quite simple,"
"Yes, I'm familiar with it." Magnus replied absently. "It's how Emir Pax…well, former Emir Roller Pax is forced to communicate."
"Yes, it's what allowed me to communicate with him while we were looking over what we all thought was a dying Orion." Minimus said. "I lamented our folly in attending the Grand Convocation, and he beeped out something along the lines of 'if it's something Orion wouldn't do, it shouldn't be done'." Ambus looked up into Magnus's lowering optics. "I think any criticism of the legendary Guardian Prime and suggestion that another might be better suited should end with that. The wrong person might interpret what we're saying as potentially treasonous."
Magnus nodded. "Orion would be the last person to entertain suggestions that he be Prime."
"He was reluctant to take command of the Autobots too, and that turned out…well," Minimus shrugged, "I think I was trying to change the subject, wasn't I?"
"Of course." Magnus replied, nodding as the server returned and placed Minimus's vial of engex on the table. "Enjoy your drink, then let's go find a place better suited to figuring out a way of getting our kinsmen home."
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Lyndon Baines Johnson
"I've got civil rights leaders from all over the country filing into the East Room as we speak, waiting for me to tell them that Congress is going to pass the civil rights bill!" The American President snarled at the unseen assistants behind him as he entered the Oval Office. "So, get on the horn with every jackass over there that isn't a confirmed yes, and let them know that they will be voting this bill through!" With that he shut the door to give himself a much-needed brief respite from the weight of leadership. His long legs carried him across the room, around the Resolute Desk, where he fell into his chair.
"A noble endeavor, Mr. President, one long overdue." The voice coming from the bathroom jolted President Johnson upright in his chair, his eyes locked on the open doorway, his voice about to call out to the Secret Service agents right outside the door on the far side of the room when the impossible sight of a gray and white German Shepherd sauntering out of the bathroom into the Oval Office and giving him a casual nod paused his call for help. "What in the…"
"Please refrain from calling your guards, I mean you no harm." The dog requested.
"Whaaa…" realization finally dawned on the President. "Somehow I find that difficult to believe, after what your kind did to my predecessor."
"My species, but not my kind." The canine replied. "Based on our evaluation, President Kennedy was killed by a Predacon named Scourge. We are Maximals, the enemies of the Predacons and de facto protectors of your planet for the last million years."
"That's the type of story someone trying to kill me might be sellin'." Johnson replied skeptically.
"No, if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. If I wanted you captured, you'd be unconscious." The dog replied. "I assure you, I'm just here to talk."
"Just know I've got the Secret Service out there should you try to pull anything." Johnson warned.
"As long as you don't try to lift me by my ears, I think we'll be alright." The dog chuckled.
"Oh, fer Heaven's sake!" Johnson grumbled. "With everything going on in the world, how in the hell can you and everyone else be focused on the damn dog lifting thing!"
The German Shepherd chuckled a bit more before transforming into an eight-foot tall silver and blue robot with bits of furry dog parts hanging off him. "Maybe this will remove any temptation."
"Wow, you really pack a lot into that dog-suit!" Johnson exclaimed mildly with a chuckle.
"There's a degree of matter condensation involved in my transformation to beast mode," the robot replied, "not a lot with me, most of our crew were selected in part for our smaller statures to help us transform convincingly into native fauna with minimal condensation or expansion. Size adjustments require a fair bit of energy consumption."
"Yeah, yeah, we've gotten some intel regarding this particular technological advantage you aliens have." President Johnson interrupted. "The example given to me was how a twenty-foot robot could expand as he transforms to mimic a ninety-foot long jet with a wingspan almost that much."
"Possible," the robot nodded, "but such a degree of expansion would thin out the mass substantially. They might be only a bit less vulnerable than the human jets they're imitating."
"Right, while you shrinking to dog-size would make you denser in pooch mode, right?" Johnson asked, getting a nod. "See, I know a few things about you guys…" the human cocked an eyebrow at the metal being that was one foot eight inches taller than he was and vastly more massive.
"K-9, you can call me K-9". The robot answered the unasked question.
"Your name is K-9?" Johnson laughed. "Yeah, and my name is Hugh Mann. Or wait, no, I wanna be Tex Anne. Or wait…"
"It's obviously not my name," K-9 interrupted the human's ridiculing of his designation, "it's a code name I was given for use when using Earth languages."
"So, in Japan you're called K-9?" The President, still laughing, asked.
"No, obviously we're aware of the differing languages of your planet." K-9 sarcastically quipped. "In Japan I'd probably be something akin to Inu, or Max, or something equally inane."
"What brings you here today, K-9?" The President still chuckled a little at saying the name.
The robot took a very serious air. "To inform you of a likely threat to your planet."
President Johnson leaned back in his chair. "Is this related to an incident involving a rat the size of a dog and a car transforming into a fifteen-foot robot at an Air Force base in Florida a few months back?"
"I'm sure your radar picked up a city-sized spaceship lifting out of the water and leaving your planet's orbit as well." K-9 hesitantly added.
"Our radar and the eyeballs of a few hundred sailors and fishermen." Johnson added almost angrily. "Near as we can tell, Fidel didn't notice, thank Christ."
"To answer your question, yes, they're related." K-9 muttered.
"Was that The Manifest?" Johnson asked.
"Yes." K-9 replied sadly. There was a long stretch of silence before K-9 continued. "I'm not sure what Atrium has told you regarding The Manifest…"
"Just that it held your planet's greatest leader and heroes, and that this leader was mulling the option of turning our planet into a big metal ball, killing all organic life in the process." The American President answered angrily. "Is Guardian Prime alive?"
"We don't know." The robot replied. "Outside the giant rat, who has no idea of what went on inside the craft, we only had one other operative in that vicinity, and he went missing shortly before the launch."
"The carbot?"
"No, the missing agent was a Maximal you're not familiar with." K-9 clarified.
"OK, so the carbot wasn't one of you guys?" Johnson pressed.
"He was an agent from Cybertron trying to find The Manifest." K-9 explained.
"According to the reports I have, your rat was helping that agent out!" Johnson sat forward angrily and glared at K-9. "Thought it was your mission to keep your alien ilk from finding that damn ship!"
"I see Atrium has provided more than a few details to you." K-9 muttered before continuing. "You're right, our intent was to keep home-world and colonial Cybertronians from the Manifest and Ferrotaxis. This agent understood our concerns, claimed to even sympathize with them, and had no interest in the Ferrotaxis, but claimed that there was a catastrophe of sorts taking place on Cybertron that required the aid of The Manifest. One of our number, our rat, was swayed into helping him."
The President slumped back into his chair and pondered this for a moment. "So, best case scenario, Guardian Prime and his cohorts are long dead and plans for making Earth a big metal ball with them." He wiped his hand over his face. "But that's a longshot, isn't it?"
"It'd be unwise to count on such good fortune." K-9 conceded.
"Maybe whatever this catastrophe was on your planet took care of the Manifest." Johnson mused, a hint of jest in his voice.
K-9 shrugged and casually sent his gaze over the room. "Hard to say. The nature of this catastrophe was…well, it was difficult to believe, and even if true, our data on the potential threat was woefully lacking. No way to ascertain an accurate threat analysis."
"What was it, some sort of robot plague?" The human asked.
"No, it…it's difficult to define." The large robot replied, nervous and confused as to how to describe what he needed to describe. "Do you watch horror movies, Mr. President?"
The President gave the alien a confused look. "Not my cup o' tea, but I've come across a few."
"Well, imagine an army of zombies, led by officers that are vampires." K-9 replied with a shrug.
Johnson stared up at the robot with a look of annoyed disbelief. "I need for you to recognize that you just said an army of zombies led by vampires to the President of the United States."
K-9 smiled. "Believe me Mr. President, it sounds just as ridiculous to us. But Nightbeat,"
"So, it was Nightbeat." Johnson interrupted. "One of our agents met with him the day Jack was killed. The car he described seemed to be a match for eyewitness accounts in Florida."
"Yes, he was desperate to find the Manifest, we refused to help him, actually tried to detain him, so I guess it makes sense he tried to contact you for information." K-9 muttered. "His claims were that monsters of our distant past had returned, and that The Manifest was needed to fight them."
"Horseshit." Johnson grumbled. "Our planet may be destroyed over some horseshit ghost story? Utterly ridiculous." The President stood from his chair and walked around to look out the window behind it. "I would love to have that rat-bastard in front of me so that I could throw the switch on his lousy ass myself. I'm sure we could find a way to painfully snuff that spark of his."
"We're not going to offer you our comrade, but…" K-9 reached into a compartment on his frame and pulled out a crinkled-up folder thick with documents "perhaps this might be a better gift." He dropped it on the desk, noting the odd look the President was giving the unkempt folder. "My apologies for its condition, we're not used to dealing with paper."
"What is it?" Johnson asked as he walked back to the desk and opened the folder.
"The location and all information we have regarding the Ferrotaxis." K-9 stated.
The President spread a few pages out and studied them with an almost disbelieving look on his face. "Jumpin' Jesus, you mean the Iliad was right?"
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Sky Lynx
Guards lined the elevated platforms that circled the former hangar, current holding cell. He had been treated well since arriving here, a prisoner, but the cage was certainly gilded so to speak. It had seemed that he had gone from one set of masters to another, but at least these masters seemed to appreciate him a bit more, seemed to take him less for granted…for now. The massive creature looked up, away from the therapist that had been visiting him for weeks now and peered at the mounted and manned vamparc cannon positioned directly ahead of him. There were three others in this hangar, and from what he was told, a slew more outside should Sky Lynx manage to escape this structure. Gilded, but equipped with barbs to be sure.
"I'm sorry, would you like to end the session for the day?" The therapist, Rung, asked, breaking the massive combined creature out of his silent evaluations of his physical situation.
"No, I apologize Rung, I…I sometimes fail to ignore the arsenal aligned at me." The massive creature replied.
Rung nodded sadly and offered a genuine look of compassion. "I am sorry for this situation Sky Lynx; I genuinely hope and believe it to be a temporary measure. At this point you're still considered an unknown, potentially still loyal to the Quintessons, or even if not, still a threat to others."
"I had frequently fantasized about being rescued from slavery. There were even legends regarding a society of escaped slaves that sometimes raided the planets of former Quintesson customers to free captives and bring them to the Hub." Sky Lynx mused, almost wistfully.
"The Hub?" Rung asked with genuine fascination.
"A fantasy." Sky Lynx chuckled. "According to the legends of Cybertronian slaves, one like me, an ignis numen, had been sold to a civilization on a planet called Antilla, and was serving as a defense base for one of their larger jungle cities. In time this numen led an uprising and escaped with dozens of Cybertronian slaves. They stole a transport and set out to the stars, trying to find home, but having no idea where Cybertron was. Eons passed, many of them starved to death, but eventually they found a metal world with a star core," the massive beast smiled, "what you science types call an energy cluster, one that not only made an approximation of energon that could sustain them, but that also had a native population that was very similar to our own species, but which lacked anything like the numen leader."
"Does this numen leader have a name?" Rung asked, enthralled.
"According to legend his designation was Maximo." Sky Lynx replied. "Apparently this world had a multitude of small moons and other satellite structures that they arranged around the core world, this Hub, to act as defense as well the housing of countless solar harvesters. Each became habitable, and the Hub and its network became a utopia for escaped slaves and the native mechanoids." The beast's shoulders shrugged. "Or so the legend goes. At least in my fantasies where they rescue me, it would be true freedom, and not…" his gaze went up toward the weapons.
Rung sadly shook his head. "In time I'm certain that our leadership will see you as I do, a beautiful soul, another citizen of Cybertron simply looking to live in peace with the rest of us."
"Your leadership has no interest in my beautiful soul, and there's certainly no interest in me living in peace." Sky Lynx replied, stifling a bit of anger. "I am a weapon to them, Guardian Prime made that abundantly clear in our first meeting."
Rung nodded sadly. "You are viewed as more than just an asset, but yes, you are definitely considered a military asset at this time. Something we unfortunately need."
"Yes, the dragon." Sky Lynx mirthlessly chuckled. "I've faced it before, one of my earliest memories. Many of my kind fell never to rise again to down the giant mindless beast. Now it has an intellect, and I must face it alone."
"You aren't alone, you're not even the only giant." Rung replied.
"Yes, Omega Supreme." Sky Lynx muttered, falling into his memories. "So noble, so brave, so powerful. Far stronger than I, though even the two of us combined can't hope to be anything more than a distraction to the dragon."
"The Decepticons call him Trypticon," the booming voice of Guardian Prime echoed through the chamber as he marched into the vast hangar, "help me, and we may just have his equal to face off against him, leaving you to mop up common ground troops with the rest of us." Prime came to a stop next to Rung's chair, smiling down at the seated therapist before looking up and directing the smile at Sky Lynx. "And once the Decepticons are defeated, you'll be free to do whatever you want. Your affiliation with the Quintessons pardoned, a citizen of Cybertron with full rights. Nay, a hero of Cybertron, to be celebrated for as long as you choose to remain on this world." Prime looked back down at Rung. "I apologize for not coming sooner. I had to see another patient of yours off."
"So, the Ark has launched?" Rung asked, a hint of sadness in his voice.
"Just over an hour ago." Prime replied before looking back up and locking optics with the massive Sky Lynx.
"You expect me to leave once I have my freedom?" The combined beast questioned, circling back to the comments made directly to him a moment before.
"No, in fact I truly hope that you remain with us here." Guardian Prime nodded. "But I stated that to illustrate that once free, you may make your destiny wherever you choose. I'm sure that you've seen far more worlds than I, far be it from me to guess where your ideal home is." The smile faded and a serious and solemn look came over Guardian Prime. "I wanted to explain your current status, and to make clear our planned future for you, but I also wanted to apologize for how you were taken, and the words chosen when apprehending you…they were threatening, irresponsible and overall just thoughtless. More a beating of my chest than an offer to join us."
"The energon was raised in both of us at that time." Sky Lynx replied. "If servitude is truly to be my lot, then better it be with you than the gods…I mean Quintessons."
"I suppose it'll be tough to break a twenty-million-year habit." Prime replied with a smile, waving away the mistake of referring to the Quintessons as gods.
"Twenty-five, actually." Sky Lynx nodded.
"You don't look a day over a million." Prime chuckled, earning a hard glance from Rung. So, the doctor is sharing his notes with the Prime. Sky Lynx's narcissism had been referred to as his one fault countless times by his five-faced masters, but it was a fault they not only tolerated, but encouraged, frequently praising his beautiful form in all modes. He hadn't advertised it to the tiny therapist, but he had grown to be quite comfortable with this Rung, and as his guard fell, his arrogance regarding his appearance surfaced more than a few times. And because of it he would have to deal with ham-fisted hidden compliments from Prime and anyone else authorized to hear of his inner thoughts and personality quirks. "But if I could get back to me needing your help."
"The other star-sparks of this world." Sky Lynx nodded his massive bestial head.
"The legends I've heard suggest only Metroplex lives." Prime asked, clearly interested.
"By most measures, that's an accurate statement." Sky Lynx replied. "At least as far as I know. I have been to the Imperexium and the Quintaxium back when they were kept on Quintessa, prior to their relocation, and while any higher-level thought processes have long since gone, I knew that their sparks pulsed powerfully within. But it has been many million years since I've heard whisper of either of them."
"And Metroplex?" Prime asked eagerly.
"Oh, I've heard whispers." Sky Lynx replied with a toothy smile, but quickly lost the smile and nodded toward the mounted vamparc cannon. "But leave the vamparcs and threats here. You either talk him into leaving with you, or he won't be leaving with you no matter what you do."
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Hound
He stood, looking down over the vast, impossible beauty of this new world. All organic, like most life-bearing planets, and the absence of the mechanical lifeforms seemed to make it more fragile and beautiful. Hound was well aware that there were mechanical structures, vehicles and devices on this planet, millions of them, but all life to emerge from this vast orb was organic, and while there was plenty of ores within this Earth, it constituted far less of its make-up on Earth than on Cybertron, and nowhere did it emerge on the surface enough to be seen as part of the landscape the way it frequently did on Hound's home world.
The dark green Autobot shifted his gaze away from the forested valleys below, further downward to his feet and took in the rocks and snow beneath, rocks and snow that were a part of the summit of this mountain, Louwala-Clough. The natives to this region believed that a pair of brothers, god-princes, had warred here long ago over a beautiful woman they were both in love with. Their father, chief of the gods, was enraged at the destruction they were causing, and struck them all down, the warring princes forming nearby mountains, their maiden love, Loowit, forming the mountain the Aubotots had chosen to hide their craft within and that Hound was currently standing at the peak of. Humans from the continent of Europe arrived long after these legends had been established and renamed the peak Mount Saint Helens, the mountains that the mythic god-princes formed, Mounts Hood and Adams.
"Hey Hound, come in buddy." Jazz's voice emerged from his wrist communicator, speaking in English. It wasn't surprising, Pax had instructed them to start making themselves comfortable with the native languages, and Jazz, who'd expressed great enthusiasm for the mission after just minutes of researching Helios Three, was immersing himself in all things Earth as much as possible.
"Right here Jazz," Hound replied in the same language, the dialect matching one common to the nation they were in, "what's going on?"
"The last of the reconfigurations have been completed, and Commander Pax would like to address us all in the clearing leading to the cave we parked in." Jazz replied.
"On my way." Hound responded. He had been the first to undergo his Earth-mode alterations and immediately set out to explore this new world. He transformed to vehicular mode, something Ratchet had told him was called a 1960 Jeep CJ5 Willys, and sped down the bumpy terrain toward his comrades. Within minutes he was rounding his way around the outskirts of a moderately forested area and could see down into the clearing below. There he saw sixteen human vehicles, but as he'd gotten no notice of any sort of proximity alert, he assumed they were his comrades. Remote accessing Teletran One, the Ark's onboard computer system, he set upon identifying the vehicles and seeing if he could match them to the comrade.
The first he focused on was a larger vehicle, something Teletran One identified as a 1960 Austin A135 Ambulance, which given the coloration and function, was clearly Ratchet. Next he noticed a similarly sized red vehicle that was identified as 1963 Ford E-Series Cargo Van, and he decided to once again initiate his guess based on color. Not quite big enough to be Pax; they'd decided to forego size-shifting when selecting alternate modes. Too big to be Sideswipe, way too big to be Cliffjumper, Windcharger, or even Gears, who frankly had too much blue to be this van anyway. No, the answer was obvious, given the color, the size and frankly, the utter lack of speed and performance associated with this vehicle; it was clearly Ironhide. A predominantly white 1963 Porsche 911 caught his attention, a vehicle which could have been several of his comrades, but the voice of Jazz emerging from it as it chatted with other cars around it eliminated the mystery. A white and black 1961 Plymouth Savoy Police Cruiser flashed its emergency lights, something that caused Mirage's voice to emerge from the blue and white 1964 Ford GT40 and say "At ease Prowl" in Midwestern American accented English. Seemed appropriate modes for those two, and even more appropriate for the arrogant royal to speak that way to the higher-ranking Prowl, despite being an avowed Autobot.
Two Ferraris were revving their engines, a model year 1963 red 196 SP and a 1964 yellow 250 GTO. Given the similarities in car forms, their coloration and that they were right next to each other, Hound concluded that these two had to the spark-brothers Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Both vehicles were sleek, fast and were in most regard appropriate, but they seemed to lack the 'muscularity' of the twins' Cybertronian vehicular modes. Maybe they'd find something more appropriate in the future, but for now Hound figured they'd be sufficient.
A bit off to the side was a silver 1963 Jaguar E-Type Roadster, chattering away with 1961 black Chevrolet Apache Half-Ton pickup truck, a predominantly white 1963 Aston Martin DB5, a yellow 1963 Volkswagen Beetle, and a green and tan 1963 Landcruiser FJ45 Station Wagon. Bluestreak's voice was chattering out of the Jaguar in English, while occasional answers, in the same human tongue, came from the Aston Martin in Wheeljack's voice, the Chevy in Trailbreaker's voice, the Beetle in Bumblebee's voice, and Brawn's voice coming out of the Landcruiser. No real deductive feat in determining these four identities, but Hound was still happy to know who was who.
Which left just Orion, Roller, Gears, Cliffjumper, Huffer and Windcharger. As he rounded the final corner and entered the clearing with his comrades, he still didn't see anything that could be large enough to be Orion Pax, and if Orion wasn't there, chances are that Roller was with him and these remaining three unidentified cars and one truck were Cliffjumper, Gears, Windcharger and Huffer. The orange 1938 GMC COE tractor had to be Huffer and the predominantly blue with accents of red 1963 Ford F100 had to be Gears. Which left the remaining two small red cars, a 1963 Shelby Cobra and a 1963 Lotus Elan, to be Cliffjumper and Windcharger, and Hound wasn't entirely sure which was which. Finally giving up, he gently bumped the Cobra. "Watch it, Hound!" Cliffjumper grumbled, this statement also in English.
Mystery solved. "Sorry pal." The sound designed to mimic that of a large human diesel combustion engine emanated from behind the holographic wall hiding the vast cavern behind that they had created and parked the Ark in hours before. Seconds later Roller, his vehicular mode altered only to the point of now having seating for human-sized passengers, came speeding out, followed by a red and white 1960 Kenworth K523.
"Ha!" Sunstreaker belted out. "To think I was worried that the Commander of all people would pick a form more gorgeous than mine. Boy was I fretting over nothing. Even on this alien world, I'm still easily the most stunning of the group!"
"What's the term you usually use for him, Sideswipe?" Mirage asked. "Shower-bag?"
"He used that term for me once or twice." Prowl chuckled.
"Actually," Sideswipe chimed in, "an oddity of English speakers is that they tend to forego their own language's frontend for this term and go with the more Francocentric 'douche', so for this region of this world Sunstreaker is to be regarded as a douchebag."
"Ahhhhhhh." Not all, but most of the Autobots replied with feigned fascination.
"Assholes." Sunstreaker grumbled.
"Enough!" Pax commanded as he transformed to robot mode. "We are Autobots, and we are representatives of the government of Cybertron. We will behave as such." He strode into the midst of the cars and trucks. "All of you have names that either translate directly or for which a suitable alternative can be found in English as well as all other human languages. As I point to you, I want you to transform and call out your designation in English."
With that Orion began pointing, and names called out over the sounds of transformation echoed through the clearing.
"Prowl."
"Jazz."
"Ironhide."
"Ratchet."
"Bumblebee."
"Wheeljack."
His turn. "Hound."
"Mirage."
"Trailbreaker."
"Brawn."
"Gears."
"Douchebag's brother." Chuckles. "I mean Sideswipe."
"Asshole."
"Really, if that's the name you…"
"Enough!" Orion snarled.
"Sunstreaker."
"Windcharger."
"Huffer."
"Cliffjumper."
"Bluestreak."
"Very good, already guessed the translations for about half of you, and the other half's names make perfect sense." Orion smiled, then looked down at Roller. "One that front, my trueborn brother has a more common name than I, so his name is a direct translation. I present, Roller." Roller chirped up, his code a bit too fast for Hound to effectively follow. "My name was a bit trickier. I was named after a mythical hunter from the Nyonian wastes of ancient Cybertron, so I've settled on the name Broteas, a mythological hunter from ancient Greece." He looked down and smiled at his brother. "Roller and Broteas Pacific."
"Broteas Pacific?" Jazz asked, his voice making it clear he didn't think much of the name.
"It's not…terrible." Ratchet added, clearly of the same opinion as Jazz. "But I'm pretty sure we can do better."
"It's really not that important." Orion…or rather Broteas on this planet, stated. "More for the humans than for us, and if everything goes right, the humans won't know we're here."
"I've done a fair bit of research on the humans." Jazz replied. "Pretty sure they're not going to be overly fond of that mouthful if we ever do get to speaking terms with them."
"I'm afraid that the discussion regarding my name is going to have to be tabled for now." The Commander stepped forward as the trailer that he had hauled through the holographic cliff-face transformed into his command platform and a holographic image of the planet shot out from it. "We've received confirmation that a Decepticon reconnaissance and fuel acquisition team led by Starscream has been operating on this world for some time. It is our mission to shut them down, keep them from obtaining any more of the enhanced energon we've designated Ore-13, and if possible, do so without alerting the humans to our presence. We have a lot to go over."
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Ravage
The thing about 'dried' energon mines was that often they were not quite dry. The organization paying for the mining operation merely notices a prolonged reduction in output, a point on the calendar is determined where the diminishing returns are estimated to approach the cost to keep the endeavor going, and before that date the operation ceases and the mine is abandoned. For a short period afterward, the locals may raid the abandoned mine for whatever scraps they can find, and typically they'll find some abandoned equipment and a few shards of energon, but eventually even they won't find it worth looking through any longer. So, the mine, riddled with boreholes and supports and rusting tracks made of lower grade metal sits vacant for endless eons, despite still having high-hanging fruit buried deep within.
For desperate and determined individuals or small groups, these abandoned mines could serve as both shelter and sustenance if they were willing to work for it. The onslaught of sparkeaters roaming the planet made for many desperate and determined individuals, and abandoned mines wound up housing many trying to wait out the slaughter. They were a good option for the most part, the energon there was depleted enough to not attract the sparkeaters, the metal and stone walls of the mines were thick enough to hide even the most powerful sparks from detection, the tunnels allowed for hiding places and escape routes, and there was almost always more than enough energon for small groups. And with the monsters walking Cybertron, they almost never ventured out, which was why, months after their victory over the sparkeaters, there were still groups being discovered hiding within many mines.
This had been the case for this mine that Ravage was cautiously stalking into now. Based on the remains, smells and other stimuli, Ravage estimated that a party of eight had been subsisting here, surviving the horror of the sparkeaters, only to have been killed three days earlier. There were still a few remaining sparkeaters roaming the planet, but these eight had been killed by something else, though based on the condition of the corpses, whatever had killed them seemed just as feral and cannibalistic. The onyx mechanical feline skulked deeper into the depths, his olfactory senses picking up three other individuals, ones whose scents were comparatively new to the dead, but that were all over their victims. "What have we here, here?" The voice seemed to originate from roughly forty feet deeper within the cave, a part so dark that even Ravage's enhanced vision had difficulty making anything out.
The cat's ears however had no difficulty making out the quiet, yet not quiet enough movements of two others attempting to work their way into flanking positions on him. "I suggest ceasing all attempts to make me your prey. It would not go quite as it did with your other victims."
"They were neither victims nor prey." A form announced as it stepped out of the blackness of the edges of the cave and into shadows that for Ravage was a clear as daylight. The form was humanoid, roughly fifteen feet in height with a medium build, mostly black in color with a yellow torso plate and bits of purple thrown in, with yellow antennae and large translucent wings jutting upward from his upper back, likely useful for his alternate mode as they seemed unusable in robot mode. "We came as friends, seeking sanctuary, they welcomed us, then later turned on us."
"No, they didn't." Ravage calmly replied. "I have many skillsets and numerous functions, currently I am serving as a tracker. That requires keen senses and observational skills. The dead back there, they were not the aggressors in any way." The other two forms stepped out of the darkest reaches of the cave to reveal themselves, both similar in coloration to the first Ravage had seen, the one emerging to his left was roughly the same height as the first and a bit more heavily built, with some sort of horn or cannon pointing upward from behind his head, and the one coming from straight ahead, the first to speak with that odd tick at the end of the sentence given his position, was also roughly fifteen feet in height, medium build, with two silver pincer-like things mounted to either side of his head. Their approach wasn't overtly threatening, but there was some intended ominousness. Ravage smiled; he was not one to be intimidated. "My guess based on what I saw back there, you found a group still terrified that the sparkeaters were roaming the planet, you gained entrance and possibly their trust, and then for whatever reason, you set upon them." Ravage twisted his head just enough to nod back toward the carnage toward the front of the cave. "Savage, merciless and reasonably efficiently…at least for amateurs."
"Amateurs?" The rounder one with the horn behind his head questioned, his tone clearly implying that he felt slighted.
"Relax Bombshell, we are amateurs." The one with the wings countered to his comrade before directing his gaze back to the intruder. "At least in the sense that we have no formal training. But years of torture, being hunted, fighting Cybertronians and monsters that are far more than Cybertronians, surviving the unsurvivable, these things do tend to stand out on a resume, don't you think?"
"Killing empties struggling to simply exist doesn't stand out." Ravage casually shot back.
"We could kill a tracker with many skillsets-sets." The one directly ahead sputtered out threateningly.
"No, you couldn't." Ravage replied, his voice completely relaxed and confident.
"Shrapnel, that's very unnecessary, counter-productive and simply not nice." 'Wings' softly chastised his pincered companion before looking to the black Decepticon. "I apologize for my compatriot's threating comment, though you do seem to be oblivious to the predicament you'd be in should we three choose to create a predicament for you."
"I'm not an empty, nor am I an amateur." Ravage calmly replied. "If I can't defeat the three of you, I can certainly escape. But assuming your honeyed words are anything more than a poor attempt to get me to lower my guard, which I'm not assuming, but for the sake of argument let's say that they are, perhaps I too wish to avoid conflict. Perhaps I too see some form of…alliance; a mutually beneficial arrangement. A way to channel your savage efficiency toward the ends of my organization."
"We've really never been joiners-joiners." The one called Shrapnel came back and he took another step forward.
"I doubt you'd be asked to march in any military parades, Shrapnel." Ravage replied. "We'd simply point you at someone or something and you'd do what comes naturally to you."
"What if, hypothetically, one of us had aspirations of bettering oneself?" The bulkier Bombshell asked.
"Bettering yourself how?" Ravage sought clarification.
"I've always been a bit of a tinkerer." Bombshell answered. "The offer would be far more enticing were access to labs, equipment and so on be on the table, so to speak."
Ravage nodded. "Our second in command is the greatest living scientific mind. Scientific advancement outweighs nearly all other endeavors, and those who take part in that are regarded quite highly in our ranks." The feline peered intently at Bombshell. "Provided your work furthers our overall purposes, you will have the freedom, resources and encouragement you seek, Bombshell."
"What, no individualized recruitment spiel for me?" 'Wings' questioned with a chuckle.
Ravage sized him up and locked optics with him. "Knowing your designation may help me with honeyed words of my own."
"Ah, how impolite of me." The robot chuckled. "I'm Kickback, and you are?"
"Ravage," the Decepticon nodded, keeping his glowing red optics on Kickback, "and apart from my assumption that what comes naturally to Shrapnel comes naturally to you all," the three black, yellow and purple robots shrugged, nodded and chuckled in agreeing amusement, "deception, which you are clearly skilled at, is of great enough importance to our organization that it is the basis for our designation."
"Ahhhh, a Decepticon." Bombshell muttered. "Perhaps not killing you isn't such a bad option after all."
The comment got a dismissive chuckled out of Ravage before the dark feline turned back the way he came and nodded for them to follow. "Come on."
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N'Che
Neutral territory made sense, it wasn't something that could effectively be argued against, but it posed many problems. Especially against an unknown entity that was undoubtedly going to be an enemy in the very near future. According to the Council's associates, the Quintessons, the Cybertronians would always be a threat, but with the return of this Guardian Prime and his raids on planets in their Co-Prosperity Sphere, or whatever the hell that pretentiously named and thinly veiled empire of theirs was called, they were downright frantic. And the Galactic Council was more than a little alarmed by the apparent return of Cybertron's extra-Cybertron ambitions. N'Che was organic, very long-lived by organic standards, but one million years, the point where prior Cybertonian deep space excursions last existed, was well before his birth. He had found a few notes regarding the planet, most recently a few years back when researching the request of a Cybertronian named Nightbeat, but ultimately it was the Quintessons that provided the true wealth of information regarding these creatures.
The Quintessons frequently referred to Cybertron as Old Quintessa, and to hear them describe it the original Quintessa was an organic wonderland that in a short period of time spawned mechanical life that quickly overran the planet, turned on them, wiped out much of their population and forced the survivors into space. Apart from five faces and tentacles, the most identifiable trait of the Quintessons was their penchant for lying, this was something N'Che and other governing members of the Council were aware of even prior to doing what research into these claims they could. Even this origin of the mechanoids on Cybertron was a revision of earlier claims that the entire species was a population of manufactured automatons. But the lies regarding this version of ancient Cybertron did not end there by any means, based on the Galactic Council's own investigation Cybertron had held the unique distinction of being a world with a healthy mix of organic and mechanical life since well before the emergence of the organic species that would give rise to what they now knew as Quintessons. Like with other worlds spawning mechanical life, the spark-based creatures developed their own form of natural selection, the planet somehow able to evaluate some form of 'success' from the remains that rejoined the planet after death and attempting to recreate those traits, or at least that was the prevalent hypothesis provided by the Council's scientists. So, while the Quintessons were for a time the sole intelligent species native to the world, it was only a matter of time before mechanoids with higher intellectual functionality started to emerge.
The Quintessons' attempt to paint themselves as victims had been disputed by the little evidence the Council could find from Cybertron, as well as evidence from other worlds showing a vast slave market of Cybertronian mechanoids that had been active up until about fifteen and a half million years ago. No, the Quintessons were liars, they were cheats, their ambition knew no bounds, by all measures they were nothing short of evil; but they were easily contained. The current inhabitants of Cybertron likely weren't and were therefore the species the Galactic Council would likely have to see as an enemy in the not too distant future. But until that time, they all had to perform this diplomatic dance.
The Council had spent hours reinforcing and preparing this vast palace. It had been the seat of power for some province on the now extinct world of Neutronia. That it had once been a part of the Quintessons' economic empire had given them pause initially in approving it, but it was long vacated with still standing structures large enough to accommodate the larger species within the Galactic Council's member worlds as well as the Cybertronians. If nothing else, the name seemed to be appropriate for a world serving as a meeting place for species giving the appearance of trying to stay off hostilities. N'Che smiled to himself as he heard a slithering of tentacles behind him and remembered that neutral territory, truly neutral territory, posed many problems. The Galactic Council didn't like problems.
The expansive audience chamber before him stretched for nearly a mile, ornate but dilapidated carvings decorated the walls, pillars composed of rare recrystallized carbonate minerals lined the entire chamber, the floor a polished aurumium alloy that still shined once the eons of dust and debris was cleaned away; Creation-Burst, these Quintessons were ostentatious. The far wall had collapsed in some places, so the council had removed what remained that wasn't structurally essential and replaced what wasn't with a transparent metal. It was strong enough for the time being and would serve their purposes for this meeting and gave a clear view of the overgrown clearing leading to the palatial structure, where the Cybertronians were scheduled to be landing momentarily. There were mountains flanking and behind the citadel, and just beyond the clearing ahead was a salt-water sea. At one time there were roads cutting through the mountains, but even when Neutronia was a living and thriving planet and member of the Quintesson empire this location was difficult to reach. The Quints wanted those wishing to meet with them to work for the honor of an audience.
That realization made him smile again at the sounds of the tentacle swishing, now the increasing noise letting him know that the being behind him was approaching. N'Che turned and looked directly at the unpleasant-looking egg-shaped creature hovering toward him, the tentacles coming out of the creature's lower half dancing around the propulsor keeping the beast aloft and allowing him movement. The entity's frame stretched twenty feet from the propulsor underneath to the top of the 'egg', making it nearly a third larger than any other Quintesson that N'Che had encountered, and with the hovering put it nearly twenty-eight feet off the floor. "Lord Kledji, you know you shouldn't be here."
"I will be out of their robotic eyelines once the mutineers arrive." The massive Quintesson replied, followed by a head rotation, the new optics directing downward to lock onto the eyes of N'Che many feet below his own displayed optics. "I just need for you to realize the danger these beings pose. They've had millions of years to hone their rhetoric, they will no doubt sound reasonable, but make no mistake…"
"I'm well aware of the threat they represent." N'Che interrupted. "The Galactic Council is made up primarily of organic worlds and species, I am organic. Giant, immortal and vastly powerful robotic creatures with ambitions of cyberforming worlds is something we all take very seriously. I will not be assuming that these beings have peaceful intentions no matter how sweetened their words may be, nor will I be underestimating them in any way. That said, we will still be approaching this meeting with good intentions, and you will stay your whips until I deem it a failure. You understand this, right?"
"Of course, Lord N'Che." Kledji replied with a face-switch. "I will wait for your cue."
"Good." The four-armed, dark olive green N'Che replied as a buzz went off on his wrist communicator. He glanced at it and turned back to the Quintesson ruler. "They've arrived, you need to disappear." Kledji bobbed a bit, switched faces again, turned and hovered away, two of his dormant faces glaring lifelessly back at N'Che as he departed toward a rear room. N'Che watched him disappear into one of the back rooms before raising his wrist to his mouth. "Direct them where to land, greet them and send them on to me."
"Aye Commander." The voice replied just as N'Che switched off his communicator.
N'Che turned and strode up the handful of stairs leading to the dais that rose ten feet off the floor where whatever Quintesson Magistrate that ruled over this world eons ago would hover upon and look down on those he deemed worthy of his presence. As he ascended he heard the fourteen other members of the Galactic Council Governing Board approaching and taking their places on either side of the dais, but N'Che's focus remained straight ahead through the makeshift transparent metal wall that separated them from the fields where their guests would be touching down. Roughly three minutes later a large gray, yellow and orange freighter, one extremely robust and undoubtedly heavily armed, appeared cutting through the clouds and made its way to the clearing, not far from the coastline. It slowed to a near-hover over where it intended to land, when roughly sixty percent of the craft detached and fell to the ground, reconfiguring into a base of sorts as well as a very large tank. What remained in the sky reconfigured as well, now taking the shape of a far sleeker conical rocket which began moving again, circling around twice before settling into a landing within the base. "Even their bloody transports are reconfigurable." N'Che heard the Council's Finance Principal Uria-Eep, an Ilxian of similar height to him but far slenderer, spit out derisively. N'Che was far less dismissive of the craft's capabilities.
Within a moment a ramp to disembark was lowering as a port door opened and six hulking mechanoids came sauntering out, down the ramp and onto the ground below, the overgrown vegetation appearing like freshly cut grass compared to their giant frames. The Council had managed to do enough research that N'Che was able to recognize two of the six, the massive twenty-five-foot-tall orange and maroon Guardian Prime, and to his right was his second, the equally sized and built purple warrior Galvatron. The slightly shorter and notably leaner purple warrior with the forked helmet walking behind Galvatron was unknown, as was the bulky blue and white warrior behind him. Behind the Prime walked a twenty-three-foot-tall lean orange and gray soldier, and behind him marched a hulking twenty-one foot metallic blue and gray warrior with missile racks mounted over his shoulders. All were heavily armed with rifles beyond the armaments built into their frames, all but Galvatron, who wielded an axe in addition to the massive orange cannon mounted on his upper right arm. But as they reached the building, they disarmed as much as they could, the metallic blue individual even going so far as to unload his shoulder-mounted launchers. Only Galvatron's arm-mounted cannon remained, and given how he moved with it, it appeared as though he had long considered it an appendage; just another part of his body. N'Che was a little unnerved by the weapon being brought into his presence, but the Galactic Council had hidden weaponry lined throughout the room; he would not be at a disadvantage.
The Prime of Cybertron led his entourage into the vast audience chamber and marched toward the front of it. N'Che guessed that it required a bit of discipline for them not to just transform and cover the distance in vehicular mode, but they would have to realize that such action could be construed as aggressive. Whatever the case, they were soon coming to a stop a respectful distance before the dais and the governing body of the Galactic Council and Guardian Prime bowed his head and smiled at N'Che. "Commander N'Che, I have heard great things about you. I thank you for arranging this meeting."
N'Che smiled down from his elevated position at the Cybertronian leader, keeping his anxiety over the physical majesty and undeniable formidability of the species, and especially of their leader and his second from being displayed on his face. "It is the Galactic Council that is grateful for your quick response to our summons." N'Che studied Guardian Prime's face to see if the domineering comment caused a sting. Nothing from the Prime, but Galvatron made no attempt to hide the rage coming over his face. N'Che considered the possible benefits of needling Galvatron into a reaction but decided it would be best not to antagonize the one Cybertronian that hadn't disarmed himself, especially when that Cybertronian appeared every bit as powerful as the Prime. "And we realize that this location was difficult to travel to."
"It was not a problem, and we recognize the desire for a neutral location." Prime replied. "Though I have come across records suggesting that this planet was once under Quintesson control."
"Long abandoned." N'Che explained. "Or so we've been assured by the Quintessons." He noted the optic arc, impressed by the pliability allowing such movement of the otherwise dense metal that made up their frames. "Yes, we are in regular contact with the Quintessons. In fact, it was their request that we intervene."
"We feared as much." Guardian Prime responded solemnly. "Cybertron would benefit from an ongoing relationship with the Galactic Council, but our interactions with the Quintessons is a private matter. There is a history between our two species, and whatever transpires between us and the Quintessons is none of the Galactic Council's business."
N'Che held the robot's gaze unflinchingly. "I don't doubt there's a history, nor do I doubt that there's some degree of justification in your aggression toward the Quintessons."
"Though such history is millions of years in the past," the Ilxian Uria-Eep interjected, "and as you retain control over the world of both species origin, I have difficulty seeing any of this justification for your attacks."
Guardian Prime smiled graciously before replying. "There may be a natural disconnect preventing some understanding as to what we're doing and why, as well as a lack of information. The Galactic Council is made of primarily of organic, mortal species. The concept that one should not be held accountable for the sins of their forebears is a prominent philosophy in much of your dealings, as it should be. But for the Quintessons, that doesn't really apply. The sins of fifteen million years ago and beyond weren't perpetrated by some long dead generation, those individuals continue to live, continue to thrive, and continue to scheme against our world. And the actions they took millions of years ago aren't just faded memories. Four years ago, creatures they designed to wipe out our species that had been trapped for fifteen million years escaped and ravaged our planet until very recently. Millions upon millions of our citizens were wiped out, our society and culture laid waste. The Quintesson legacy, their evil, is still very much felt, and our control over our world is more precarious than it's ever been. And these attacks on Quintesson territories aren't vengeful lashing out, they're rescue missions. They still have mechanical Cybertronian lifeforms, sentient beings, enslaved in eternal servitude. We cannot abide that, and frankly I would be surprised to hear the Galactic Council suggest we do." Prime leveled his intent gaze upon N'Che's eyes. "And I welcome any skepticism you have regarding these claims. We have proof of every utterance I've just made ready for your evaluation."
N'Che smiled and nodded. "There won't be a need for that. We're familiar with the Quintessons' capability for treachery, and we've done a little investigating ourselves into your situation, and what we found would seem to corroborate what you've just told me. But we have some concerns that even your justifications can't simply do away with. Foremost, a war between Cybertron and the Quintesson Pan Galactic Co-Prosperity Sphere would spill over into non-Quintesson, non-Cybertronian territories and create a level of collateral damage that would leave non-involved species extinct and innocent planets uninhabitable. And secondly, our research suggests that the Quintessons aren't the only party here capable of treachery." The acting Commander of the Galactic Council took a deep breath. "We have uncovered evidence of something called a Ferrotaxis, and a general description of what it's designed to do. Such a device…a horrific facilitator of extinction and evil at a magnitude rarely seen in all the histories of all the star systems, is something that most definitely makes your extra-Cybertronian interests our business."
Prime, to his credit, did not feign surprise, he merely looked down knowingly and contritely and nodded. "You have every right to fear the Ferrotaxis. It was a device designed well over a million years ago by our foremost scientist. He was brilliant, but unfortunately, I came to realize he was also a sociopath. He saw this as a way of sustaining our species should it ever grow beyond the capability of Vector Sigma, the energy cluster at the core of Cybertron and our source of sustenance. I and every other member of our government immediately saw the evil that it was and banned any further work on it. There's evidence that this scientist may have continued with his research in private against my direct orders, but he has since passed away and all work on the Ferrotaxis that we've come across has been destroyed. We Cybertronians do not claim to be devoid of evil individuals, no sentient species can make that claim, but unlike your tentacled associates, we have never made such evil our policy."
"I appreciate the explanation, and truly hope that what you say is true." N'Che replied. "But it would be beyond negligent of me to simply assume all that is true. Precautions must be taken, the worst must be prepared for and if there's a way of avoiding it, those measures must be taken."
Prime nodded. "I see. So, what is it that you're telling me?"
"Your planet is yours." N'Che answered. "Enjoy it, rule it as you wish, but you will remain there. Should there be a need for you to leave your system, contact us to discuss the matter. If there's something reasonable for you to have that is outside your system, the Galactic Council would be happy to supply you with that. We will also make it a priority to seek out, rescue and return any Cybertronians in servitude anywhere in the galaxy. And should evidence of planned or initiated Quintesson aggression come to your attention, present it to us and the Council will aid you in any way needed. But the prospect of Cybertronian expansion to any degree is something that the Galactic Council cannot accept. We recognize that we are asking a lot of you, and we will reward your compliance generously, but non-compliance will result in swift and brutal action, and that's something we all wish to avoid."
Prime, as well as all his comrades displayed a smile, and Prime nodded as he replied. "We certainly have no interest in conflict with the Galactic Council, but we will not be told what we can or cannot do by you. Whatever warnings you've received from charlatans purporting to be our first Prime, we have no imperial ambitions. True, there were colonies made in ages past, but no sentient beings were involved, they were feral worlds beneath the notice of your Council then and should remain so now."
"Are you sure it's wise for you to reference a break-in and theft of Council property conducted by your agent?" N'Che interrupted.
Guardian Prime shrugged. "Nothing was stolen, and the break-in was only necessary because you lied directly to Nightbeat's face, and not convincingly enough for someone as astute as him." Prime adopted a polite smile. "That this lie was intended to keep me from ever being reactivated is something I'm willing to overlook, but as I was saying, as generous as they are, Cybertron will not be accepting your terms. Our conflict with the Quintessons will continue until every last Cybertronian is rescued and returned home. This includes several large beings, some four to five times my height and immeasurably more massive, and even a few that are the size of a mountain. We will not be deterred from this mission by you or anyone, regardless of what fears you may have. I hope that you can come to accept this, but either way, we're going to do what we need to do. Fare well, N'Che, Acting Commander of the Galactic Council." With that Guardian Prime turned and headed back toward the door that he had first arrived through, followed by his entourage of massive robots.
N'Che watched them cross the floor, reach the door, exit, collect their weapons and start walking back across the overgrown meadows toward their rocket base in the distance. As he watched he heard the whipping tendrils hovering toward him from behind. "They're yours." He stated without turning to face the emperor of the Quintessons.
"Engage." He heard the cruel voice order to his remote subordinates.
The Cybertronians were halfway across the clearing when they suddenly looked skyward and raised their weapons. The Council leadership marched forward to get a better view of what was beginning to happen and watched the Cybertronians open fire and blasts erupt around their positions. N'Che's attention was then drawn to the shoreline as dozens of metal monsters started emerging from the water and marching out onto the land. They looked like round predatory fish except that they had arms and legs. But that development was immediately overshadowed by another reconfiguration by the Cybertronian base, only this time it didn't transform into the large freighter that they had arrived in, it was now a hulking humanoid robot that stood over one hundred twenty feet in height. "Holy Physis, what is that?"
"Omega Supreme." Lord Kledji answered from behind the Galactic Council leadership. "We anticipated such involvement."
They were now close enough to see the attacker from the clouds, an odd structure that appeared to be a naval battleship of sorts with a massive locomotive linked to the rear of it, which should not be flight capable, but it apparently was. It volleyed another wave of ordinance toward the Cybertronians before separating, the battleship landing in the sea and the locomotion landing on a mountain off to the north, it immediately running down the mountain toward the Cybertronians in the distance. The shark-creatures tried to swarm this Omega Supreme, but several stomps dissuaded their attack on him, and they charged around him toward the other Cybertronians. The battleship sent a barrage at the giant robot, who looked to it and returned fire from his own left cannon-arm, the shot landing just shy of the ship but the power of his blast nearly capsizing the giant vessel. Lighter ordinance started bouncing off the giant robot's back, ordinance fired from the train speeding toward him.
"Sharkticons, no prisoners." Kledji ordered to his distant soldiers. N'Che watched as they attempted to swarm the Cybertronians, but the two that had been positioned behind Galvatron transformed to jets of some sort and took to the sky, raining death down on the swarms of monsters. The metallic blue brute that had been behind Guardian Prime transformed as well to a missile truck and also unloaded on their assailants, leaving Prime, Galvatron and the orange and gray Cybertronian in robot mode to fire at them with their rifles, and in Galvatron's case, arm-mounted cannon. Guardian Prime's marksmanship was flawless, each discharge of his weapon a headshot that left the beast dead. The orange and gray robot was a good shot as well, but death wasn't guaranteed with his shots as they were with Prime's. Galvatron's attacks were something altogether different though. This cannon was astounding, something on par with fusion weaponry but N'Che had never seen such power in so compact a weapon. Each blast rendered multiple of these Sharkticons dead or inoperative, and the attrition rate of the Quintesson's monsters was crippling. But the distance between them had been cut, and the Cybertronian missile tank was forced to transform back to robot mode, and the robots now had to fight close quarters against these things.
But the expectation of the creatures overrunning these Cybertronians was quickly dashed. All four were effective combatants, but Guardian Prime and Galvatron displayed a level of physical strength, speed and durability that seemed impossible, even for twenty-five-foot-tall mechanical beings, and their combat skill was as good as any humanoid martial artist he had ever seen. Despite the numerical odds against them, it was quickly becoming clear that they would be walking away from this ambush with little more than scratches, especially with their two airborne comrades still wiping out the Sharkticons in droves. The goal had been a discreet eradication of the Cybertronian leadership; with each passing second that seemed less and less likely.
N'Che looked to the giant fighting a two-front battle against the two giant Quintesson vehicles and was dismayed that the two vehicles seemed to have abandoned the advantage offered by dividing the attention of the massive Omega Supreme and were converging at a point on the coastline. "What in the void are they doing?"
"Watch, Commander." Kledji replied, his voice a mix of both excitement and fear.
With that the two vehicles seemed to stand upright on end, reconfigure slightly, and the front ends folded over to almost appear as arms of sorts. They then connected with each other, and a head emerged from the top of the torso. It stood every bit as tall and robust as Omega Supreme. N'Che exhaled. He should be disappointed, but relief was by far the more prevalent emotion. "Construct or Cybertronian slave?"
Kledji chuckled. "At this point does it really matter, Commander? Look down on me all you want, but you know the Cybertronians must be stopped, regardless of any ethical dilemmas you may have regarding the means by which we stop them."
"He'd just better handle the Cybertronian giant and have enough left over to pick up the slack from your useless fishbots." N'Che grumbled.
"He will." Lord Kledji was less than convincing as they watched the two giants lock up and then begin battering one another. The two immense robots appeared evenly matched in terms of strength and durability, but Omega Supreme seemed to have some level of rudimentary combat skill while the Quintesson giant seemed to have virtually none. In a matter of a couple minutes Omega Supreme was already gaining a discernable advantage, and soon the other giant was toppling to the ground. Lord Kledji, who had by this point hovered forward to be next to N'Che, switched faces as his tentacles slithered frantically. "Useless piece of shit! Ignore the giant, target and kill the Prime! Do it now!"
The grounded giant nodded at hearing the order and struggled to get to his feet. N'Che considered something as he watched and turned to Kledji. "Open the line to your giant, I want to hear everything he hears." Kledji hesitated for a moment but complied.
The sounds of thrashing could be heard as the hulking brute scrambled toward the Cybertronian leader. The smaller Cybertronians opened fire, but ultimately their defense was unnecessary as Omega Supreme stomped down heavily on the upper back of the giant, forcing him down to the ground, and lined up the huge cannon that was his left arm with the back of the downed robot's head. "Cease movement! You are defeated!" The thunderous voice of Omega Supreme bellowed out through the speaker mounted on Lord Kledji's frame. "Surrender, and you will return home with us and be a slave no more!"
"We are constructed creatures!" The downed giant bellowed back. "We belong to our masters! Be grateful and return to them, given them back what you've stolen!"
N'Che watched as Guardian Prime approached the defeated giant's head and seemed to study him before the Cybertronian leader addressed the fallen giant. "This will be your only chance to renounce the Quintessons and accept our offer of freedom. You will either be a valuable ally, or you will be removed as an enemy."
"Old Quintessa will be restored!" The pinned giant growled.
Guardian Prime looked up at Omega Supreme, and his voice came through the speaker on Kledji's egg-shaped frame. "Brain death."
Omega Supreme looked stunned. "But Prime, in time we could get through to him."
"I disagree." Prime countered. "And we don't need to take the chance. Brain death but do it in a way that will leave the spark pulsing for at least a few days. I have a work around." He stared at the giant as Omega Supreme hesitated. "NOW!" Omega Supreme's shoulders slumped, and he opened fire on the downed robot. The frame went limp. "Well done Soldier. Transform to freighter mode, we'll strap him to you. This guy is coming home."
