Transformers: One

by DoctorDoMk2

A million-year-old conflict is reignited in a strange land as the universe stands on the cusp of change. The crew of the Ark and Nemesis awaken once again, but what they discover about the world around them will redefine factions and signal an end to their old ways of life, once and for all. In the end, the Transformers will adapt to this new paradigm - as will Earth itself.

2. Exodus Part One: The Battles You've Won

Author's Note: This is a reupload of my longest story at time of this writing (5/5/2022), Transformers One, the introduction of the Transformers into the Entireverse. Following me being locked out of my previous Fanfiction account, I've had some time to think about the future of the Entireverse and the direction I'd like to take it in going forward. We have seen a little hint of this with my earlier upload of Poker Faces to this account, my brand-new Archive of Our Own one, and some new character profiles over on DeviantArt. It's a big job and life is tough, but I'll keep writing and drawing for the pleasure of it, fear not.

Anyway, here's Transformers One, all ready for consumption on an account that I've taken measures to protect this time around. Please enjoy!

- The Doctor (Do)

---

The Cybertronian landed badly on a portion of his superstructure that really wasn't meant to be jostled in such a fashion. He felt something break, and a new spike of pain exploded in the sensitive joint. It didn't pass, though, instead deciding to die down to an uncomfortable sensation much akin to having a knife stuck up to its hilt in his flesh. He knew what that felt like because he actually had several blades sticking out of his body at the moment, the smallest barely more than a toothpick in his mechanical hands, the largest someone's handheld collapsible sword that they hadn't been able to recover after his latest battle.

"You'll remain here until our new . . . allies say otherwise," the Cybertronian's former second-in-command said impassively. His bulky frame was ominously silhouetted in the dim light streaming from the hallway outside. The uncharacteristic moment of hesitation in this mech's voice did not go unnoticed. "In the meantime, they will decide your fate."

"Pretty fitting for a traitor and a misleader, eh, boss?" a second, deeper voice growled. This one, the deposed Decepticon leader recognized as well. It belonged to General Brawl, the longtime commander of the mighty Decepticon Army; specifically, the unstoppable Infantry division. Even the lowest, most inexperienced Private under Brawl's command had turned against the 'bot who now lay dejected in the cell.

In the past, the Leader may have come up with a withering retort or possibly an impromptu beatdown, just to remind Brawl who was boss. But the fire had left him, probably for good, and instead he merely dropped his gaze to the floor.

The Infantry commander snorted. "That's what I thought."

"We will attempt to salvage what we can from the remains of your empire," the first mech said in what would ordinarily have been described as a sneer, if not for the fact that the mech in question didn't sneer. "Please, feel free to resist. That will only make your punishment sweeter."

The cell's ultra-heavy blast door shut tight, leaving only a tiny porthole through which the Decepticon could watch his captors leave. He waited a few more seconds. Another, more distant noise of the brig's entrance portal closing, accompanied by a faint hiss as the laser grid over his cell's door activated as well.

He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Drawing his once-mighty form into a painful sitting position, he shuttered his optics and began to meditate; brooding on the long road that had brought him here.

In a strange way, he wasn't in the least bit surprised when someone spoke inside the supposedly Solitary cell.

"My, what a predicament you seem to have found yourself in, hmm?"

Red optics snapped open. The Decepticon allowed himself a single, shallow breath, then replied. "I swear to Primus above, if one more person asks me about my current state and/or my nonexistent failings as a leader, I will slowly eviscerate them limb by limb and use their remains to make a recharge slab. I'll even use one of these - rrgh - infernal blades sticking out of my back if needs must." His voice was ragged, rocky, and tortured, in sharp contrast to the rich, flowing baritone he'd once possessed. That, he thought, was one of the worst parts of these circumstances forced upon him.

The old mech sitting across from him raised his palms in the air. "I have no doubt that you would. Just trying to make conversation. I'm actually on your side here, neighbor."

"No . . . you've come to gloat. I can smell your deception, old-timer. It's thick, wet in the air, like a spider's web covered in sticky dew."

A smirk crossed the newcomer's bearded face. He rapped the wall with a rather ornate cane that the Decepticon could have sworn wasn't there a minute before. "Sure that's not the humidity? We are at the bottom of the ocean, you realize. Decepticons were never that great at proper starship insulation, no?"

Suddenly, the floor itself shook as a loud, borderline animalistic groan echoed throughout the brig. The Decepticon winced as his most recent wounds were aggravated by the tremor, but the other robot merely barked a laugh. "I've touched a wire," he chortled.

"Enough! Spare me your endless prattling, Archivist, and get to the blasted point already. If not to mock me, then why have you come? To torture me even further with your very prescence, perhaps?"

The ship's groaning stopped almost as quickly as it had begun, and the old mech leaned forward, optics flashing. "You're a clever one, Exemplar of Kaon, King of Cybertron. Please, feel free to figure it out yourself."

Sadly, the Decepticon knew exactly why his new cellmate was locked up with him. "You want a story," he observed, all anger dropping from his heavily armored shoulders. The other mech raised a singular eyebrow along with his right hand, crooked in the way a writer would grasp a pen. Darkness coalesced around his fingertips and solidified into a scribe's writing stylus, complete with a soft blue light near the tip, all while the Archivist drew an ancient-looking datapad from a knapsack tied to his waist. Not from subspace, the Decepticon noted. Of course it wasn't.

"Forgive the intrusion. But it is my job, after all," the Archivist asked sheepishly. "The scales of order and chaos have started to tilt for the first time in generations. Worlds are clashing, blending together from all across this vast, confusing universe - we can see this right here, in this grand fortress, even reflected in the delightful individuals who ordered your internment. We are fast approaching the end of one era, and the beginning of yet another. My younger brethren have long since left me, and someone must ensure that our stories survive, even if Cybertron itself does not, hmm? Now, shall we-"

"Stop. I didn't say that I'd give you one," the Decepticon interrupted. "I doubt that you'd even want the one that I have to offer, anyway. It is a long story, and a bitter one at that. It's a story of glorious triumph, yes, but also of terrible failures. It's a story of death, of betrayal, of war and lies and pain. So much pain. So much defeat . . ." He blinked several times, then slumped over in depression. "I'm an old, jaded creature, and I've nothing to show for my years except what you've just heard. My life does not deserve mention in your Book, Archivist. I'd suggest you ask the likes of the Autobot leader, or perhaps that traitor Soundwave. Besides, I do not wish to relive my life. I've wasted every century of it."

He was grateful for the cell's darkness. Hopefully, not even the Old Archivist of Iacon could see the golden tears streaking the dirt and grime on his faceplate.

"In all honesty, do you have anything better to do?" came the reply, tinged with just enough sympathy to make it believable and just enough sarcasm to make it sting.

The Decepticon sighed. "No. It would appear not."

"Very well. Let's begin then, at the beginning. Tell me, child, where does your story start?" his companion asked, stylus raised expectantly.

"It begins as everything in the universe does," he replied. "With a sunrise."

---

East Iacon

Iacon, Capital District, Northern Cybertron

0545 Local Time, 438th Cycle of the Great War

The gray skies over East Iacon brightened minutely as Hadean rose over the war-torn world of Cybertron. Eons of light pollution and centuries of war hadn't done much to improve the Primal City's skyline, though, and it was a rather muggy summer morning to begin with; so the land was still covered in darkness when the Autobot Scout entered the complex that, until less than 24 hours ago, had been occupied by his comrades-in-arms.

Bumblebee of the Third Ring was no stranger to breaking in to heavily armed compounds. He'd been doing it all his life, having been born into the middle of the Great War, and now he was one of the best Covert Operatives at Optimus Prime's beck-and-call. But it was . . . different, somehow, infiltrating an Autobot complex, outfitted with Autobot weapons and defense measures, in the midst of what had very recently been Autobot territory. It didn't make his job harder, of course - if anything, the familiar tech made it easier - but the surge of anger and sadness that overwhelmed his spark every time that he passed another pile of graying corpses was very hard to just ignore.

I knew most of the guys in that platoon, he thought bitterly as he ducked behind a decrepit information kiosk to avoid a Decepticon patrol. One such pile of desecrated bodies lay nearby, and Bumblebee found himself subconciously naming several of the fallen. Burn-Out. Redline. Mudflap. Strikercycle. And the youngest, a scientist around the same age as Bumblebee himself: Concave. The two young 'bots had taken Energon together on multiple occasions.

A chime shook the Scout out of his dark musings. He chanced a glance at his wrist communicator and grinned. While he'd been skirting around the facility's perimeter, his personal recon drone had pinpointed a flaw in the main building - a large gash in the facility's outer wall, probably from a Devastation shell, that led just far enough to reach an elevator shaft. From there, he would call his partner on this mission, Chief Engineer Wheeljack, and hopefully receive directions to the objective they were after. The only problem was the drop to the bottom of the shaft - and, of course, the hostile army infesting every nook and cranny of the facility.

He recalled the drone from its own little mission and transformed, making a beeline for the building in the center of the facility.

Minutes later, the Scout landed on the remains of an elevator platform. He slid down a particularly smooth piece of wreckage, wove around a spent shell - as it turned out, it was a Devastation bomb - and forced his way through another crack in the wall. A larger Decepticon soldier - probably a jetformer, by the looks of her kibble - was standing with her back to the wall just a few mechanometers away. Bumblebee closed the distance quickly, shifting his arm into secondary form as he did so, and jabbed the 'Con in the base of her neck strut with his weapon. SNAP! Electricity arced from the tip of his Stinger, overloading his foe's circuitry in an instant. She dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

"Wheeljack, I'm in," the small yellow bot relayed as he eased the Decepticon to the floor. It wasn't easy, as she was about twice as tall and thrice as bulky as he was, but he'd had plenty of practice dropping thugs that were bigger than him on the streets of his hometown.

"Nice! How'd the Heli-Pack work out for ya?" came the immediate, cheerful reply.

The Scout peered over the Decepticon's computer terminal and surveyed his surroundings. An online forum was displayed on the computer screen - something about a Triple Changer-exclusive online community - but Bumblebee ignored it. His recon drone felt warm on his back. "Well, with all due respect, it hasn't exploded just yet, sir."

Wheeljack let loose a noise that was more of a strange-sounding snort than a laugh. "That's always a win in my book. Right, so accordin' to these schematics here, you're in an old hotel ballroom from before the war broke out. Durin' our . . . eh, occupation of the area, we used it for a monitoring an' communications post for the facility as a whole. Seein' as you're standin' in what's basically its command center, the building's power room shouldn't be too far away."

Already Bumblebee was moving, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the Decepticons who were busying themselves about the room. One low-ranking soldier with a trailer full of munitions crates passed him by, too preoccupied with his task to notice the yellow-black Autobot within arm's reach; hiding behind a long-abandoned workstation. "Copy that. I'm patching you into my optics now." There was a strange tingling sensation behind Bumblebee's eyes as he granted the Engineer access to his visual feed, and then nothing.

". . . and BINGO! I've got ya, 'Bee. Continue down through the maintenance shaft in that orange hallway just ahead of ya. Follow it for twenty mechanometers an' drop down at your first opportunity."

The shaft in question was bolted shut and nearly obscured by the wreckage of several pieces of furniture. Standard Autobot procedure - guarded against sneaky-peeky spies like him, but only provided a scant measure of protection. Most of the splinters had already been pushed away from the grate, and only a few large chunks still remained.

"Good. Makes my job easier," Bumblebee muttered under his breath as he set about his task. The fastening bolts didn't even faze him as he worked quickly and efficiently, melting each one with short, intense blasts of energy. He was in within seconds, even counting the time it took to replace the vent over the shaft's entrance.

Like many maintenance shafts he'd been in, this one was musty, dusty, and cramped. Even in vehicular configuration, it was a tight fit. A sustained, quiet drone filled the corridor - the sound of a dying planet reflected and amplified by the buildings that once stood proudly on its surface.

The shaft dropped down a few mechanometers, just as Wheeljack had promised. Bumblebee found himself in a small, dark room, abandoned save for two Decepticon scientists who were examining the room's centerpiece: six thin, glowing batteries installed into an energy pylon. Again, rather standard for an Autobot research facility, but something was distinctly different about these. Bumblebee set a few subroutines aside for cracking the code.

One of the scientists, an unassuming winged mech wearing the standard coloring of a Decepticon grunt, noticed the Scout. His optics widened. "Autobot! Over there!"

"Don't fire!" his buddy cried, diving for cover. This one was more eye-catching than his drab gray friend, with spiky red-and-blue armor that caught the sparse light of the power room. Once he'd situated himself, he continued in a calmer, more reasonable tone. "I don't know how you Autobots managed to develop an energy source like this, but I do know one thing: a single errant shot and it's likely this whole compound will go up in smoke! Don't breach the batteries' outer casings, whatever you do!"

Bumblebee, who had taken the time to hide behind a nearby chair, smirked underneath his battle mask. "Lucky for all of us! I'm not Cybertron's biggest fan of guns anyway."

"Security breach in the main power room!" the other scientist hissed into a wrist communicator. "Someone get a Melee Specialist in here A-S-A-fraggin'-P - and for the love of Primus, proceed with caution! There's an Autobot spy in here, and a power source of titanic proportions to boot! We'll all be blown to kingdom come if you're not-AARGH!"

The scientist was interrupted by a mid-size recon drone hitting him full-on in the face, having been launched from Bumblebee's back with a loud FSSSS! It shut the 'Con up, but the damage was done - the Decepticon Army had been informed of his presence, and it was a matter of moments before the bill came due. Bumblebee kicked the chair he'd been hiding behind, sending it flying across the floor toward the red Decepticon's position. Not sticking around to see the impact, he engaged his rocket boosters and dashed to the left, leapfrogging over a computer terminal on the way. The Heli-Pack rolled about in missile mode, sparking and letting out pained clicks and whirrs as the Cybertronian next to it mirrored its movements. He had a nasty-looking dent on his face plate - making him look a little like the sole on the bottom of Bumblebee's pede - and he was groaning in pain. One of his optics was black and bleeding Energon. Bumblebee administered a swift, hard kick to the poor mech's helm, and he was silent.

Well, one down. One to go. Not including the dozens of other nasties who'll be bursting through that door any breem now, of course, Bumblebee thought with a twinge of regret. Voices sounded outside the power room, and loud, percussive noises came from the reinforced doors.

BOOM!

Maybe he shouldn't have been so harsh, but seeing as the scientist that now lay offline at his feet was part of a violent terrorist organization that had taken over pretty much all of the Cybertronian homeworld by force and slaughtered anyone who stood in their way, he wasn't going to shed too many tears over a slightly brutal knockout.

BOOM!

Which reminded him - he transformed and hit the accelerator as soon as he physically could. The yellow courier shot across the floor just as the other 'Con rose to his feet. The red mech never got situated - Bumblebee was too fast, and before either of them knew it, the Decepticon was sprawled and twitching on the floor, his adversary kneeling over him with a smoking Stinger in hand. Another 'Con was offline, but a massive threat was still closing in hot.

BOOM!

Bumblebee didn't waste a second. He reattached the Heli-Pack and immediately began to detach the batteries from their pylon. A klaxon wailed somewhere close by.

BOOM! The sound of the battering ram was getting louder. The power room door swayed on its hinges.

Wheeljack gave out instructions almost as fast as Bumblebee could carry them out, and their objective slowly came within reach. Much too slowly.

Finally, the last safeguard lifted, and Bumblebee's HUD nearly fragmented itself.

"Wheeljack . . . the energy levels coming off of these things are insane!" he breathed in amazement. "Looks like there's enough here to power one of the Moons. How did you R+D guys even pull off something like this off?"

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. The blast door behind Bumblebee buckled inward. "Not important right now. All you need to think about is gettin' out of here. Get under something, quick."

Bumblebee had learned a long time ago not to question the hyperactive Engineer - it only led to extreme confusion at best and fiery destruction at worst. He rolled beneath the nearest computer terminal, making sure the batteries didn't get crushed under his weight. A final impact sounded outside as the power room door was blasted to pieces. Tactical flashlight beams probed the room, some coming to rest on the unconscious bodies of the scientists and others illuminating the now-empty pylon where the energy rods used to be.

"He's still in here! Sweep the room - don't miss a single possible hiding spot!" a voice called.

"The batteries MUST be found immediately! Call Bitstream! Have her lock down the facility before the Autobots escape! The Nemesis launches today, brothers, and our enemies' destruction hinges on our shoulders!"

Bumblebee flagged one sentence for review and sent it to his partner. "Wheeljack, did you catch that?" he commed silently.

"Loud an' clear, little buddy! I need you to brace yourself! Artillery incoming - t-minus NOW!"

The Scout redistributed his armor plating and wormed tighter into his little alcove just as a searing wave of heat penetrated the power room's defenses. He was dimly aware of the Decepticons screaming as they were burned to the core by the orbital strike laser, the terminal above him melting into a waterfall of hot, sparking plastic, and the paint on his back beginning to bubble. It was nothing serious yet- cosmetic damage, mostly, and a few cracking cables - but the whole experience was downright excruciating.

Finally, the pillar of light dissipated. Bumblebee's back was raw and burned, stinging like crazy, and his spark was humming erratically, but he pushed out of the still-hot drippings of computer terminal and stood. The power room was a smoking mess of carbon and burning metal, faintly glowing ground pulling at and burning into his thick steel soles. Toxic vapors wafted from the glassified edges of the crater he was now standing in. He had to get out - not even a Cybertronian could stand breathing that gas for an extended period of time. Twin rotor blades sprouted from the Heli-Pack with an agonized shriek and lifted him out through the massive hole in the facility above.

"Package retrieved, sir. I'm on my way to the rendezvous point now," he reported.

"Hurry up, 'Bee. Decepticon defenses are temporarily down due to ya yankin' the rug out from under them, but it won't be long before they switch ta backup power. Oh, an' the Seekers ain't affected by the outage in any way neither."

He was right, of course - already Bumblebee could see air units approaching from the southeast. The Heli-Pack was a marvelous piece of equipment, but there was no way it could outfight or outfly even the slowest and dimmest Flyer on Cybertron. Like always, Bumblebee had to do what he did best: avoid detection.

It was a nerve-wracking two-minute flight through the most Decepticon-heavy area of East Iacon. At every turn Bumblebee expected to run headfirst into a field camp or cross the path of an X10 Sentry turret that had been commandeered by the enemy, but the Heli-Pack was too good. Even damaged from its recent encounter with the scientist's face, it was able to make minute course corrections, avoiding all the heaviest concentrations of Decepticons, and staying low to the decaying ruins of Iacon's most personable neighborhood without slamming into anything.

Like the rest of the Cybertronian capital, East Iacon was formerly a gorgeous city with public parks, breathtaking architecture and monuments, and pricey apartments to call its very own. The residential neighborhood on the First Ring had even won several awards for quality of living, atmosphere, and luxury in numerous intergalactic magazines in its heyday. Unfortunately, those days had long since passed. To a casual observer, the relative poverty of the other four Rings seemed to have leaked topside, bringing with it the crime, dereliction, and desolation - the hallmarks of a thousand-year war were felt even here, in the middle of Autobot territory. The First City.

No . . . that wasn't the right word. Especially here. The Autobots had lost ages ago. From the moment Central Iacon was ransacked and Zeta Prime kidnapped, everything had plummeted downhill from there at a staggering rate. Now Iacon was the last City - everything else belonged to the dread warlord Megatron and his sinister triumvirate.

Cybertron was Decepticon territory. The Autobots were nothing more than glorified rebels, a splinter group of individuals desperately clinging to the last remnant of the way things were many thousands of years ago.

The Heli-Pack crested a ridge lined with the burnt-out remains of apartment buildings. Bumblebee, with his excellent vision, could see the rendezvous point from here - an exit ramp just outside the facility's walls - but for whatever reason, he stopped to hover in one spot. He wasn't really sure why.

Wreckage of two Autobot Enforcer tanks littered the ash-choked streets below him. Just a few miles before him, the Holy Chasm opened up like a vast sea of empty air leading straight to the planet's core, lit from within by fading purple light. The massive island of the Old City with all of its cathedrals, shrines, high-rises and battlements stood suspended over the void, supported only by seemingly too-small rings below it. Beyond that, if Bumblebee squinted, he could just make out the Central Spaceport and a faint shape plated with gleaming orange shimmering in the middle of it all.

The Autobot Ark. Magnificent, but not the reason he stopped at all.

Down below, a small family of Neutrals picked through the battlefield as they attempted to salvage what they could from both the shells of buildings and the graying bodies strewn about the carnage. His spark clenched as the smallest one - barely out of the protoform stage - bent over to pick up a very bedraggled youngling's toy, stained with something from somewhere he didn't want to think about. It clenched again when the sparkling's carrier noticed the bright yellow Autobot above them and began to creatively curse him out at the top of her voice.

"No, no ma'am, please don't - oh." His voice died when a flash of movement back toward the East caught his eye. The Heli-Pack shuddered and coughed, but its user didn't respond. The long, thin, extra-powerful batteries in his arms seemed to weigh a ton all of a sudden.

"'Bee, what are you DOING? The Seekers'll be on us at any moment! Slag, they're shuttin' down the facility for cryin' out loud!" Wheeljack indignantly cried. "I can see you from here already! Just finish the trip!"

"Wheeljack . . ." Bumblebee began in a small voice. "This is East Iacon. Wh-where Trypticon fell."

"Yeah, your point?"

"Nothing, I - I just thought he was carted off somewhere else in piecemeal-and-stasis-lock after we - after Optimus took him out; and the facility over his crash site was put up to study Dark Energon or something. But he was kept on-site for this - for this whole time?"

His partner scoffed. "You kiddin' me right now, kid? Trypticon was friggin' MASSIVE. Really, it was best for all parties involved that we keep 'im there for study, an' when the Visco started to get thin - hey, waittaminute. That's above your clearance level!"

Bumblebee let out a static-filled keen, unwanted memories of the battle with the monster filling up his vision. "Clearance levels don't matter anymore, Wheeljack. The War's lost. And if what I'm seeing is what I think it is . . ."

"What are you seein'?" the Engineer asked, forgetting his anger in an instant. Concern found its way back into his voice. "I can't seem to find anything in your line of sight . . ."

Instead of replying, Bumblebee zoomed in on one particular structure in the distance and sent a picture to Wheeljack through the comms-bond. Everything was quiet for a moment, and then the Engineer spoke.

"Slag," was all he said.

"That-that's Trypticon," Bumblebee stammered. "And he's become a starship."

---

Red optics in an enormous impassive face stared accusingly down at the rightful ruler of Cybertron. The Decepticon Commander felt fear touch his spark for the first time in centuries. Just a handful of moments ago, he'd been on top of the world - literally. Well-rested, confident in his army's capability, and in good spirits with a plan for the decacycle ahead. The hateful Autobots hadn't stood a chance against his triad of Warp Cannons, especially with their foolish General Grimlock out of the equation - at least, until the city itself had transformed and allied itself with the enemy.

Now the city stood over his final Cannon in humanoid form, looming over him like a massive stormfront bringing only destruction. It - whatever it was - scowled down at him with the only emotion it seemed to have: mild disdain. A fist the size of a city block raised far into the clouds, and it finally dawned on the former gladiator that he may not live to see his dream fulfilled. It was quite possible that he would die today and be followed by his legacy tomorrow, or next decacycle perhaps.

Very well.

His empire would not die with him. There were far too many redundancies and failsafes set up for that. And if he himself would perish for the cause, then so be it!

"Why are you running, fools? STAND AND FIGHT!" he bellowed to his troops, letting none of his own fear come to the surface. His arm cannon roared with him as the Decepticon leader made his final stand.

The colossus didn't reply, or even respond to the fusion cannon shots harmlessly fizzling out against its blocky chest. Instead, it merely clenched its massive fist.

Like something out of a nightmare, the hand began to descend.

Megatron's optics flew open. Armor segments all across his body lifted and set as one while he booted up. He was breathing heavily in an attempt to cool his panicked inner workings - except, as he discovered while reviewing his own diagnostic reports, nothing in his powerful body was actually overheated.

He took in his surroundings, fixating on some things more than others to warm up his optics and focus his mind. Following yesterday's assault on the Autobots' main scientific facility, the Decepticon army had required quarters to spend the night in preparation for their grand exodus. Most top officers had immediately taken what few housing developments still remained standing after all these years of war, leaving their underlings to make camp anywhere they could find amid the ruins, bodies, and wreckage covering almost every square mechanometer of the district. The Decepticon leader had other ideas, though. He had commandeered a tiny shack on the facility's outskirts, far from the crater that now would serve as a launchpad for the Nemesis spacecraft. His loyal second-in-command, Soundwave, had elected to occupy the two-story townhouse duplex across the street, which the enterprising Outlier had transformed into the new Decepticon communications hub.

Compared to Soundwave's control center, Megatron's temporary home wasn't much. There was a shelf, a small table lying in pieces over in a corner, and a recharge slab currently stacked with weaponry in the center of it all. The Decepticon commander had spent the night cross-legged on the floor like the feudal monarchs of old. He found that the position granted him more focus, more productive sleep when out in the field than some Empty commoner's recharge unit or a collapsible military-grade cot would have done.

Two shuttered windows looked out on a smoking battlefield and a single fluorescent light, canted at an angle, buzzed over the recharge slab. The floor was essentially carpeted with semi-organic dirt, the walls were crooked and full of holes, and there was almost no roof to speak of - there was, at one point, and it had been occupied by an Autobot Sentry turret, but one blast from Megatron's alt-mode cannon had quickly put a stop to that nonsense. On top of all that, the shack was pretty drafty.

Megatron loved the place. Not only did he find the irony of the situation delicious - a small, unassuming class-D citizen's shack in the middle of Autobot territory bore host to the warrior-king who would destroy them forever - but it also reminded him of his past. The simple furnishings and ramshackle room reminded him of his early days as a gladiator, eking out a miserable existence between fights in a broom closet even smaller than this place. In those tiny quarters, he'd written some of his best works before heading out to the Arena to share them with the world.

The idealistic young Decepticon had met a majority of his most trusted lieutenants in the Pits of Kaon. Really, it could be said that the Decepticons were born there, amidst the fire, smoke, and oil-spattered sands of the Arena. Flamewar, Emperor Dezaras, Razorclaw, Snaptrap, Shellshock, and Soundwave - the old guard. They had started from nothing, and now, here they were - Lords of Cybertron, once and forever. But that was a story for another time.

His train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a bulky blue Decepticon, who opened the shack's door and stepped inside without a sound. Megatron was up before he even crossed the threshold. Immediately, the new mech snapped into a precise salute.

"Hail, Lord Megatron!" he intoned in a heavily modulated voice.

Megatron returned the salute. "Greetings, Soundwave. Why have you come?"

"I sensed a strong energy surge originating from your quarters," Soundwave reported. "Detail: politely requested."

"It was nothing," Megatron said. "I was merely meditating before beginning the day. The energy surge you sensed was likely caused by this new form booting up."

The Communications officer studied his superior. "Megatron: lying. True details: critically important. Query: is the new body at fault?"

A flare of anger lit atop the Decepticon Commander's spark. There were drawbacks to having a telepath as one's second-in-command, but Soundwave was one of the only Warlords in High Command that Megatron could still afford to trust. Shockwave was unpredictable, Starscream openly treacherous, and Straxus far too well-equipped for combat in the event that things suddenly went south. Soundwave, however, was a refreshing change of pace. It was almost ironic that the leader of the Decepticon Empire was safer with a telepathic Outlier than a sniveling, non-powered Seeker.

Megatron laughed, a great, booming sound that sent dust raining down from the shack's ruined roof.

"No, Soundwave, not at all. In fact, this incarnation may just be your best work yet. Ah . . . I believe the surge was nothing more than residual memory damage acting up. It will not happen again." He turned to the recharge slab and began perusing the weapons laid out across its surface. His armor shifted to a state between combat and casual forms, and he kept his second-in-command firmly in the corner of his eye. "But I do not think you came all this way to ask me about my systems' operations."

Soundwave's visor glowed. "Situation: less than ideal." He pushed a button on his utility belt, and a holographic screen flickered to life over his chestplate. The Decepticon leader momentarily paused what he was doing and turned to watch. Grainy footage of violent battles and angry mechs and femmes played out on the screen.

"Roadkill's Triple Changer battalion: pinned down on Iacon Outskirts," Soundwave narrated. "Autobots revolting against Decepticon rule all across Northern Cybertron. Kalis: nearly unapproachable due to battle damage."

A dreamscape of twisted metal, boiling pits of acid, and the destroyed hulk of a leviathan Tesarian refinery transport was shown. Megatron's rage flared up again. He'd been briefed on the mission: an all-out operation had been launched on an unsuspecting Autobot vessel carrying a whole lake's worth of raw, undistilled Energon. The op had officially been a failure, thanks in no small part to the temporary commander of the Decepticons at the time. Three-quarters of Decepticon troops had withdrawn from the action and leaving the remaining fourth - the Combaticons, led by Major General Onslaught and Commander Brawl, in addition to a few other courageous troops - to salvage the mission. They'd managed to acquire half of the Energon in the hold, but had been stripped of their ranks and imprisoned as a reward. The Ambush on the Road to Kalis had been an unprecedented disaster for both factions, and Megatron knew exactly who was responsible.

"Starscream!" he growled in frustration. Had someone competent, such as Soundwave or even Onslaught himself had been leading the mission, the Decepticons would have gotten it all.

"Affirmative, my lord," Soundwave agreed grimly. "Air Commander Starscream: seemingly dropped offworld. Whereabouts: unknown. Plans: unknown. Riots in streets of Kaon: Starscream loyalists versus-"

"Versus true Decepticons, Soundwave. Suppress the traitors! Have them rot in Kaon prison for as long as it takes for them to come to their senses. Tell the Enforcers that there's no need to be gentle in the process."

Soundwave stiffened a fraction of an inch. "Affirmative. Last update. Sector 35: ransacked. Autobot spy: successfully stolen Plasma Energy Batteries from Trypticon's Folly. Facility: low on power. Nemesis: at 65% power and dropping. Launch: recommended ASAP."

Much to the Communication mech's surprise, a grin spread over Megatron's face. "Excellent. The Autobots have taken the bait, then. How many troops do we have in the Spaceport?"

"Five battalions remain within Autobot territory, sir," Soundwave replied.

"That will do. Order them to stage a feint on the Ark's gates! We'll have to force our enemies into a panic. Swindle!" he commanded, opening a comm-link to the Decepticon munitions director, "make the final preparations. We launch now - before midday!"

"Enh-uhhh," was the reply. Through the link, Megatron could feel that the Combaticon was still half asleep.

"Hurry up, now!" he barked, closing the connection immediately. "Soundwave - ready your minions and get me Shockwave! This is the eleventh hour!"

The Communications Officer bowed and left hastily, leaving Megatron to pack. He required very little that wasn't already in his subspace, but he turned and began to examine his selection of cannons. Not unsurprisingly, he was drawn to one in particular - the Wired-Warframe Firearm Company's magnum opus - his D50-R35 Riot Cannon, the same one he'd owned and used for centuries. It fused with his arm quickly and efficiently, well-oiled and gleaming components sliding perfectly into place. Several sections of the weapon began to glow with a pleasing blue-violet light as cylinders and tubes connected to the ports they were programmed to for maximum destructive potential - and aesthetic beauty.

Megatron looked over his signature weapon, the grin still etched into his face. "Today, we make history . . . Today, we pave a glorious new path for our race's future, our children and theirs . . . Today, the Autobots fall, once and for all!"

---

Field Base Epsilon/Fueling Station Delta - Autobot Command

Central Spaceport, First Ring of Iacon

0630 Local Time

A pair of old, worn optics gazed out at the skyline of Iacon's Central Spaceport. The mech to whom they belonged hadn't found time to recharge in days, almost a full week, so concerned was he about the future of his people and his homeworld. The best he'd gotten was a few minutes of field recharge - hardly enough to keep him running - and yet, he still stood at attention on the highest point of the Autobots' field base, a sentinel against the forces of tyranny that would drive his kindred to extinction.

For the first time in ages, Optimus Prime had time to think about more than the crushing pressure of the Decepticon Empire bearing closer and closer to the city-state of Iacon, the last remaining Autobot state on the planet. He had time to think about all the life lost in just the past few days; the Ark, last hope of his kind; and the fact that none of his best men had any idea where they were going outside of simply getting offworld. All allied colonies had either been seized by the enemy or made off-limits due to circumstances beyond the control of Autobot Command. It truly was a dark time.

What he really wanted was to go back to the way things were before the War. He wanted to spend a quiet evening with his bondmate, in his home overlooking the Trannis Fork. He wanted to have a nice dinner without having to worry if his troops would have enough to eat that night. Most of all, he longed for the days when he didn't need to take up arms and join his allies on the field of battle, when he wasn't required to end a fellow Cybertronian's life every single day just to avoid being killed himself.

In his darkest moments, he feared for his spark and for his soul. What if he'd been wrong this whole time? What if, on the other side of the ever-changing border that separated Decepticon territory from the rapidly shrinking Autobot-held land, life really was the utopia that Megatron's propaganda made it out to be? What if all the fighting, all the death, and all the pain really was for nothing? That, he thought, would be one of Primus's greatest pranks yet.

But no. He'd seen the Smelting Pits of Darkmount and Kaon with his own optics, the aftermath of the brutal gladiatorial combat that captured Autobot POWs were forced to participate in. His experiences in Kaon Prison still haunted the Autobot Supreme Commander to this day. The torture of Omega Supreme, the slaughter of the Senate, the numerous war crimes committed by every other subgroup within the ranks. All of it was unquestionably evil.

It was vital that he keep pushing against the Violet Tide, but the fight just became more and more impossible with each passing day. For every victory, there came two or three setbacks. A regrouping of their forces was more than just a good suggestion - it was absolutely necessary, even if it meant officially giving up Iacon to the Decepticons' hungry regime.

The Autobot leader was jolted out of his musings by a large gray hand landing on his right shoulder pauldron, which withdrew as quickly as it had hit. Optimus turned around and found himself face-to-face with an enormous, panicked-looking Beastformer. The individual was about three heads taller than he was, with nervous yellow optics darting back and forth underneath a red visor. He twitched almost constantly, long, clawed fingers drumming on the fist of his opposite hand as his head jerked this way and that. His sharp, overlarge teeth were bared in a permanent snarl - not an aggressive one, really, but more of an uncomfortable "why-am-i-here-and-why-are-these-people-all-watching-me" sort of grimace.

"Optimus Prime, sir," the animalistic mech said. "Sorry for the interruption, but they're ready for you. The City Commander says there's been an urgent development. Something about a big-time incursion-raid-kinda-thing on our Eastern border?"

"Thank you, Backstreet. I suppose that I, too, must apologize for taking such a large portion of your lookout shift. The demand for fresh air and a moment to collect one's thoughts is particularly high these days, yes?"

Backstreet blinked. "Y-Yeah, you betcha. Long as those Onyx-forsaken 'Cons didn't get in on your watch, it's . . . ah . . . fine. Anyways! Override, would you escort our Prime to the meeting room? I'll take your shift for you."

A cycleformer that had been hiding in the shadow of the massive luponoid stepped into the light. "Thanks, boss. Right this way, Prime."

Optimus followed the Triggerbot, but not before casting his gaze around the Iaconian landscape, taking all of the beautiful buildings still standing tall against the War for one last time. Little did he know it at the time, but he wouldn't get a chance to behold his home city with naked optics again for a very, very long time.

---

Chaos reigned supreme within the walls of Field Base Epsilon.

The halls were clogged with mechs, femmes, and sparklings of all shapes and sizes, most of them citizens who'd fled to Iacon weeks ago and got caught up in the thick of things rather than finding the sanctuary that they'd hoped for. Top officers and the lowest class of soldier intermingled freely with each other on their way from somewhere important to someplace demanding even more of their attention. It seemed like a crisis was constantly brewing in the center of Autobot territory - which, in a way, was true - as red lights flashed and klaxons blared even into the deepest hours of the night. Every spare room had been converted into sleeping quarters for the base's unforseen load, and more refugees kept coming in as the Decepticons inched further into Iacon's borders. Sparks flew from the ceiling almost constantly. Grime-caked engineers stumbled toward the washracks and their replacements - some mere citizens trying to get offworld - went the opposite direction to get the Ark up to full capacity.

In short, this was one of the only bases of operations that the Autobots still held, and it was plainly evident in every hallway and every room of the building.

"Out of the way, people! We got a Prime coming through!" Optimus's Triggerbot escort barked. "Make a hole and make it wide!"

"Someone get me a Medic! I need a Medic over here!" someone shouted when Optimus and Override were just a few mechanometers away from the meeting room portal. A white truck-former entered the crowded hall with a smaller yellow Scout slung over his shoulder and a Mini-Trailer clamped under his opposite arm. He was covered head to toe with Energon and black soot, and the blasted, smoking remains of a battered bodykit was still strapped to his back.

Optimus recognized him immediately - Chief Engineer Wheeljack of Gygax, in his natural state.

"Wheeljack! How can I be of assistance?" the Prime asked, rushing to the aid of his friend. He'd said nearly that exact same line far too many times to count over the past month or so.

"Someone call for a medic?" A red-and-white mech came out of the meeting room. He was a little shorter than Optimus, heavily armored around the torso area, and possessed a "backpack" with two antennae jutting up from its sides. There were a set of smile crinkles at the corners of his optics, but he looked like he hadn't smiled in a long, long time. He looked like a broke, depressed medical school student who'd kind of let himself go a bit, even though everyone knew that all of this mech's heft was purely front-line armor for a front-line medic.

"Ratchet!" Wheeljack exclaimed. "It's Bumblebee. We ran into a Decepticon attack just outside'a the Old City. They had some slaggin' Outlier there, went by the name a' Sunstorm? I think he mighta been radioactive or somethin'. We barely made it outta there alive. Poor kid here took th' worst of it."

Ratchet withdrew a scanner-orb from subspace. He ran the soft blue light emitted from the device over the Scout's inert form, paying particular attention to the black, steaming wounds that peppered Bumblebee's body. The largest of them was wrapped around his neck, an ugly, bubbling sore in the vague shape of a hand. The Chief Medical Officer grimaced.

"It's not good, I'm afraid," he growled, transforming into an ambulance just large enough to store the injured Scout inside. "He'll need a trip to the medbay straight away. Pour him in, then."

Wheeljack did so, then stepped back as Ratchet left. His eyes didn't leave the CMO's cargo hold until Ratchet turned a corner disappeared from view.

"Do you have the Plasma Batteries, Wheeljack?" Optimus asked, mostly because it was important information that needed to be shared, but also to take the Engineer's mind off of Bumblebee's plight.

"Huh? Oh yeah, we got 'em. Couldn't salvage any of . . . you-know-who's super-juice, though."

Optimus's eyes widened. He checked to see no one was listening, then leaned in close. "You mean to tell me that Megatron has drained the Lizard - completely dry?!"

"Er . . . we gotta work on that codename, Optimus. But, no. He's - ah - well, we can't discuss it here. Too much of a risk, ya know? Tell you at the meeting. I gotta get these batteries installed ASAP, or none of us are gonna make it off Cybertron."

It was only then that Optimus realized just how beaten-down his Chief Engineer really looked. In addition to the ruined bodykit on his back, Wheeljack was shot in several places. At first, he'd thought that all the Energon coating the truckformer's body was Bumblebee's but it was quickly becoming clear that a lot of it was seeping from bullet wounds in Wheeljack's superstructure. There was a pronounced tightness in his shoulders - whether from fatigue or pain, Optimus didn't really know - and his earfins were a slightly weaker blue than usual. Despite all this, his optics were still sharp and clear, and he was still fidgeting with something in his right hand.

Optimus straightened. "Very well. If you feel up to the task, please, feel free to do as you will. Just stay in touch with Command as you work. I've got a feeling this day may bring with it far more than we'd bargained for."

"Well, sir, what else could a new day bring ta the table other than somethin' we weren't expecting?" Wheeljack intoned. He fired off a brief salute and left for the nearest exit.

The Autobot Leader was quiet for a brief moment, listening to all the tired sighs and worried conversations around him, then let off a long exhale himself. He really needed a vacation.

"'Let us see, then, what mountains have been placed before us now, and prepare to reach the summit by any means we can,'" he said, quoting the Book of Expansion.

"Prime!" a familiar voice shouted from inside the Meeting Room. "We've got a situation on our hands!"

---

Under different circumstances, coming into Fueling Station Delta's impromptu meeting room would have been a relief. The vaulted ceiling and wide-open space was a welcome breath of fresh air, especially after the cramped quarters of the hallways. Before the war, it had been a maintenance bay for Spaceport-licensed vehicles, so it was suitably sized to fit even the largest of shuttle carriers.

Now, a hydraulic lift had been rolled to the center of the room to act as a makeshift conference table. Assistants paced back and forth along wide catwalks ringing the room's sides, maintaining several dozen monitors that fed in information from all across Cybertron; as a large number of heavily armored mechs argued with each other over the lift or watched live feeds of border skirmishes on the many computer stations concentrated throughout the bay. The Autobot Leadership.

A side door opened and admitted a tired-looking young Crucible, covered with eye-catching designs done up in colors of red, yellow, and gray so beloved by the rabid groupies of the legendary rock group Knights of Unicron. This mech's casual concert dress was faded and distressed even more so than usual - he hadn't had a touch-up in a very long time. Blaster scowled as he tapped the side of his head, as if to displace water from his auditory sensors. "More losses," he reported in a defeated tone. "Slag it all, when does it end?"

"It ends when Megatron's finished fer good - as in, dead and gone!" one of the older mechs bellowed, slamming his fist onto the table. "I just got back from the Western front. Fourteen soldiers lost their lives before we managed ta turn back the enemy! It's past time we mount a serious strike on the 'Cons before they wipe us off the map. Too many good warriors - good mechs, all'a them - have died while we sit here twiddlin' our thumbs an' protectin' the Ark!"

"Yeah! Metroplex's worth - KAPOW! - Metroplex's worth a whole army all by himself! We need to retake something already! Iacon's great and - WHAMMO! - and all, but if it falls, we're dead already! BAM! We gotta march as soon as possible. I'm talking guns, artillery, explosions, missiles, orbital strikes - KABAM! ZOWEE! BLAST!"

Splashdown, the Autobot Admiral, leaned forward with a loud creak and spoke in his slow, ages-old voice. Like his second-in-command who stood silently at his side, Splashdown didn't speak often or loudly, but when he did, he drew everyone's attention. "Control yourself, Warpath. Much as I agree with you, I fear that your route will lead to even more suffering, even more pain, than the situation we are in now. Just yesterday, a fleet of my best gunboats, led by Ripcurrent himself, mounted an expedition into enemy territory via the Trannis Fork under Nova Cronum. They encountered an ambush in a natural chokepoint at the Zaptrap Rapids, and were, despite their firepower and combat prowess, completely unprepared for an attack of such a scale. Twenty went in. None came out. My troops were either disassembled for spare parts, or smashed to pieces on Zaptrap's spires. The Naval Division is crippled. The loss of Ripcurrent and his men is felt throughout our ranks. Their bodies . . . will lie at the bottom of the Fork forever." He leaned back again, gnarled and sea-bitten hands shaking with emotion, and lit a pipe. "This war will not be salvaged by force. At this point, our future will either rise or fall by those under Jazz's command only. We cannot risk the lives lost in traditional battle, so we must turn to the shadows if we are to survive."

"Or the stars," Optimus added as he entered the meeting. Most of the high-ranking officers saluted. Splashdown merely bowed his head in respect.

"The Prime has arrived. Let the council be met," the blue mech at the head of the table declared, banging the hilt of his greathammer on the concrete floor. Ultra Magnus - City Commander of Iacon, leader of the Holy Primal Elite Guard, and Optimus Prime's own brother.

"Hear, hear!" the other officers cried.

"At ease, brothers." The whole ceremony was undoubtedly an über-formal throwback to the Age of Knights, but it felt good to have just that minute amount of unbreakable, incorruptible order in these times of chaos. Prime took the nearest available seat, turning down the chair that Air Commander Silverbolt left to offer him.

"Now, let us be frank," Optimus began. "We are fighting an unwinnable battle here. That much is certain. Every astrosecond we hold on to Iacon in a futile effort to protect a now-long-defunct government and its subjects-"

"A government that was horribly Functionist and corrupt from the get-go," Silverbolt's gestalt-mate and TIC Air Raid muttered under his breath. The Aerialbot leader elbowed him in the gut to get him to shut up.

"My apologies, Prime. Skydive's busy reinforcing the 81st Polyhex Airborne Corps, or else I would have brought him. Please, ignore my brother's insubordination and continue," Silverbolt said, shooting Air Raid a venomous glare.

"That's fine, Silverbolt. There is no need to apologize. As I was saying, the longer we attempt to hold Iacon, the stronger our foes become. Most of you have already been briefed on this, but yesterday evening, Research Outpost T-5 was seized by the Decepticons. Megatron himself led the attack."

The council exploded into horrified conversation. Cybertron's self-proclaimed leader apparently returning from the dead was one thing, but this brazen power grab and obvious increase of power was quite another.

Optimus held up his hand for quiet. "I am afraid it gets worse. Lieutenant Mainframe, if you would patch Wheeljack through?"

"That's a copy, sir," the vast computer station behind Magnus replied. A progress bar popped up on its largest screen almost immediately.

Warpath made a funny choking sound. "That - that thing's a person?"

His direct commander, Ironhide, scowled. "Be polite, kid. Mainframe's the best jack-a'-all-trades we got. He can do surveillance, launch WMDs, run communications, program Enforcers, direct troops, play three different datatracks at the same time while whaling on a Titan-class-"

"-and analyze your current technical data at any time, including deducing your thought processes by picking up on the subtlest of physical movements," the living supercomputer finished. "And no, I won't retaliate from something as small as an ignorant comment. Not everyone can be a brawny tank-former, after all, and there's no point in getting offended over that. Now, spilling a cube of lukewarm, half-finished Energon on my secondary terminal and trying to cover it up, on the other hand . . ."

"BAM! I'm sorry, man! I-I cleaned it up as best as I - KAPOW - could!" Warpath pleaded.

"Ha, ha! Just kidding. I don't care. I am qualified to operate at full capacity more than 75 mechanometers underwater, you know. It's fine. Oh, by the way, Optimus, he's on now."

Wheeljack's face filled the screen, still covered in soot and oil from earlier, although it seemed he had taken some time to wipe some of the gunk out of his eyes. The camera must have been lying on the floor in the Ark, because there was a substantial amount of ceiling visible in the shot. The Engineer himself was bent over the device he was streaming from, occasionally leaving view to grab another tool from somewhere off to his right. "-ello! Hellooo! This thing on?"

"We read you loud an' clear, 'Jackie," Prime's second lieutenant, Jazz, affirmed.

"Wheeljack, if you would tell us what you wanted to tell me earlier?" Optimus prompted.

The Engineer whacked whatever he was working on with a wrench, then grinned as a green light reflected off of his faceplate. "First off, ladies and gentlemechs, I'd like to introduce you all to the Cybertronian race's newest hope-" he lifted the camera until a power pylon glowing with pent-up energy was centered in the frame. A top-down view of his head and chest took up the rest of the picture. "-the highest-tech, highest-capacity Plasma Energy batteries ever to come outta my R+D department! There's enough juice in these babies to get us off Cybertron and power the ship's major functions all the way to Elonia! No pictures, please - if someone shared these designs with anyone else, I'd have to kill them!" He said this last part as if it were fantastic news.

"Wait just a moment," the head of the Autobot Science Division, Perceptor, said. "There's only six of those batteries in the entire solar system. I'm overjoyed that you were able to recover them, but they were made to keep the restraints holding Trypticon from deactivating. Without them, nothing is holding the Decepticons back from assembling the very being that nearly turned all of Iacon into a smoking crater!"

Wheeljack grimaced. "Yeah . . . Trypticon isn't the thing we should be worried about anymore."

"Right, Perceptor," Jazz agreed. "We've siphoned off most of his Energon to fuel the Ark Even if the 'Cons do manage to put him back together again, it'll be a long, long time 'fore they get 'im up an' running."

"No, that's not what I - look, guys," Wheeljack cut in. His headfins flashed in distress. "I said Trypticon isn't a problem anymore, and I was right. It's what he's been turned into that worries me."

Optimus's optics narrowed. He realized that he'd risen from his chair while the Chief Engineer was talking. Something about Wheeljack's obvious fear and discomfort put him on edge, but he couldn't explain why. "Go on."

"It's better if I just show ya," the white Engineer replied.

An image filled Mainframe's largest monitor. It depicted, among the ruined high-rises and towers of East Iacon, a massive Decepticon Black Violet ship. The data-stamp on the bottom of the picture declared that it had been live-clipped from an Autobot's optics - Bumblebee's, which explained the flawless clarity of the scene. So clear was it that one could point out tiny vestiges of the great NeoTitan's original form in the spacecraft, even though it had been twisted into some gross approximation of a Decepticon Worldburner-class destroyer - the wings plainly formed from Trypticon's stinger-tail, his claws stretching over the enormous engines, the unmistakable shape of his lizardlike head in every angle of the bridge. The Autobot Leadership erupted into conversation again.

"The 'Cons call it 'Nemesis'," Wheeljack's voice reported. "I can only assume it's named after the mythological monster who'll send Cybertron into another Dark Age."

"The Herald of the Destroyer God," Silverbolt recalled. "The creature who will end the Primal Lineage by-"

"Killing the last Prime," someone finished.

Optimus felt about three dozen sets of optics fall on him. At this point, he'd stood up entirely and had no desire to return to his seat.

"Buncha superstitious Decepticon romanticism if you ask me," Wheeljack said, attempting to break the tension and only succeeding in warping it a little bit. "But the point is, this thing - this monstrous thing - it looks like it's got enough firepower to turn the Ark into a piece of flying slag. The 'Cons say they launch today, an' knowing our undead pal Megatron, he's got a target planet in mind beyond that. Unlike, may I add, us."

Ironhide punched the table again. "An' they've certainly got enough Energon from the Kalis Disaster ta get there!"

"But where is 'there?' It's definitely not in this sector. Velocitron, Antilla, Anduria - there's not a habitable world around here that hasn't already been occupied by either faction, much less a tactically sound place to build a field base," the Chief Strategist, Prowl, pointed out.

"So we follow this Nemesis," Brawn, the resident Demolitions expert, growled. "Stay behind, stick to shadows of outer space. Slow burn all the way. They land on new world, we arrive in silence. Then - BAM! - We punch mountain, make fall on Decepticreep ship. Infantry will wipe out any survivors."

"And if they engage hyperspace flight? We won't have any way to track them, you bag of Burthovian bolts! We'd be stuck, drifting aimlessly through space until the end of time!" Air Raid exclaimed.

"Is foolproof plan!" the black truckformer shouted, angrily surging to his feet.

"Both of you, COOL OFF!" Ultra Magnus bellowed, effectively putting an end to the confrontation. "We can't let ourselves be torn apart like this! Look outside! Those people - those hundreds of good Cybertronians out there - are counting on us to protect their futures! They're scared for their lives, defenseless, and a lot of them are with sparklings! If we can't get past our differences and sit here bickering all solar cycle, the Decepticons will overrun our city. The creators will be deactivated, the carriers enslaved, and the sparklings will grow up to be either immoral psychopaths who kill for fun or drones too scared to fight for what they deserve. And us? We will be too dead to put a stop to it, all because we couldn't stop fighting amongst ourselves long enough to fight the enemy. Brawn, Air Raid - lives are depending on you. You need to get along, or all of our work, all of our honored dead - it'll all be for nothing. All of us need to get along. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," both mechs said, ashamed.

"Good. None of this is getting us anywhere. We need a concrete plan. Optimus? Do you have any ideas?"

Optimus shared a glance with Prowl. The two mechs had discussed the subject dozens of times, but until now, it had all been merely hypothetical. "As a matter of fact, Ultra Magnus - I do."

"The Decepticons," Prowl began, "have, despite our best efforts, won over 90.13% of Cybertron's surface. All of our preestablished lunar colonies and planetary outposts are in states of constant flux between us and them, Decepticon and Autobot. Greater Iacon is the only region, both on-world and off, that remains out of our foes' hands. Speaking frankly, it's plainly obvious to even the most inexperienced of Privates that we continue to lose land with every solar cycle that passes us by. Yesterday's loss of Research Station 35A proved that. If we keep trying to hold Iacon, I fear that the city will be entirely overrun in less than a decacycle."

Murmurings filled the room. Prowl's predictions were never off.

"What's more, the martial strength of our enemies has grown to such a point that it will be nearly impossible to defeat any given legion of Decepticons in a head-on fight, especially those stationed around Iacon. This point has already been acknowledged in this very meeting alone." The Strategist nodded at Splashdown, who returned the gesture.

"Hold on, Prowl," Ironhide interrupted. "If yer tryin' ta say that my mechs an' femmes are weak-"

"I wouldn't say anything of the sort, my friend," Prowl said quickly. "I'm merely stating the facts. Of course, the factor of Dark Energon also has a hand in things, but the central point is that we're heavily outnumbered. Escape is our only option, as so many of our brothers and sisters have already deduced."

"If Grimlock hadn't left his post, it wouldn't be our only option," someone muttered.

"At any rate, we simply must leave our homeworld," Prowl said, carefully defining each word, "and take as many civilians out of the danger zone - in this case, Cybertron - as possible."

"But Megatron's plans to leave as well brings up a whole new host of problems," Optimus continued. "Firstly, the very nature of the fact that he has suddenly turned a complete 180º on his original agenda means that there must be an ulterior motive at work. The Decepticons are not the ones being persecuted. Why would-"

"You right, Optimus," a deep, gravelly voice came. A blue-and-white femme ran over as fast as her legs could carry her with a wheeled monitor in tow. A dark, indistinct silhouette in the shape of a very large robot was displayed on the screen.

"So sorry, sir!" she gasped. "I tried to let you know, but the Prime was on a roll and it's against protocol to speak directly without the permission of a superior officer-"

"Just put 'im on, Strongarm! Is it who I think it is?" Jazz exclaimed.

"Yes sir, Director Jazz," the young Enforcer confirmed. "It's General Grimlock of Kaon."

Optimus snapped into motion, moving toward the monitor. "Grimlock? By the Matrix! Mainframe, patch him through!"

"Patching him through," the Autobot supercomputer muttered, as if focusing on some other task.

"No viruses detected, no tampering evident - the signal's legit, Prime!" Blaster proclaimed.

Wheeljack's video feed was pushed to the side as Mainframe's screen displayed a super-sized version of the image on Strongarm's computer. It was still dark, but the resolution and size that Mainframe lent the picture allowed the hulking figure in the center to be seen with decidedly more detail. Almost everyone leaned forward or left their chairs to get a better look, then, as one mech, immediately wished they hadn't.

Grimlock had always been a large mech, but now he appeared to have had his durasteel skin carefully, surgically removed, then crudely stretched over a Titan-class's frame. Two raw, sucking wounds brimming with virus-riddled slime, ringed with rust, and crawling with - were those organic insects? - seeped fluid from his enormous shoulders. He wore the same kind of face mask he usually wore, except the ornate, oversized carved teeth sprouting from his cheeks seemed a little more realistic than they used to and intermittently dripped oil and something a little lighter in hue - maybe Energon. Also, they moved when he talked.

The Dynobot commander had always been the color of a long-grayed corpse - this was an intentional choice to unnerve enemies on the battlefield - but now, the paint job and all of his terrifying upgrades made Grimlock look very much like some swollen, bloated revenant, freshly risen from the grave to exact a gruesome amount of bloody vengeance on some poor soul who'd wronged him in life. Optimus, normally unafraid of the biggest, scariest Decepticon warrior on the battlefield, found himself uncharacteristically praying that it wasn't him.

If his commanding officer's new appearance creeped him out, the Dynobot intelligence officer, Scorn - who'd shown up at the meeting as the Dinobots' liaison - didn't let it show. "General Grimlock, sir! We never doubted you'd make it. Oh, my . . . pardon my insolence sir, but what have the Decepticons done to you?"

"BAM! And what happened to your SHAZAM face?" Warpath added.

"Not . . . important," Grimlock snarled. He sounded even worse than he looked. "Dynobots . . . alive. Me am broad-cast-ing from Shockwave's Tower. South Pole of Cybertron. Slag! Send them the coordinates."

"The South Pole? How did Shockwave manage to establish a base down there? My men just embarked on an expedition there not one lunar cycle ago. There wasn't a trace of that cyclopean lunatic to be seen!" Perceptor remarked as Grimlock's current coordinates appeared on Mainframe's screen.

The Dynobot Commander grunted. "No surprise. Shockwave has . . . con-nec-tion with Core bugs, mutated by Dark Energon. We figure entire complex come from ground one day, built under ice crust and brung up by bug king. Me, Grimlock's, men been watching Shockwave for many solar cycles."

Perceptor slumped minutely in his chair. "We . . . we have been reading strange energy signatures in the polar regions for a while now. We assumed it was connected to the Core shutting down."

"And you eggheads didn't think to follow up on it?" Ironhide asked belligerently.

The maroon truckformer upturned his hands. "We've been a bit busy, Ironhide, what with the Decepticon Army laying siege to our Nerve Centre and all that! All of our resources were spent either defending the Ark or trying to find him!" He gestured tightly in Mainframe's, and by proxy Grimlock's, general direction.

"ENOUGH!" Optimus yelled. "Grimlock, we've received your coordinates. Can you make your way to a GroundBridge, by any chance?"

"No," Grimlock said, so forcefully it made the Prime do a double take. "You Autobots talk, and talk, and talk. Complain about things that mean scrap on edge of ex-tinct-tion. Useless bureaucrats! You no be able to get things done. Soldiers die while you endlessly argue. Now, shut manifolds and listen to Grimlock: Shockwave has a weapon, more powerfuller than Warp Cannon. Bigger than Trypticon. Even more importanter than lives of Dynobots. It called . . . the Space Bridge."

Jazz stood bolt upright. He suddenly looked very pale. "Oh man. The Space Bridge. Cliff and I - when we were snoopin' around in the Sea O' Rust, we came across this ancient structure in th' middle of an ol' palace. . . made for rippin' holes in time an' space as we know it ta bring th' Ancients closer ta uninhabited worlds. I - I thought we destroyed Shockwave's version . . ."

"There's already one up and running?" another officer asked incredulously.

"Naw, naw - well, there was, but Cliffjumper an' I tore it a new one . . . I had no idea there was anotha."

Grimlock nodded. "Yes. Us - er, we - saw it too, when we crash in Rust Sea. Shockwave be . . . ob-sessed with tower's design. This one bigger, maybe . . . seven-ty times the size? Hard to eyeball from here. Shockwave have coordinates for new world - one steeping - uh, me mean rich in energy."

Jazz nearly vaulted over the table to reach Optimus. "Prime, I know what world Grimlock's talkin' about! We found all kinda references to it in the Sea. Th' Ancients catalogued it as a potential Cybertronian colony, an' Shockwave got all tied up with the place when he rediscovered the ruins. Jus' a moment . . ."

A hologram of a distant planet appeared over Jazz's arm, a world so gorgeous it took Optimus's breath away. There was a single massive continent surrounded by pristine blue ocean in every direction, which was flecked with dozens of islands of all shapes and sizes.

Perceptor's second-in-command, Beachcomber, sighed. "It's . . . It's . . ."

"Beautiful," Jazz finished grimly. "An' it won't be anything if Megatron an' his cronies get there first."

The Autobot Commander eyed the hologram in a matter that could be defined as hungrily as the plan resolutely ingrained itself in his mind, and he knew that it would not fail. After all, failure was unthinkable. Today, he would save his people, or his name wasn't Optimus Prime.

"Very well. Grimlock, stay in contact. We will face this threat together."

But the Dynobot Commander just grunted again. "You never listen, Optimus. There is no time to sit around to talk of things we already know. Me, Grimlock, am taking the Space Bridge down now - and you can-not stop me. Goodbye, Prime."

He raised the massive sword that had previously been resting just out of frame, raised it over his head, and let it fall, destroying the device that he'd been streaming from. The image of Grimlock's twisted form dissolved, leaving only Wheeljack's shocked face on Mainframe's screen.

"This - this is the best chance we'll ever get, Optimus," he breathed. "We need to take it."

There was silence in the maintenance bay for a full twenty-count, then Optimus spoke. He spoke quietly, but everyone in the room could plainly hear his words. "Quickly, then - Initiate the Exodus Protocol!"

---

Shockwave's Tower

South Pole, Southern Cybertron

Early morning, Local Time. Spring 438, War-Cycle.

Inconvenient.

Not the fact that the Subject had escaped. Not the loss of 68% of the base's personnel, either at the teeth and claws of the Dynobots or the wild insects that were flooding his sanctuary in numbers far greater than he had anticipated. Not even the fact that two out of three of his bio-organic lieutenants had failed to subdue Subjects 82-85 as the experiments rampaged through the lower levels of his research outpost. No, Shockwave had planned that chain of events from the beginning, tools to sharpen his charges' blades, hone their abilities to a fine edge by any means necessary. Sure, the Waruder King might find Shockwave's use of his best warriors to be a point of contention, but the one-opticked scientist did not consider that creature to be a concern.

It was the third insect - the Kuwatgatrer, it called itself in the tongue of its people - having been deactivated at the mouth of the Waruder Hives that concerned Shockwave. Its pilot, Beet-Chit, was supposed to have been the Insects' greatest warrior-hero, the immovable last challenge on the Dynobots' preliminary testing itinerary, but he, too, had fallen to the rage of the Dynobots. Logically, that meant that the former Autobot's next target would be Shockwave himself.

The pillar of light above him roared as it broke through Cybertron's upper atmosphere. Just as Shockwave had predicted, it was operating at full capacity, fed by the sea of Dark Energon beneath the planet's core, unraveling the tapestry of time and space itself. No errors reported. Everything was working perfectly.

Naturally, that was when it happened. Shockwave's field was set at its maximum limit, encompassing nearly the entire control deck of his beautiful Tower. Weak. Spread as thin as possible, and that wasn't even taking into account the massive amount of energy discharging from an emitter the size of a city block situated right underneath his feet. He was an easy target, vulnerable and-

A whisper of movement behind him. A blast of hot air from a vent boiling over with rage.

The scientist hammered a distinctive button on his console, then whirled around as a chain of energy shot into his right hand. He let it loose and it crackled to life, wrapping itself firmly around the legs of a monstrous robot that had, despite its best efforts, been imprisoned again.

Grimlock of Kaon yelled an inarticulate scream of pain and fury as the twin Boraya beams on either side of the control console activated and zapped his tortured form with focused beams of pure agony. Manacles lashed his arms to the control deck, and Shockwave's energy chain burned into his legs even as it held him securely in his place.

The Boraya emitters shut off as quickly as they'd come on. "Grimlock," the Decepticon Applied Sciences director acknowledged, "I expected far better from you, as a decorated general in the Autobot Army. Falling for such an obvious trap - clearly my experiments have truly taken a toll on your cerebro-circuitry, hmm?"

There was no answer from the Dynobot commander. He stood very still, seemingly heedless of the monumental discomfort he should have been feeling as he glared Shockwave down with an expression of the purest, most irrational hatred that the latter mech had ever seen.

"I must say, I honestly didn't forsee you making it quite this far, but all the better for it! Your new master, Megatron will be quite pleased with you and your team's combat efficiency. I imagine you'll all become Phase Sixers, or possibly even members of his personal vanguard." His single eye momentarily glowed a little brighter - with pride or something a little deeper, no one could be sure. "Once you're successfully indoctrinated, of course, we'll send you to his new field base on the target world. With you at his side, the Decepticon Empire will flourish, spreading out across the universe for millennia to come! Now, sit, my pet, and don't make a fuss. I must inform my lord of the progress we've made together."

He hit another button, waited patiently, interminably, for the signal to send, and finally saluted as a live hologram of the Decepticon leader's oversized head popped into being. "Lord Megatron! The Space Bridge is fully operational and ready to receive traffic, at long last!"

"Magnificent!" Megatron boomed. "Shockwave, maintain your post. You will be the unquestioned, supreme leader of our world for as long as our expedition lasts. When the Nemesis returns, our age-long foes will no longer be a concern, and my reign will last uncontested for eons!"

"Indeed, my lord," the Scientist said with a nearly undetectable lilt to his voice, as if he were humoring a sparkling. "I shall continue my research while you are gone, and see if I can narrow down the location of Starscream. He and his few remaining followers will be captured, alive, and kept for you to do with them as you please. I give you my word."

"Very good, Shockwave!" Megatron said, obviously pleased. For some reason, he seemed to be in an exceedingly good mood. Shockwave filed that away for later reflection. "And keep the home fires burning when I am away, yes?"

The cyclopean Decepticon's optic flashed. "Fear not, Megatron. Cybertron shall remain precisely as you leave it. Shockwave out."

As soon as Megatron's holographic head blinked into nothingness, an earsplitting, metallic roar erupted from directly behind him. A massive durabyllium-alloy manacle embedded itself into the console next to Shockwave's hand, causing him to draw a laughably undersized pistol from subspace.

"NO - ONE - CONTROLS - GRIMLOCK!" the Dynobot howled, and his monstrous form began to shift. In a matter of seconds, a bipedal reptilian robot stood in front of Shockwave with teeth like swords and a sweeping tail thicker and longer than the scientist's whole body.

Shockwave felt something stir deep in the pit of his cold spark - something that no longer had a place in his chest. Pride, tempered with a notable - and bothersome - amount of fear. Emotions? Now that was wholly unexpected.

Before he could mediate further on the anomaly, a full jaw of straight, needle-sharp teeth clamped down on his weapon arm. He tried to pull the trigger, but his failing digits were far too slow. A purple flash ineffectually filled Grimlock's mouth as the enormous creature tore Shockwave's damaged arm clean from his body. Energon - Shockwave's Energon - sprayed from the wound, but, strangely enough, all the Decepticon's sensors registered was a slight tug, followed by a warm sensation as his right side was washed with his own blood.

He was dimly aware of watching helplessly as his arm was actually eaten by the beast of his own creation, another sensation like being hosed down with molten lava, and lastly, the unique feel of Grimlock's tail flying into his ribs with force enough to break a building into rubble, much like the sparking chunks of what used to be the main control console that was now sailing along through the cold polar air with its creator.

The last thing he saw with his one static-filled eye before he succumbed to stasis lock was Grimlock, the mighty warrior, standing victorious over the pulverized remains of the Space Bridge's regulation and control center. One of his creations had effortlessly destroyed another without a single thought to the contrary. Effectively, Shockwave's downfall, after all these hundreds of years of unwavering success, had been himself all along.

How poetic, he thought as he fell, bleeding, burning, and possessing a number of internal injuries all at once. The Space Bridge, his magnum opus, began to melt down. A final pulse of light shot from the top of it, then disappeared into the clouds.

Then, everything went dark.

---

Fueling Station Delta

0847 Local Time

"Decks 6 through 10 have reached full capacity!" a tech shouted over the din. "Crew cabins in Block Alpha-Red also at max fill!"

"Overall power at 85% and rising!" another answered.

"Great! The Plasma Batteries have done their duty!" Optimus Prime said. He jogged over to a line of computer stations that had been monitoring the little things: the spatial anomaly now positively ID'd as Grimlock's portal, the state of the Nemesis's launch area in East Iacon, the ever-changing ETD of the Ark. "How long until we can depart, soldier?" he asked the femme manning the latter station.

"It all depends on the launch crew, sir," she replied. "We're almost done loading the ship, but it's still not quite reached capacity yet. Should I send the boarding call out now, or wait a few more breems . . ?"

Suddenly, all the lights in the nerve center went red. An alarm blared once or twice.

"Optimus Prime, sir! The portal Grimlock reported - it's just grown unstable!" a red-and-gold Autobot cried.

"Oh, no . . . surveillance shows greatly increased activity at the East Iacon launch site!" another reported. "SLAG! We just lost visual! Someone get me eyes on that compound, stat!"

At that moment, Medical Officer Ratchet approached Prime's right-hand side. "I hope you know what you're doing, Optimus. If not . . . well, we'll be personally responsible for everything that happens afterward."

Before the Autobot leader could reply, the lights unexpectedly flickered as a distant explosion rocked the Ark's nerve center.

"Metroplex's been hit! It's the Decepticons - they're attacking again!" a young tech by the name of Jolt yelled.

Optimus turned and gazed Ratchet straight in the eyes. "Ratchet, you'll have to take things from here. I trust that you can direct operations, ensure that the refugees will make it to safety before we leave?"

"Of course I can, Prime - but where are you going, anyway?

But the Autobot commander was already halfway to the door. "I am going," he said, "to see someone whom I should have visited while there was still time to spare."

---

Shore of the Trannis Fork

Fifth Ring of Iacon

0852 Local Time

The alarms blared, but Seaspray wasn't going anywhere. At least, not yet.

He stood on the banks of the Trannis Fork River, four rings below the Ark's fueling depot, and gazed down the tributary that had led so many of his friends to their deaths. It wasn't much - just a quarter-mile-wide river that flowed into an iron tunnel underneath a derelict pawn shop - but it'd been there since before there even was an Iacon. Now, even though it was much shallower than it had been in its day before the Shutdown, it was still fast and deep, heedless of the rubble trying desperately to stifle its flow.

"I'm not ready, you know," he said, letting the words bubble to the surface like they'd always done. "I've never directed a major sea battle like you have. I've never won a decisive victory against impossible odds." He paused, listening to the continuous pinging and informational chatter coming from his wrist communicator. "I wouldn't even know where to start . . . Why me, boss?"

He tilted his head sideways and looked expectantly at his commanding officer. Splashdown kept his optics fixed on the river, boiling away, swift, unforgiving.

"I chose you to be my second-in-command, Seaspray, simply because there was no one else to choose."

The younger sailor was taken aback. His armor clamped tightly to his frame. "Gee, thanks."

"There was no one else more suited for the rigors of such a position," Splashdown clarified. "No one as strong, reliable, unmoving under pressure than you. I'm an old robot, my boy. I've seen plenty of fine seamechs come and go, fight and . . . and fall to the depths, but I have never seen such promise in any other individual under my command. You blame yourself for these failures, for losses, Seaspray. You say you're the ballast of our little division, but you're clearly not to even the most untrained eye."

Seaspray scowled, memories of the latest failed incursion filling his vision. "Then what am I, Admiral? What am I doing that causes so many of our best mechs to die on something as simple as a naval expedition?"

Splashdown merely frowned and emptied his pipe. "Sonny, losses are losses. This is war, after all. These are some tragedies that you just can't avoid. The true test of Primus's great game is learning how to turn those losses into victories any way you can." He gestured with the end of his pipe, pointing out the tunnel entrance. To Seaspray, it looked like a hungry, yawning beast that fed off of misery and excreted despair.

"Take that river pass, there, up against the walls of that iron tunnel. Yesterday, it's true, Ripcurrent and his group were ambushed a few miles out of friendly territory - but they sacrificed their lives so we could get an idea of the Decepticon situation outside of the neighborhood. Thanks to them, we now have a render of the exact specifications of the Decepticon camp under Nova Cronum. Their defenses. The number of personnel stationed there."

"And their weak points?"

"Aye. That Prowl fellow's already pinpointed several areas where we can strike. The 'Cons will be celebrating their grand victory of winnin' this little Space Race here. They won't be expectin' a second attack from the same direction."

The Naval Lieutenant fidgeted with his arm-mounted harpoon cannon. "Will that really work, though, sir? Who'll be escorting the Neutrals, again?

"Why, Ultra Magnus himself'll be leading the ground assault, son. I'd say that that infernal camp's as good as destroyed. In, ooh, little less than three vorns, if all goes according to plan, we'll mount the strike an' start getting out of town. D'you see? It all comes around, in the end."

Seaspray, despite himself, sighed. "No. We still lost hard, sir. Ripcurrent lost hard. No victory can make up for that."

"Well . . . you'll understand one day. Because what I was just spoutin' off about, about you thinking you're nothing but ballast? You're not. You're the anchor of our division. Grounded. Strong. Unbreakable. You'll see the fight through to the bitter end, no matter what; even if you spend the whole time bellyachin' about it. Remember the Creed, son. 'No depth nor tide. . .'"

"'Can crush or corrode our pride,'" Seaspray finished. A ghost of a smile touched the corners of his optics.

"That's right. You'll get it sooner or later. Now, you've a ship to catch, so you should get moving! But first . . ."

From his hip, Splashdown drew his honorary Hydraxian broadsword and rested it on Seaspray's shoulder. "Seaspray of Yuss, do you swear to abide by the Primal Code and the Cybertronian Sailor's Creed, standing against all threats on land or sea?"

"I do, and I ask Primus to guide me," the Lieutenant recited.

"Do you swear to defend Cybertron and its people, no matter the consequences?"

"I do, and I ask Primus to guide me."

"And do you promise to never lose sight of your objectives stated above, even when the fiercest storm or the highest wave threatens to crash against you with the force of a Gnawfish's bite; or when the strongest foe has you lying helpless in the surf?"

"I do, and I ask Primus to guide me!" Seaspray shouted with renewed vigor.

"Then rise, Naval Commander Seaspray, and carry out your task with valor and honor! Go to the Ark, son! Muster your new troops! Take to that gorgeous sea on the target world, and punch Megatron in the slaggin' teeth when ya get there! Now hurry! I'll wait for you, on this beach, when Cybertron is saved and the galaxy free of his tyranny! Go! Run!"

And so, the newly-decorated Autobot Naval Commander flopped heroically up the riverbank, occasionally glancing back at the lone figure contemplating his next move by the water.

"I'll make you proud, sir," he said to himself, and charged for the great starship.

---

Old Dominion Turnpike

First Ring of Iacon

0854 Local Time

Just outside the Central Spaceport, an army of civilians put their petals to the metal as they jockeyed for positions in a mad dash to reach Fueling Station Delta before everyone else. Broken-down mass transit systems littered the sides of the roadways, and dozens of refugees ran on foot on the shoulder.

Despite the rush, there was a sense of hopelessness to the whole race. Perhaps, deep down, all the participants knew there was no chance that they would make it to the Ark before liftoff.

And indeed, the great golden ship began to rise in the far distance. Scaffolding and loading towers fell away from the vehicle as a bluish glow illuminated her stern. Five massive rocket engines activated, one after the other.

Metroplex, the colossus of Iacon, shouted with fury as he swatted an entire platoon of Decepticons, just off to the north. Like those Decepticons, everyone tearing down the expressways were fighting a losing battle. Still, they kept driving, kept running, but every one of their efforts were in vain.

---

Terminal Delta

Central Spaceport, Iacon

0855 Local Time

Optimus pushed through a crowd of Autobots and Neutrals alike as he ran. Much like him, they were trying to get somewhere before the launch, desperately seeking their objectives even as the Ark's engines warmed up, but while they were trying to finish off any maintenance issues or load another crate of supplies, Optimus was searching for his beloved sparkmate, the reason he kept fighting when all the odds were stacked miles-high against him: Elita-1.

She was close. Optimus could feel her, but the chaos in the Fueling Station noticeably dampened the spark-bond. Not quenching it entirely - just making it that much more difficult to pinpoint his other half's location. Such a setback he could not abide by, especially at a time like this. The nearly tangible net of emotions and encoded messages flitting back and forth over the heads of the panicked crowd made it even more difficult. The Ark was already boarding, but that did nothing to ease the congestion.

Then, just outside of the second loading bay, he saw her, directing foot traffic with a calm, yet urgent ease from her position on top of an overturned crate. She was as beautiful now as she'd ever been, even streaked with dirt, scrapes, and battle damage. Her reddish-pink armor almost glowed in the sunlight, and her posture was excellent - tense, ready for any possible eventuality, but elegant and polished nonetheless. Effortlessly perfect, but undoubtedly able to handle herself come the Pit or high water.

"Elita," Optimus breathed once he'd come within earshot.

His bondmate was surprised to see him, and momentarily halted her traffic direction. "Optimus? I thought I felt you nearby . . . Shouldn't you be coordinating operations in the Nerve Center with the others?"

"Perhaps," Optimus admitted. "But first I needed to say goodbye to the most beautiful femme in all of creation, my dear."

A sad smile touched Elita's lips. "Ah, Optimus. Always such a romantic. I'd like to return the compliment, but we've both got far too much on our plates at the moment. Perhaps, in a lunar cycle or so, when you return with Megatron in chains and the Decepticon Army beaten, we can find some quiet place on Cathedral Hill and just sit for a while, yes? We'll take in the spires and the Chasm, and appreciate each other's company for the first time in ages."

Optimus sighed. "I'd like nothing better, Elita, but I fear that this is a mission from which I will not return. Our future together rests on the tip of a-"

"Orion!" the First Femme snapped, interrupting her sparkmate. "That's quite enough with all of your melodramatic Prime nonsense. My word to Primus's audios, you say something along these lines every time you go out to battle, and you always return with nothing worse than a few nicks and gashes. This mission will be no different and you know it."

The Autobot Commander was struck dumb, and his faceplate reflexively retracted in spite of himself. "I - I suppose you're right, dear . . ."

"Aren't we femmes always?" Elita interjected.

" . . . but . . . er . . . yes," he finished lamely. "I suppose that we'll all do our best, then. For the sparklings, and their sparklings, and for Cybertron itself . . ."

"Then that's all you'll need to do. That's all you've ever done," Elita pointed out. "Everything will all turn out, in the end. It always does, since the beginning of our species."

"Always," Optimus repeated. "Goodbye, my angel."

"Don't be long, Orion. We need you back here just as much as we do out there."

The two co-Primes kissed, heedless of the dark, sparking corridor, heedless of the dim sunlight filtered through an impenetrable atmosphere of war-born miasma, and heedless of the seething mass of people around them - at least for the briefest of moments. It was not a long kiss, but it was a good one, and was still tingling on both of their lips long after they'd said their final goodbyes.

Optimus Prime closed his faceplate and strode regally through the crowd. Elita-1 stepped gracefully off of her crate and ushered the last family of refugees through the nearest bulkhead, slipping in behind them and drawing her blaster at once. The Decepticons were waiting, and the two co-Primes would not waste another moment.

And far below them both, the Trannis Fork River boiled away and began, ever so slowly, to sink into the oily sands along its banks. A new age - a new generation had begun, and the River would see it through, as it had countless others throughout the many years of its existence.

This would not be the first. But it certainly wouldn't be the last, either.