Diomedes lighted to the ground, and fell to his knees. His men were dead. He had gone in with eleven Wingblades. He had returned with three. They would never fly in beautiful formation again. Not the comrades they had once known. Not the glorious, loyal, capable unit that had made it through the war with him. Not his soldiers. Not his friends. The great albatross hung his head, and was silent.
As a human, Moonhunter had known the sense of utter dread witnessing a battle fought against someone that he himself was powerless to stop. Watching the Wingblades fight, and be slaughtered by, Streak harkened back to his first encounter with the Transformers race.
A triad of Seekers were attacking his home city - part of a world-wide campaign as part of a tactical ploy to stretch the Autobot forces thin, he would learn later. Kerry Vasquez was a junior firefighter, just a trainee who had no right to be out in the field yet, but the city had called in every single person they could to work in the crisis. He and his teammates were fighting desperately to keep the fires from spreading to the power plant. Their struggles would have been in vain were in not for the intervention of the Protectobots. Through his mask he watched, utterly stunned, as the five Autobots merged into the giant Defensor and extinguished the fire practically with a wave of one hand.
Just as he was about to rejoice in their victory, the Decepticons returned, pounding into Defensor's back with their missiles. He decided there was only one course of action. Ripping off his gear, he commandeered a firetruck and drove it right into one of the Decepticon's legs, working faster than his brain could come to its senses. But he was not suicidal; the whole point of this was to survive - he jumped out at the last minute. The kamikaze truck served as nothing more than a distraction to the alien war machines, but it was enough for Defensor to rally and make a counterattack. As a human civilian, he had not been able to fight the Decepticons, but he had helped the Autobots to do that for him.
It seemed, however, that the being now known as Moonhunter had run out of his luck at long last. He watched the battle above him, pistols drawn, cursing at his inability to get a shot. He couldn't risk hitting the Wingblades. But as they fell one by one, he didn't know what to do. He had always been one to take initiative and do what had to be done, but for the first time in his long life he didn't know what to do. Responsible for the lives of hundreds of colonists and fighting an entity he did not completely understand, he was simply out of his league. Everyone had a limit, and Moonhunter had surpassed his.
Somehow, though, it seemed Streak had too. Unable to grow any longer, the two remaining aerial fighters somehow managed to beat him down close to the ground. Moonhunter looked down at his pistols, knowing how ineffective they would be. As quickly as possible he stored them away and reached back to draw his more powerful rifle, which he had just installed onto himself for just such an occasion. But before he could bring it to bear, he saw Streak's legs explode, then his arms. Moonhunter glanced to his side, just in time to see Crosshare take the killing shot into his friend's spark core.
As their friend dropped his rifle, Moonhunter signaled the rest of the troops to cover him and he slowly moved in to where Streak lay limp. He had no idea what to expect and kept his rifle trained on him at all times. Every instinct told him to rip into the body with more shots, but somehow it didn't seem right. For all Streak had done, he had still been a member of his team, once. And call it human superstition, but he didn't want to defile the body any more than it already had been.
Streak's optics came back online, but the images they provided were fuzzy. He had landed face-up, but his stolen wings had been snapped. He didn't look much like himself anymore, between the horrible burns and slashes mutilating his face and body, his bullet-amputated limbs and his feathered wings. This thing...it had used him up, it had empowered him and then abandoned him in his moment of need. That thing! He had felt it turn its attention away from him as the sniper round pierced his spark. Whatever it had been focusing on before when it had turned its back on him, it was doing that again, now. Anymore, though, he didn't have the will to redirect its power to heal his broken body. He was finished.
He turned to look at the barrel of a gun being pointed at his face. He gave a cracked, pitiful smile, raising the stump of his upper arm an inch in greeting. "Looks like you're better," he croaked, hydraulic fluid draining from the corner of his mouth. The commander looked as good as new. "Didn't figure you for the cunning type, you tricky slag." The words were harsh, but his tone would have friendly and sarcastic but for the exhaustion and pain in it. He laid his head down on the grass.
"That, up there? That's why I became a Maximal. The Predacons ordered a human slaughter. I did it, and I hated it. No challenge. No sport. So pathetic, to be the killer or the killed. Such a joke..." his sentences were short and clipped, he was having trouble speaking. "Makes me sick. Same as this one did...I don't enjoy fighting...when it's that easy. The power left me at the end. Stopped helping. Left me alone to die." He gave a trembling, sardonic smile... the smirk he was always known for. "Else I'd still be up there, mixing it up. I-" his voice cut out for several seconds, giving static, before switching back on. He was blown up and scrapped and dying. He wouldn't last longer than a few more moments. Various clangs and pops and whirring sounds coming from his insides told the tale... systems were shutting down, burning out. There wasn't long. He tilted his head to look straight at Moonhunter, and gave him a solemn frown.
"I'm about offlined, Hunter, so I've gotta talk fast. This thing inside, it talked to me during the fight, as it was leaving. I think it told me more than it meant to. I know it's a nanocomputer, only a few molecules across. Way beyond our level, subatomic stuff, most of it I don't understand. It was created to fight interstellar wars for another race that was in this system a long time before we were... it takes control of any mass it can touch, and restructures that to do its dirty work. It can turn almost anything into almost anything else, and there's no limit to how much it can control, except that it's all gotta be touching the core body: it can't control things remotely. This one remembers a time when it controlled the mass of an entire planet."His voice cut out again, followed by loud static, but through force of will he concentrated enough to get his next message through.
"It's...it's serious business, Hunter. Its creators knew what a mistake they made, and managed to corral these weapons on this planet, where the radiation stops them from enslaving surrounding mass. It's the only thing that stops them. If it touches us...our bio-mass protects the computer just like it protects our systems. It's why it can steal your body parts and fix mine...it's why I got infected when the miner's stupid prank pierced me with a stalagmite. A living Cybertronian can compete for control, like I did, so he kills first before absorbing them. He has access to all of my knowledge, I..." He had a lot to say. It was totally by accident that he had come by this information - the program was unaccustomed to protecting information from a co-dominant intelligence - but now he knew that it would be the Zeta colony's only hope... they had to know what they were dealing with.
"It's still in here planning something big, Hunter, I can feel it. I'm dying, but it won't die with me. Light me up before it comes out, or run away." He forced himself to wear his old, mean-spirited smile. He refused to go leave the world any other way. He wanted to tell the hare something, but his optics had gone out entirely at this point, and he didn't know where he was. "Tell Crosshare I'm sorry, you Maxi scrap-heap." He let the lids of his non-functioning eyes droop; he was exhausted, and he was ready for whichever came first: the Maximal fire, or the slow death of his own systems. His vocal systems finally gave up the ghost, and he felt everything inside begin to shut down. At this rate, he wouldn't feel what came next at al-…
Crosshare looked on with glassy optics as Streak spoke his finally rattling words, which fell on his deaf ears. So he'd done it. He'd killed his friend, knowingly and willingly. Crosshare had ended the fight. He'd ended another sentient life. He used to keep score of his kills, back before.Streak had once asked him about how many Predacon's he had killed. Funny that.
Crosshare fought his demons and won. Streak fought his and lost. He'd been felled by Crosshare's own hands. Had he betrayed his comrade? Had his comrade betrayed him? Had Streak really become that thing reborn? Was this even reality? Perhaps just some twisted fantasy? A phantom world crafted by Crosshare's own diseased imagination forged by guilt as a personal hell?
No... no that would be too easy, too clean for what he deserved. A nice thought though.
"I'm… sorry too, Streak." Moonhunter wanted Streak to know, wanted him to understand that he hadn't wanted this, any of this. He had been one of the few who had actually appreciated Streak - the old Streak - for his virtues. These past weeks would be remembered as nothing but a tragedy in the highest order, for Streak's victims… and for Streak himself. Treachery and murder had always enraged him past the point of forgiveness… but today… he could feel nothing but sorrow. But he couldn't tell Streak that. He didn't have the words. He had tried to make him understand before he had gone down this road, and now it was too late.
He listened as Streak said his final words, and listened well. He didn't know if he could believe what Streak said. At this point he had little to gain from lying, but he had also proven that his mind had not been the most stable these past weeks. He wanted to believe that his trooper hadn't been responsible for his rampage. But if what he said was true, then this was not over, not unless he took further action. Moonhunter lowered his rifle slowly. The choice should have easy, but it wasn't. He slumped visibly, spying a glance at Crosshare. As Streak's closest friend he wanted to pass the burden onto him, but he couldn't; the scout was practically catatonic. It wouldn't be fair anyway.
Moonhunter surveyed the fallen corpses strewn throughout the woods around them, the wounded being tended to by Lightfang and her partner Jumpstart. He had to remember, couldn't forget what this was all about. Preventing deaths. He hadn't done a very good job so far, but perhaps there was still time for them all to gain some redemption. He turned around, surveying his unit. Streak's former teammates. One in particular stood out. "Flare!" he called out. This Maximal had a flamethrower weapon that spewed flames at several hundreds of degrees Celsius. He almost chocked on his next order as he stepped away from Streak for the last time: "Light him up."
The fire bathed the dragonfly's mutated, mutilated, and scrapped body. The fires raged, and the chitin began to crack, pop, and melt. Still, the body was not dead. It was simply making the final changes. In raging fires, it was not unusual for components of the burning object to explode at random, often caused by an internal object heating up and expanding more quickly than its outer coating. In this case, the thing that had lurked inside of Streak waited for that occurrence to launch three specialized structures as detritus from the wreckage of Streak's body. A thin thread connected each structure, too thin to be readily spotted by those intent on the blaze.
The structures were exceptionally narrow needles, narrow enough to avoid detection by warning systems once they had pierced the external armor of three Maximals. The program had designed these structures for a very specific purpose. The thread connecting them also connected back to Streak's burning body. Rapidly, the Maximals' mass came under its control, and before they knew what was happening, the spark chambers surrounding their most crucial components constricted brutally, killing them all. Its control over them wasn't so perfect that their anguish could not be seen, however. The rest were aware a moment before its plan reached fruition.
Flare turned around to the other members of the security team, and let loose with his flamethrower, engulfing them in fire. The other two Maximals walked into one another, slamming into one another before the sickening noise of their metals melding and twisting themselves could be heard. Flare backed up slowly into this chaotic contortion of bodies. The thread that connected them to Streak grew in thickness and strength, until it pulled his burning mass into the maelstrom of parts that the rest of them composed. While their arms, legs, and torsos swam in a repulsive mass of biological and metallic flesh, Flare's flamethrower remained untouched, unleashing his river of flame while the change took place.
Uncaring optics absorbed the sight of Streak's structure being engulfed by searing tongues of flame, melting and deforming the metal that was once the scout's friend. What was the purpose of this? Judgment, condemnation of the fallen flyer? Why did they do this? Crosshare knew not.
Then Flare spun about, blasting his team with fire. The twisted dance that followed forced the scout back into the realm of reality, growing to comprehend what was happening. A burning, hulking mass born of the nightmares of monsters and madmen rose up like wickedness given shape. That alien force, that evil thing responsible for this whole miserable affair, was not dead.
"No," Crosshare choked out. His hand crept toward his rifle.
"No," The stock still felt warm as Crosshare grasped it.
"No," Crosshare jerked the weapon from the ground and fixed the butt on his shoulder, looking through the scope at the flaming mound of withering corpses.
"NO MORE!" Driven by pure rage, Crosshare unloaded countless bolts of energy into the burning behemoth, ripping apart its internal workings and breaking down connections. The hail of weapons fire piercing it proved far too much for even its impressive regeneration capabilities. With a final shudder, the beast collapsed and melted away into nothingness, leaving only a burnt and bare area of land in its wake.
Afterwards, Crosshare was hailed as a hero by the Maximal's and human's alike. He started therapy sessions to help handle his own fear and guilt complexes and eventually became one of the bravest of all the expedition members!
Of course those things were prevented from happening by one crucial factor: the Universe really loved to jerk him around. As Flare's flamethrower was waved about, the flames had burned through an overhanging branch which proceeded to fall and smash right into the barrel of Crosshare's rifle, forcing it out of his grip with the butt of the gun slamming into his jaw.
Spots of color danced before his optics as he regained his bearings enough to look down at the fallen branch and his weapon pinned beneath it.
The sad thing about this whole affair was, Streak had believed he wielded power beyond measure, taking lives like some predatory bird, but as soon as he had become surplus to the creature's requirements, he had been given a short, sharp lesson that the power had wielded him.Foolishly, as Moonhunter watched Streak's remains consumed by the blaze, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Was it well and truly over, finished? He wanted to believe so. He had seen enough comrades die screaming today. But he should have known - it never ends! And now, unfortunately, they would be the ones to reap the whirlwind.
Unable to watch the fiery pyre, Moonhunter began to walk away. With his back turned, he was unable to witness the murder of three more of his men, their bodies taken over and turned against their comrades. He heard the fwooshof flame, turning around just in time to witness a hellish inferno of body parts merging into each other and Streak. He had to jump back to keep from being singed himself. No! It was supposed to be dead! What was this foe? Could it even be hurt? Moonhunter looked back into his surviving forces, wondering if he had any right to put them through more. For the first time in a long while, he considered retreat. But, he supposed, it would be better to fight and die - than allow this creature to grow stronger and slaughter the rest of the galaxy.
He saw Crosshare motivated into action but stunned by a falling branch. Well, he was proud of the scout for his effort. Moonhunter knew he had to get him out of here alive. Could he do no less? It was time they made a stand. He never did want to live forever, anyway. "Quick! Before it can eat any more of our friends!" Moonhunter shouted as loudly as he could, drawing his rifle once more and riddling the fiery cluster with lethal bolts of energy. "Give it the worst case of indigestion its ever had!"
Fire raged, but the amorphous exterior of the being quickly gained immunity to fire. Lasers poured in, and it was damaged. With only this much mass, it understood that it could not win, despite the preemptive bout of flame it had poured onto its assailants. Quickly, it dedicated a transformer's worth of mass into the production of one great lever-like limb, a freakishly robust leg, which it used to kick itself a quarter mile into the air. Diomedes flew after it, but his weapons could not pierce the thing's mutant hide on their own.
Something terrifying was beginning to take shape out of that swirling mass. Arms and legs were beginning to sprout in a nightmarish mimic of Cybertronian form. Great gossamer wings-the design clearly stolen from the deceased Streak - sprouted from the rippling flesh of what must have been the creature's back, and they shuddered into life, beating the air into a hurricane roar, and tearing off into the distance. Laserlights from Diomedes' weapons and those on the ground followed after it, blowing pieces of its changing shape away as it retreated, but the Maximal hide it had taken had since become something much more durable, and it had not been shot down.
TO BE CONTINUED.