Author's Note (05/14/2024): Finally, I have returned!
Apologies for the long wait, friends. I was contracted to assemble an in-depth exhibition of my artwork (maps, to be exact) at a local community event here in the Northwoods. I might be inclined to upload some of them on my DeviantArt page in the next few months, depending on how things go. The exhibition, plus other general life struggles, has consumed most of my free time for a while, but I've finally freed up enough free time to write again! Man, does it feel good.
As a PSA, I've updated all of the past chapters of Transformers: One to better suit my quality standards of the present day. Editing them and revisiting my past work was pretty much all the recreational writing I was able to do in the past few months, so please excuse that little nugget. If you're just reading this new chapter now, I would recommend rereading this fanfic's past entries in order to refresh your memory on the topic. I needed to, and I'm the author, for goodness' sake.
Anyway, please enjoy! I put a lot of work into the next few steps on this Fanfiction account and I hope it shows through.
- The Doctor (Do)
The old Archivist finished his latest scribbling and triumphantly stored his stylus behind his audio node. He cracked his gnarled knuckles, rendered knotty by millennia upon millennia of writer's cramps and carpal tunnel complications.
"Not bad, not bad at all," he grimaced. "Ah, Primus condemn these ancient joints. My apologies - I don't mean to downplay your suffering, of course, but being a nebbish old scribe such as I takes its toll on a body, given enough time. I'm sure you can understand."
"Understand what? Failure? Suffering?" his companion asked bitterly. His throat was dry from speaking and he didn't mind - just another indignity to add to the pile, another cutting edge to add to all the ones embedded in his armor. "You speak the truth. I've had my fair share these last couple of years."
The Archivist's bearded mien betrayed a small, thin smile. "If you say so, my dour new friend. That reminds me, though - you've spoken quite a lot already, said much about other mechs, but where, exactly do you come into it? How do you fit into the puzzle of your own story?"
For a moment, there was silence in the cold, dank cell, broken only by the creaking of time-worn metal as it dealt with the crushing pressure of its undersea location. The Decepticon stood from his position, slumped against the wall, and attempted to rise to his feet with minimal success as blood-red and acid-orange sparks shot from his overclocked, dented joints.
He gingerly reached behind his back and began probing it with a few fingers, assessing the damage that had been wreaked upon him. "Everything was normal before the Raid on Uruk-One. It was . . . predictable. Accommodating. Routine, even."
An unpleasant, raspy noise filled the cell as the Decepticon yanked a shard of twisted metal from his flesh and brought it around into the dim werelight. Through spotty vision and crimson tolerance warnings, he could just make out the shape of what was once a human-scale longsword, of all things. He scowled and let it fall to the floor, where the Archivist quickly snatched it up and shoved it into his hip-mounted satchel.
"What? Knowledge isn't the only thing I cultivate a habit of collecting," he offered to counter a withering glare from the damaged Decepticon.
". . . You know, Archivist, I had a good racket going in those days. I wasn't truly happy with my life even then, but I could get what I wanted - what I deserved! - out of it, should I have wished. I enjoyed it, to a degree. The dance of politics and swords alike. There was a certain order to everything that was . . . reassuring, I suppose. You can relate to that, can't you?"
"Guilty as charged. But we cannot control the course of Fate's river any more than we can split the atom with the stroke of a pen."
The Decepticon viewed his cellmate with a suspicious eye. "Quite. At any rate, all of that was thrown away when the Slagmaker survived. That freak accident in the bridge of the Ark forged a chain of events, one after the other, piling up like a Pit-damned trainwreck, that, I assure you, Archivist, led directly to me. In this cell. Conversing with the likes of you."
He laboriously made his way over to the tiny window set in the far wall of the cell, from which issued a thin, dim blue light, and gazed out into the abyss. The rock walls of a massive deep-sea trench rose up in the far distance, ensconcing a ramshackle city of Cybertronian huts and tunnels carved into the rock. Many of them were constructed from the wrecks of smaller vessels, ones that had gone down with the Nemesis when it crashed beneath the waves four million years before. He could imagine, but not hear, the taverns full of merry Transformers celebrating peace, celebrating camaraderie, celebrating the talks that were being held elsewhere in the very same starship-wreck in which he was a prisoner. The mechs and femmes living it up with the new visitors.
Completely unaware of the machinations at hand.
"Oh, how I wish I could have found it before the eruption," he muttered. "I tried. Three times. It all seems so obvious now . . . but there's just no point in dwelling on that. I would have changed history. I would have realized my own plans, once and for all, gotten everything I deserve and more. With the stroke of a pen, Archivist? Please. Fate is satisfied enough with the sound of a shell casing hitting the ground."
"What a very Decepticon outlook on life," the Archivist remarked cheerfully. "I would expect it from most of your brethren, but certainly not from you. And you still haven't told me where you enter your own story."
"Are your audios stopped up with bodywax, old man? I'm getting to it! True art, true accounts of living history, take their time to build up to. You, of all people, should know this!"
The Archivist snapped up his stylus once more, opening his ancient datapad with a few deft maneuvers of his other hand. "Then, by all means, please 'build up' to your swan song . . . Commander Starscream, he of the Dark Spark and Silver Tongue. We have all the time in the world."
Somewhere above the Napa Valley
State of Jefferson, USA
Late May 2007
"It's looking like clear sixes and clear skies all the way, TC," the Black Violet Seeker reported as he pulled up alongside his trinemate. "Clear air, too - I can't remember the last time I could vent so fully and deeply. Ahh . . . y'know, I hope we can stay here a while before going back home or whatever Megsy has planned next."
Had he been in robot form, Thundercracker would have rolled his eyes. "Primus, I wish you wouldn't call him that. One of these cycles, you're going to slip up and say that name to his face - and what do you think would happen then?"
"Pssh. He wouldn't do anything to you or me. We're Seekers, and Outliers to boot. Besides, with me, you get what you pay for, you know? Flattering nicknames and occasional pranks are just part of the cost of my services - which, I might add, are exceptional, no?"
"So you say, but remember - Lord Megatron wasn't above mutilating his oldest ally's youngest son, a Medic, no less, when he protested the actions that the Slagmaker took in Polyhex."
"Oh, I remember, all right. I was there. Not for the incident itself, but I was running a retrieval mission in the neighborhood when it happened. Still don't understand how Soundwave didn't walk away right then and there."
Thundercracker grunted. "He and our leader go way back. As for the mutilation itself, Megatron wouldn't have done it without a good reason. Probably had something to do with those experimental nanotech servos that they found in the ruins of the JAAM not long before."
"Man. The Ol' JAAM. There's a blast from the past, isn't it? I still look back on it somedays. We did some good stuff for our people there - Outliers and workingmechs alike."
"We did our share of bad stuff, too, Skywarp. Things I won't ever forget . . . even before the War broke out, Cybertron was rotten for a long time. The War was merely the natural conclusion of society's decay."
"Speak for yourself, Professor. I've got nothing but good memories of the place," Skywarp responded good-naturedly. For some reason, he was feeling nostalgic that day. Something about the clean air and the pristine world they had set out to explore did that to him.
"At the Academy, it felt like I was actually doing something for a change, you know? Something other than just popping around here and there, shoving upperclassmen down the stairs when they weren't expecting it. I met . . . I met you guys there. We bonded the same day I was supposed to graduate, if the Senate and their thugs hadn't condemned the place. And, on top of it all, I learned a lot from the experience. I learned pretty much everything I know from the Academy."
A rare chuckle, deep as the sea but with a nearly undetectable tinge of fondness to it, tickled Skywarp's audios. "Pretty words, 'Warp, but that's really not saying much. You were barely a D student, if I recall correctly."
"Hey! That's not - that's not nice. C'mon, 'Cracker. I pour my spark out and that's your only takeaway from the whole deal?"
"Shall I read your thesis paper to you? I've got it tucked away in a place of honor within my personal files. Truly a monument to non-sequiturs. A crowning achievement in sesquipedalian loquaciousness. I've never had a student before or since who used so many words to say so little."
Skywarp considered that for a moment. ". . . Touché. You've got me there."
Memories of the Jhiaxian Academy for Advanced Mechanics filled his mind as they soared through the sky. He remembered his first day of class, the many misadventures he'd had that eventually culminated in the grandest senior prank ever known to the Cybertronian civilization - and, of course, the covert missions that the mercurial Senator Shockwave would send his crack squad of Outliers on to secure a brighter future for all.
Of course, he remembered the Academy's forced closure as well, once Shockwave's whole scheme came tumbling down. He remembered the handsome young Senator's first public appearance after the Senate subjected him to the cruel combination of Shadowplay and Empurata - the worst punishment ever inflicted on a single Transformer. And then, the Academy's final destruction during the Battle of Polyhex . . .
". . . He gave a speech there that night. The night he chopped Glitch's legs off in front of Primus and everybody. Something about 'the constant improvement of a revolutionary force' as he stood in whatever parts of the Medical Institute's lecture hall that survived after that lout Lugnut had his way with the city."
"I recall. Starscream and I were still on Tryptich Station back then, pretending as if we didn't have a stake in the War. A delusion, just like the one that everyone else on that cursed heap took part in. Go on," Thundercracker urged.
"Well . . . Glitch had the best doctors in the Decepticon Empire working on him while Megatron kept the forces hooked on his every word. The doctors managed to get Glitch all patched up and on his feet just as he finished talking. Poor kitten staggered out whiter than titanium alloy, looking . . . wasted. Trembling. Hardly the image of the 'perfect Decepticon warrior,' even after he stood up for the first time and showed off the new servos. I've never seen a mechanimal look so shaken before . . ."
The conversation died down as the Seekers passed through a bank of cottonlike clouds. The cool sensation of aqueous vapor, semifrozen crystals of icy slush, and other various clean, crisp gases flowed over Skywarp's fuselage, an exquisitely enjoyable sensation that always came accompanied by the pure thrill of flying. When the clouds parted, a downright Arcadian landscape of rolling hills and cultivated valleys filled with meticulously maintained farms spread out below the two trinemates, looking for all the world as natural and wholesome as a pure mountain lake. To the East, a heavily forested range of snowcapped peaks rose up and filled the horizon.
"OK. What's your point, then? Soundwave knew the risks. He's still SIC, right? So it couldn't have been that bad."
"I mean, I get the point that Lord Megatron was trying to make, but . . . it kinda feels like there are better ways to get it across, you know? Like, maybe telling Glitch - or at least Soundwave - that he was planning to give the kid an upgrade. Doing the whole deal in a sterile environment instead of just lopping Glitch's forelegs off with his fan axe. Literally anything else would have been better. I can't even imagine what Soundwave's reaction was behind closed doors, when no one could see him and Megs hashing it out-"
Solus' sake, Skywarp, shut up! How do you know Soundwave's not listening in on us right now? If you're going to talk scrap about our Emperor, the least you could do is use the Bond! Thundercracker interjected angrily, bobbing up and down in the jetstream to emphasize his point.
Ach, sorry . . .
A frosty silence followed as Thundercracker began probing the atmosphere around them with his mind, a sensation that his trinemate always felt in a strange, reduced capacity through their bond. Skywarp felt it as an odd inversion of some esoteric component of his processor, a bitter, but not disagreeable sensation that he could only accurately describe as "purple." Those very same clouds, charged up with static electricity that would have messed with any other Cybertronian's navigation systems but somehow never bothered Skywarp, began to be pulled around the two Seekers, filling the air with minute crackles of lightning and blotting out the view of the verdant valley below.
Now, you don't act like this unless you've got something on your mind, Skywarp tentatively began. He was rewarded with more silence on his trinemate's end.
Thundercracker, you don't . . . you don't think Megatron's lost it, do you?
Such thoughts are treasonous. I can't confirm them . . . but I can't ignore this any longer either, the electric blue Seeker conceded. I fear that he's forgotten what made his movement so noble in the first place. Now, he just seems to want war and destruction.
"Too right," an altogether new voice agreed. Skywarp and Thundercracker nearly fell out of the sky in surprise. "And, pray tell, what purpose does war and destruction have in this bold new era?"
The digitized voice was exactly as they remembered it - high, reedy, and nasal, yet with a certain sleazy charm to it that beckoned the listener to hear what its owner had to say. The mech it belonged to often used a voice modulator to sound deeper and more credible in public, but he could never hide the true timbre of his natural speaking voice from his trinemates. One could not simply lie to those who shared their sparks like that.
It was a voice that was intimately familiar to both Thundercracker and Skywarp, a voice that was as much a part of them as their own were.
It was a voice that they hadn't heard since Megatron's death and subsequent rebirth as the Siege of Iacon reached its zenith about three weeks prior.
It was the voice of the former Decepticon Air Commander, Starscream of Lake Ulchtar.
Alive. Healthy. Decidedly not turned to dust by the DJD.
At ease. More so than the other two Seekers had ever felt him before.
Scheming. As he always did.
He wanted something from them.
"STARSCREAM?! Holy scrap! I thought for sure you'd slunk off and died somewhere after Megs blasted you! Thundercracker, are you hearing this?!"
"I am. Starscream, where are you right now? Are you safe?"
"Oh, not only am I safe, my wingmechs, but I am secure - more so than we've ever been before, the three of us. And I have some glorious news to share with you two!"
"Copy that. Give us a click. We'll touch down somewhere, then we'll talk."
"Primus Below, it's good to hear from you, Screamer! Can't wait to hear what you've got to say!"
Thundercracker kept his thoughts to himself, careful to not let any of them leak over their shared bond. Truth be told, he wasn't so pleased - and he wasn't so sure of their trineleader's intentions.
They landed on a ridge overlooking a placid river valley full of freshly planted grapevines. It was a beautiful spring afternoon, with a blue sky filled with clear, bright sunlight marred only by a wide-reaching system of cirrus clouds. The darker storm cloud that Thundercracker had idly pulled together to further mask their conversation from the SIC's prying ears was already being ripped apart by the high winds at such an altitude. The air was tinged with salt and comfortably cool.
In that spirit, Thundercracker spoke. "All right, go ahead, Trineleader."
"Yes, of course, Thundercracker . . . and Skywarp as well! My trinemates, I am overjoyed to hear you still function, having survived Megatron's ill-advised suicide mission."
"Suicide mission?" Skywarp chuckled. "C'mon, Screamer, I wouldn't exactly call it that - I mean, you saw that ramshackle scrapheap the Autobots cobbled together."
"Ah, Skywarp. You haven't changed a bit," Starscream said, his voice filled with a fondness and warmth that the other Seekers suspected was at least partially false. "Still eager for action no matter where it comes from. Champing at the bit to avoid boredom. I've missed that. No, what I saw - as the former, unjustly disgraced Air Commander, of course - in Megatron's plan was folly. He simply couldn't bear to put aside his obsession with the Autobot Prime for a moment, leading the charge to take Iacon and consolidate his gains. Instead, he uses our trump card - the so-called Nemesis - to jet off into space on a fool's errand, leaving his Empire high and dry on Cybertron in the process!"
"Now, hold on. There's nothing wrong with running down Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots and the only person who can rally them, before he can go to ground. I don't know how many news updates you've caught since the . . . er, your showdown in Kaon . . ."
A flash of incandescent rage issued over the Seekers' bond.
". . . but the Empire took Iacon, Starscream! It's done! The War is finally over! There's only one more thing we have to do - kill the Prime before he can get a foothold on this new world and reinvigorate a resistance movement back home. And we haven't done too shabby for ourselves either. Let me tell you-"
"No need," Starscream interrupted. "I've been watching ever since you two tamely followed Megatron to sit in that smoky bunker. I've seen everything. How much have you truly accomplished?"
A slow, rumbling peal of distant thunder sounded in the Napa Valley. "Starscream," Thundercracker growled, "do you mean to tell me that you've been tracking us for at least half a decacycle - and you haven't made ANY ATTEMPT AT ALL to tell us of your presence until NOW?!"
"Oh, calm yourself. You two were busy! I didn't want to distract you from Megatron's rational and very sane goals. What were those again? I forget. Anyway, I might add, neither of you tried to make contact with me at any point in the last few cycles either. So really, we're both the victims here, aren't we?"
"Hey, TC, y'know, he's got a point, OK? We did sort of leave him high and dry. Can we really claim the moral high ground here?"
"Exactly. Listen to Skywarp. We've all done wrong here. But it's time to move on. Forgive and forget," Starscream concurred. "I just sent you both a package. Give it a look, why don't you?"
"Package? What package-" Thundercracker began, but fell silent as his databanks lit up with a truly massive datafile, neatly compressed and sent an impossible distance over lightyears of travel by some bizarre, anomalous quirk of a Cybertronian spark-bond that no Scientist had ever managed to explain in a rational manner.
He warily opened it with a simple handshake protocol, still suspicious of Starscream and his constant games of power and political posturing. And what Thundercracker saw within blew him away - like a leaf in a hurricane.
"We won," Skywarp breathed, uncharacteristically quietly. They were the only words he could muster. His eyes were glazed over as he skimmed through the reams and reams of information that his trineleader had presented him with.
"What the - the Ultracon Confederacy? 'Reestablishment of interstellar contact with historical Cybertronian colonies . . .' 700 solar cycles of peace?!" Thundercracker exclaimed. "Prima's Sword, Starscream! HOW could you not tell us this?!"
"Shh, shh . . . I'm doing it now, aren't I? You gentlemechs have been asleep for a very long time."
It felt as if Thundercracker was in freefall. The bottom dropped out of his stomach and the world seemed to spin around him. It was like the first time he learned to fly, so many centuries ago. But not even his inborn flight capabilities and leg-mounted thrusters could save him from this wholly unpleasant sensation.
"I can sense that you two have some digestion to do," Starscream said, and the greasy smirk on his face was somehow transmitted through the bond. "I'll leave you to your own devices for a while. Rest. Take some time out for yourselves. Follow your esteemed leader on whichever fool's errands he wishes to undergo. When you're ready, just let me know. I'll scrounge up some papers to visit Terra when I get half a chance - and then, my fellow Seekers, I'll come see you two. I know a good place to meet. We'll have some high-quality Engex there, my treat. Only the best for my trinemates. I look forward to our reunion."
"Starscream, wait-" Thundercracker began, but the line of communication went dead, leaving the two Seekers even more confused than they had been and twice as lonely as they were before their trineleader had contacted them.
Below them, the Napa River gleamed in the bright Jeffersonian sunlight. It flowed South, through vineyards and valleys alike, to San Francisco.
Natomas, Sacramento, Mendocino, USA
". . . My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
"My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
"The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
"From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
"Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, walk the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."
"Primus below, Laserbeak, will you shut up already? Y'know, there's other people tryin' ta learn the local language by themselves, right?"
"Apologies. The Terrans are primitive creatures, but they've got potential. Some of the samples I've collected so far are simply breathtaking, even with the language barrier!"
"Eh, if ya say so. I'm not seein' the hype. These mooks don't even know how to make a good ol' Dimensional Decimator. They ain't all that - their understandin' of the finer sciences is rudimentary at best."
"Did you just use the words "ain't" and "rudimentary" in the same sentence?"
"Nyeh, so what if I did, Little Miss Straxus? Recitin' humie poetry in a language ya don't understand yet. Classic college-edumacated fembot. Speakin' of . . . what's that poem about, anyway?"
"Not sure. Seems to be about some naval battle or another. I gotta do more research."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll leave ya to it. Say, Frenzy . . . we gotta talk."
"Yes? What is it?"
"Hey, mech, what the slag was up with you killin' all those humies on the rig?"
The temperature inside Soundwave's chest compartment instantly changed, getting significantly frostier, especially on the diminutive minidroid's end. "Is it not clear?"
"Yeah, no, not really. Ain't had nothin' to do with the mission. You going rogue on us?"
There was a raspy scoff, and a picture-perfect impression of Frenzy rolling all four of his eyes. "Like you said. Research. Learning. We will fight humans, one day. Better to know now what will kill them best than have to figure it out while their warriors are shooting back."
"Pretty crappy way of goin' about it. Enough with th' wanton civvie slaughter. It's bad business. Don't forget, I outrank you, and that's my order."
"Rrrr . . . they would do the same to us in our position. Have you not read about their actions to one another? They are brutal - vicious! Creatures!" Frenzy was clearly getting excited just thinking about the Terrans. "Their history is like ours. Glorious! War after war, for reasons no nobler than that of conquest and dominance . . . ohhh . . . loosely connected with pretenses of truces and normalcy! Their natural state is violence! Why should we not show them our flavor of this common language?"
Rumble was, for once, speechless. "I . . . I can't argue with that . . . still, just keep our goals here in mind, yeah?"
"And what would those be?" Frenzy finished, ending the conversation.
"Buzzsaw - hey, Buzzsaw," Laserbeak transmitted after some time had passed. "I just sent you something you might find interesting. Totally mission-critical. Check it out."
The golden corpsecrow, still smarting from his encounter with Jazz two nights ago, accepted his twin sister's transmission. There was a moment's silence, long enough for some kind of audio track to be very faintly heard within Soundwave's chest compartment. It was bright, catchy music, soon accompanied by the strange, rounded tones of a typical Terran male.
"We're no strangers to love~
"You know the rules and SO DO I~
"A full commitment's what I'm - thinkin' of
"You wouldn't get this from ANY OTHER GUY . . ."
"Quoi? What - Laserbeak, qu'est-ce que c'est? What in Prima's name does this have to do with the mission?" Buzzsaw asked.
"You like it? It's some Terran song from about 20 solars ago. Apparently it's custom among the natives to send it to their unsuspecting friends and family," Laserbeak beamed, her infectious enthusiasm soaking through the Cassetticons' spark-bond. "They call it "rickrolling" for some reason."
"I do not get it. Though the beat, I must admit, is attractive."
"Pardon me for asking, bein' a guest in this chest compartment and all, but could y'all turn that racket off? Or at least switch on over to your spark-bond? I'm tryin' to write a report over here," a newcomer's voice complained over open comms. His name was Catgut. He was a celebrated mercenary, an assassin-for-hire who'd racked up quite the killcount despite his younger age. He'd worked with the Cassetticons, particularly Ravage, several times in the past. Known for his low price, his fuel-efficiency, and the unparalleled accuracy of his single remaining eye, he'd earned his stripes in the Empire by strolling into a small but strategically crucial town in the Equatorial Spires and systematically picking each one of its Autobot defenders off from a sniper's post atop the town's oil derrick.
He was also the oldest son of the Photonicons' second-in-command, Spyglass, a fact that had led to at least two back-alley scraps with Rumble in the past to determine which Decepticon subgroup was better at the whole Intelligence gig. The jury was still out on that one.
"Sorry fer interrupting your important work, guy, but this is our CO. I'm sure ya understand. Soundwave's chest compartment, our rules." Rumble said, his voice positively dripping with false sympathy. "Ya don't like it, you're welcome to drive along on your own, yeah? I'm sure that cute little plastic-shell altmode of yours will do just fine alongside Soundwave for a couple hundred megamiles."
"What a load a' Charger-scrap. You an' I have more or less the same altmode, moron," Catgut snarled.
"Nyeh, but mine's bettah, see? Anyway, maybe next time we're all assigned to ride along with your carrier, we'll do whatcha say. 'Till then, catty boy, you're ridin' with the Cassetticons, ain'tcha?"
"Come on now, guys, we're all on the same team," Glitch, ever the voice of reason, interrupted. "Rumble, Laserbeak, my fellow House of Sundrake. Would it really be that much of a burden if we took this conversation to the ethereal level? Why can't we leave our fellow Intelligence mech in peace? You guys can resume your oilchange-contest once we're out of here, can't you?"
"Agh, you always want to suck the joy out of everything, Glitch-head," Rumble grumbled. "This ain't over, Catgut. We'll settle tabs some other time, capisce?"
"Big 10-4 on that note, partner," the foreign Cassetticon responded. And, just like that, two communication nets developed in the cramped quarters of Soundwave's chest compartment. One of them was a spark-bond hosted by Soundwave's operatives, still lively and busy even as they continued their conversation in the ether. The other was much smaller and consisted of only two people: Glitch and Catgut.
"Sorry about that," the former feline said. "Family can be incredibly annoying at times. As another Cassetticon, I'm sure you can relate."
Catgut heaved a sigh. "Now, I might be misrememberin' things - happens from time to time when you're a busy mech - but I coulda sworn that I specifically asked fer peace an' quiet. You remember that, way back when? My, how time flies. Seems like it ain't even been a quarter breem."
Glitch was immediately on guard, and diminished his digital presence accordingly. "Sorry, comrade. I'll be quiet now," he squeaked.
"Much obliged," his companion responded. All was quiet as Catgut constructed his mental headspace again - pictured himself in some rickety inn at the edge of the solar system, shut in behind drafty doors as a snowstorm whipped around outside. He imagined firelight, flickering gently in a room with electricity that was spotty at the best of times and nonexistent at worst, forcing its tenants to use the old methods of fire-making to stay comfortable and summon enough light to see by.
His mind's eye picked up a stylus and resumed writing his report. Like many Cybertronians and Intelligence mechs in particular, he possessed a literally photographic memory, allowing him to recall information in perfect detail, as if consulting a physical image he could call up on his desk. Unlike many Cybertronians, Catgut's abilities of recall were augmented not only by at least a little bit of Beastformer blood in him but a Black Ops operative's processor suite to boot, boasting a higher recapture rate and only the latest in cache storage technology.
The report consisted primarily of the findings that had been recovered by Spyglass, his mother, and Sunspot, his much younger brother, back in the city of Tranquility. It was quite a bit of information - everything from financial reports of the ONYX Corporation to cutting-edge data on the energy company's various projects across the globe. A lot of data to parse and threat assessments to be made. Naturally, the information had been transmitted to Catgut in bulk via his own spark-bond as soon as Spyglass had made the discovery. He'd personally remained behind at the Decepticons' appropriated bunker, waiting for the raw data to make a move.
Megatron had been there. Hungry for an update, champing at the bit to get out of the bunker and begin his conquest of Terra.
"Lord Emperor. You're still technically my employer, even after all these solar cycles," he'd said after expounding the news of Uruk-One to the Decepticon leader. "And as an impartial military contractor, I gotta protest here a moment. Now, far be it for me to abandon my duties, but shouldn't we take some time out to establish a more permanent base before strikin' off on this . . . ambitious campaign? I mean, the Autobots are right over there - that big ol' mountain can't be that dangerous t'the likes of us. I say we oughta retake the Ark. Kill the Autobots. Get your SIC up an' running again. Start things off on a high note."
Megatron had merely chuckled, eyes glowing red, veins glowing the sickly purple of Dark Energon as it coursed through his systems. "Catgut of the Thetacon Tribes. There will be no higher note than the devastation we shall wreak upon this Uruk-One place. I can assure that from experience. The Autobots are going nowhere - Soundwave's Cassetticons will make sure of that. They will not fail. Meanwhile, we are only on the rise - and history has never stopped to double back on its own march of progress!"
He'd then unleashed a wave of Angolmois energy upon the bunker's doors, destroying the tortured structure further. With one more speech about "destiny" and "birthrights," Megatron was off - and where the Great Slagmaker went, his obedient followers went too.
They hadn't even left Mount Saint Hilary's foothills when the frantic call came from Tigertrack. The Autobots had awakened - impossibly, against all odds - and they were angry.
Furious at himself and at the Cassetticons, Megatron had to think on the fly, come up with a new strategy. He devised a convoluted plan, a two-pronged trap paired with a day-long truce that neither he nor the Autobots had any intention of honoring in the first place. And so, the Decepticons split their meagre ranks in two. Catgut went with Megatron. The other Photonicons were tasked to stay at the bunker. Megatron knew full well that they would be the targets of the oppressors' deadliest assassins that they had on call at short notice. He hadn't cared in the least.
Sure, he'd dressed it up for Viewfinder's overinflated, reptilian sense of self-worth. He'd pretended to task the Photonicons with "a great honor," a chance to "make another testament to their longstanding efficacy." Big words. City words. Exactly the kind of talk that got all Transformerkind into the Senate situation all those eons ago.
Truth was, the Photonicons were just bait. And the fishhook they concealed was a gamble at best. Catgut knew a gamble when he saw one - a skill that had served him very well as he roamed the galaxy and built his own legend, independent of his family, the government he served, and the prejudice built up against him as not only a Transformer, but a partial Beast to boot.
The imaginary stylus snapped in Catgut's imaginary hand, and his illusionary study collapsed. He found himself back in the cramped quarters of Soundwave's chest compartment, being jostled around on a track and tightly sandwiched between some autonomous drone to his rear and Tigertrack to his front. He was near the back of the chamber, held in reserve, left in peace. Except for the communication field that the white tygar in front of him had been too petrified to close properly.
Though he hated himself for doing it, Catgut spoke. "Aw, Pit, junior. Look, I shouldn't a' nipped at you like that. My mistake."
Glitch sent a wordless affirmation across comms.
"Truth is . . . I really can't relate to this. I grew up in the Tribes, left home as soon as I could to make a name for myself. It was only coincidence that my carrier became a Photonicon afterwards. I was lightyears away at the time, puttin' down armed insurgencies on Prysmos. Didn't even consider myself a Decepticon, really."
More silence. Catgut was already uncomfortable with the situation, with sharing so much, but the intimacy of another Crucible's compartment had a funny way of bringing out his seldom-seen good side.
"Look - my point is, y'all got a good thing goin' on here. The familial bond, I mean. Y'all're lucky to have been together like this since before the world came tumblin' down at the beginnin' of the War. A lot of us weren't so fortunate. I found my brother alone, solar cycles after the whole meltdown. They'd turned him into a weapon. Like me. Our creator had been fragged by an artillery shell a long time before, an' our carrier was some big-shot spy in an Empire what didn't exist when I left my Tribe. Things change quickly. You - the House of Sundrake - oughta enjoy the company while ya can. Got me?"
". . . What was the name of your creator?" Glitch asked, still wary, but more amenable.
"Treadshot," the other responded after a fashion. "His name was Treadshot."
"Good mech, so I've heard. Unfortunately, I never knew him. That was a little bit before my time."
"Yep. That's what war does."
Another quiet silence followed, though it was more companionable than the previous instances had been. Catgut didn't speak again, but Glitch's reverie was interrupted by an outburst from Rumble over the bond.
Leakin' lubricant! Wouldya look at that lake over there!
While the Cassetticons had continued their research and learning of the English language, Soundwave had wordlessly passed through the city of Sacramento, the capital of the human state of Mendocino. Once the center of the California Territory's Gold Rush era, Sacramento had since settled down from the Wild West boomtown it began as to focus first on managing the entire Territory's political situation, then on tourism. It was surrounded by the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada and bordered beautiful Lake Tahoe, one of the deepest and most scenic bodies of water like it in the United States. Now, as Soundwave labored up a hill on the Southeastern side of the city, the lake came into view to his left side, allowing the Cassetticons to see through their creator's various exterior cameras and behold the vista below.
Dark blue water gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, reflecting the fathomless azure of the sky above. Thick forests of pine trees so dense as to seem untouched blanketed the land around it, ensconcing enormous vacation homes for Earth's rich and famous within their depths. The Sierra Nevada ringed the lake on all sides, effectively secluding it from view from every angle but this one.
That is . . . breathtaking. The purest waters I've ever seen in my life, Laserbeak said in awe.
Say what ya will about the Terrans, but they got a pretty good thing going for themselves on this mudball.
It is OK. Not exactly the Carpessa Coast. But then again, few places are.
Oh, come off it, Buzz. You're just thinking about the casinos again, aren't you?
Non! It is not true! The art museums were once the pride of la Voie Lactée. And the view of the Mithril Sea in the morning time was magnifique.
Well, I dunno about you guys, but I'm getting a little restless all cooped up inside here, Rumble said. "Hey, Soundwave! How are we on time?"
"We are currently ahead of schedule," came the prompt reply.
"Any chance we could pull over for a click or two, stretch our legs? Maybe take in a little fuel while we're at it? We got a long ways to go yet, y'know!"
Though none of it showed, not even over the bond, Soundwave felt a brief flicker of amusement. "Proposal: acceptable. Suggestions for secluded waypoint?"
"A'ight, let's see here . . ." Rumble muttered, using his connection to the humans' Internet to pull up Nudle Maps. "Ooh, there's this one place not too far ahead. Youse guys might like it, 'specially the Birds. Y'ever heard of this little place called Yosemite?"
Argay, Tranquility, Oregon, USA
It was late in the afternoon when Bumblebee arrived at the place that Trailbreaker had designated as Colonel Witwicky's residence. Although he was as yet unfamiliar with all human habits, he was a city boy at heart and recognized a sleepy suburban neighborhood when he saw one, what with the meandering, yet orderly rows of clean, cookie-cutter houses, the immaculate lawns, and the young, sticklike trees lining the sidewalks and streets.
One thing he was rapidly deepening his proficiency at was the English language. As a Scout, and a rather intelligent one at that, Bumblebee always seemed to have a knack for learning new languages, even with the highly advanced translation software that most Cybertronians were sparked with. For the whole drive back up to Tranquility - he knew the city's name by now and was embarrassed to think about his older audio log he'd made on the subject - he'd been practicing his English, reading road signs, cross-referencing their meanings with articles and images he found on the humans' Internet, and speaking them aloud several times to get the hang of it. In this form, his actual voice issued forth from his engine block, so he thought the humans weren't too bothered by it.
Primus knows they seem too tired to care, he thought to himself. He flicked through some cameras he had throughout this vehicle form and, out of habit, adjusted his rearview mirrors, even though he didn't need them to lay eyes upon the organic beings sitting in his backseat. They were still piled together as if tranquilized, exhausted beyond words from their harrowing experience on Uruk-One. Throughout the journey, each one had jerked awake for a moment, looked around in fear and panic, but then relaxed and fell back asleep again, like it was the most natural thing in the universe.
Crazy how far a borrowed altmode and a friendly holographic face can get you some cycles.
The main fear he'd had was one of the humans picking up on some loose string and unraveling it, dropping the facade of realism the Autobot stasis pods had carefully constructed. Naturally, the average Cybertronian is a bipedal being first and a vehicle second. Corners must be cut in order to make a full transformation possible and ensure that both modes can function properly - usually at the cost of authenticity, especially in the interior of the vehicle. For example, the bench seat that the humans were resting on wasn't standard issue for the Monarch Motors grocery-getter form that Bumblebee had adopted. To the point, it was the chunks of machinery that would transform into his robot-form feet, covered only with a thin cushion of synthetic leather and foam to cover up the gaps. Bumblebee's steering wheel was inoperable and didn't turn anything other than itself - though he'd ensured to sync his holomatter avatar's movements with the "vehicle's" apparent motion so as to avoid spooking the squishies more than the poor things needed to be.
And his vehicle form lacked seatbelts of any kind. Regrettable, but Bumblebee had no intention of crashing, so he figured it was alright for a quick emergency jaunt up North.
And that was another thing - Trailbreaker. Ugh.
Personal log, Private Bumblebee of the Fifth Ring, Autobot Scout, he began in silence. Organizing his thoughts in Cybertronian, he intended to go back through his old logs at some point in the future and re-dub them in English. Good practice.
Long story short, it's been a Pit of a cycle. I'm exhausted, got three exhausted humans in the back, and it don't look like things are gonna get any easier in the near future. I've got a few angry thoughts to throw around and honestly, I'm just looking to vent them right now.
You know, growing up on the streets of Iacon, I learned hard and fast who had your best interests at heart and who saw other people as little more than tools to be used to accomplish an agenda. In my experience, the compulsive liars rarely fall into the former group. Don't get me wrong, now - I know why Captain Trailbreaker's pursuing this SWORD strategy, but . . . ah, it just doesn't sit right with me to keep our true nature from these people, especially when Command's hurting so bad for new allies on this new world.
I just . . . I feel like we're hurting the humans more by not telling them everything right outta the gate, y'know? There's a phrase for this sort of thing . . . 'boiling a slimemaw.' I don't know if it translates to Terran or not, come to think of it, but, basic definition for future reference: You break bad news to people bit by bit, drip-feed them little packages of breaking news, they won't even realize their world is slowly disintegrating until they're too far gone to realize everything they knew has changed. Meanwhile, you can gaslight them, dress things up as pretty as you like, but in the end, it's all going in the same direction. The SWORD approach only complicated things - and, hoo boy, with the likes of Megatron, Soundwave, and the Seekers out and about on a new world, we NEED things to be simple. Understandable.
On the contrary, you break the bad news all at the same time, they'll be shocked, stunned, stupefied, yeah, but they'll either crumble under the stress or - with a good support structure - shake it all off real quick and come back from the whole experience better than they were before.
We can't afford to drag our pedes anymore. The Decepticons have trounced us at every turn, and we haven't even been awake for a whole decacycle yet! How much longer is Command going to keep us from doing what needs to be done?
'Honesty is the best policy.' Always has been. And I know that we're supposed to be 'robots in disguise' and all that, but . . . maybe it's time for things to change.
Then again, he couldn't even bring himself to break the news to the humans. As quietly as they were sleeping in his backseat, and as terrifying an experience it must have been for them . . . perhaps it was best to wait just a little while longer. Though he hated himself for doing so.
He hung a left on a street called "Furman Court" and rolled to a gentle stop in front of a modestly-sized building clad in wooden shingles, one that, in contrast to the broadly similar homes surrounding it, seemed to have been made with care and attention by a true craftsman. A paved path led around the back of the Witwicky Residence, where it seemed a detached garage done up in the same style as the house itself waited unobtrusively in the backyard. Bumblebee, with his excellent vision, could tell that a magnificent view of the Columbia River opened up just past the hillside on the house's North face.
The Witwicky men, for their part, had already begun to stir and speak, as if told to wake up by some ethereal, intrinsic aura of home and safety as soon as Bumblebee had made his final turn onto Furman Court. Before they could take stock of their surroundings and notice something embarrassing about the Autobot Scout's imperfect disguise, he snapped his holomatter avatar into vigorous action and left the driver's seat.
"All right, gentlemen. Got you home safe and sound. C'mon out, now. I don't bite," Barry said, energetically escorting them out of the vehicle.
"Agent Williams. Thanks . . . thank you so much. You saved the life of me and my boy," Colonel Witwicky said, grabbing for the avatar's hand.
Bumblebee accepted it after a moment's hesitation, pumped it once, and dropped it. He got the feeling that Colonel Witwicky was a veteran not dissimilar to some of the guys he knew back on Cybertron - a very physical sort of fellow who judged people based on their handshakes and attitudes when confronted by a bear of a man with a clap on the shoulder to match. Unfortunately for the human, however, the events of that morning had left him pale, weak, and wan. His usual firm handshake was little more than a wooden token of appreciation.
"Happy to do it, Colonel. You should get some rest," he said.
"Thanks, man. I owe you one," Sergeant Bellwether said, going for a curt nod instead. Bumblebee was more than happy to give this in return - he had no idea if something in his holomatter avatar's grip was compromising to his disguise or not, and he didn't want to find out at such an inopportune time.
Sam, whose face was as white as the clouds that hung high in Earth's sky, couldn't even muster that. He opted for a quick wave.
"We'll see what we can do to recover your car, Colonel," Bumblebee called after them as they staggered towards the house. A silhouette, smaller than any one of the humans, appeared backlit in the front door. "In the meantime, rest up, lay low, do what you can to get back to normal. We'll call on you sometime in the next few . . . ah, it doesn't matter. We'll get back to you shortly."
There was no response, and eventually Bumblebee's avatar was all alone on the curb, his form trundling along right next to him. He was hungry, tired, and worn out from the emotional and physical costs of the last few days. He hadn't actually willingly recharged since . . . Pit, he couldn't even remember. Sometime far before the launch of the Ark, even before his mission to East Iacon with Wheeljack back home. It seemed like so long ago . . .
. . . but he had something to do first. Someone to visit.
It just so happened to be on his way. Good.
Agent Barry Williams got back in his car, backed out of Furman Court, and set his sights to the East, towards the mountains Hood and Saint Hilary.
Towards home. At least, for now.
The Redwoods National Forest
Napa Valley, Jefferson, USA
Even though it was only the late afternoon of a bright summer's day, the towering figures of colossal redwood trees, organic lifeforms much larger than your average Cybertronian by every available metric, blotted out the sunlight that came from the very sky itself. General Shakar considered switching on his headlights, if only for a moment, but thought better of it. The Pit-damned titanium white color scheme he'd insisted upon as a foolish youngling was probably enough of a giant neon "HERE I AM" sign than he'd bargained for. He'd have to use his own eyes and the low-power cameras across his chassis.
Not like it's the first time, at least.
They called him a complainer, a whiner, a killjoy. An unrelenting force of pessimism to ground the entire Autobot Army. He called himself a realist. Shakar was completely capable of taking time out to enjoy the finer things in life - it's just that centuries of war had proven to him that most, if not all, of the good works of the universe were long since turned to ash and dust.
Case in point: his situation right now. It wasn't enough that he was tracking the leader of the Decepticons and his personal guard of hardened killers. It wasn't enough that he was far into the wilds of an unfamiliar organic planet without any backup whatsoever.
No, on top of all that, he'd caught a glimpse of Ravage of Burthov's alt mode in the waves a few miles back, when the redwood forest wasn't so thick and Shakar could see the sea.
He cast a wary eye around his surroundings, at the distant canopy above, the dark underbrush below, and the ominous trees all around him, suffocating him, smelling of pine sap and dry, unfeeling wood. The road twisted and turned through the redwood forest, taking unpredictable curves and steep plunges deeper into the heart of the wood. Occasionally, it would actually move through the trees, cutting indiscriminately through fallen titans and bore-holes at the base of healthy root systems, something Shakar absolutely hated for some reason. Had he been a narcissist, he might have wondered if Megatron was taking this route just to personally upset him.
It was a very rare occurrence for Shakar to get a visual on the Decepticon convoy, though each one of his estimated distance from them had turned out to be correct every time he did manage to see them. On the bright side, that probably meant that they hadn't picked up on his presence, yet. Keyword: yet.
Every now and again, Shakar would catch a glimpse of the interstate system, which had been built on a long skyway through the Redwood Forest. He longed to get back on that highway - it would be more difficult to remain unseen, yes, but at least he'd be out of this claustrophobic organic hole in the earth filled with clutching saplings and titanic pines. At every turn, he held his breath and anticipated the worst-case scenario: running straight into an anticipatory Megatron, triumphantly standing in the roadway, waiting for him. Ravage suddenly bursting out of the undergrowth to hit him in a flying pounce before he could transform, before he could even react. A deer wandering onto the road just in time for him to hit it full-on, filling his sensitive systems with organic viscera. He shuddered to even consider it.
A black shape hurtled through the trees, coming right at him.
He shouted a curse and nearly - very nearly - rolled out of his alternate form at 45 miles per hour, guns blazing.
Thankfully, his incredible reflexes saved him this time, and he stopped himself just in time. He'd almost eradicated a black SUV filled with what appeared to be an average human family out on a lark. They passed the nerve-ridden alien and went on their way, driving North. They were out of sight in a matter of seconds.
Spark hammering against its laser core, Shakar settled back down, took a breath, and continued driving.
I don't usually act like this, he thought to himself. I'm far too keyed up. Relax, Gears. Relax. It's only you against the whole Decepticon Empire. What could go wrong?
Quite a lot, actually. His reaction to the SUV full of humans proved that to him. He'd had a very good reason to be startled - because he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if Soundwave's Shadow decided to make a leg of the voyage on land or check in with the other Decepticons, that would be the end of General Shakar of Median. Between Ravage's sense of smell, skills at stealth, and sheer savage ruthlessness, Shakar - for all his training and experience - would be vastly outclassed in every available metric.
Being a realist, he could at least admit that to himself.
The Strip, Las Vegas, Nevada, USA
The Cassetticons had long since quieted down on the long drive across country, delving even deeper into their preliminary research on Terran culture and history than they had done back in Sacramento. Some activity still flickered on the spark-bond from time to time, especially now, as they passed through the human city known as Las Vegas.
The sun had set a while ago at this point, leaving the desert landscape to be illuminated only by the light reflected by a single moon. It had been a desolate, yet quietly impressive place, one that Soundwave was certain would have been more imposing had it not been cut through by a long strip of well-paved highway that shot through the sands on long, straight angles. The deserted wasteland made for an even more jarring transition when a Terran metropolis grew out of it, lighting up the sky for miles around with the golden haze of city lights.
He'd found Las Vegas to make quite the impression, a sentiment shared by his creations as they "looked up" from their work for a moment to drink in the sights. The neon signs before lavish hotels and casinos lit up the night and seared the desert sky to such a degree that the moon all but disappeared behind the glow. Fantastical buildings resembling exaggerated structures from across the history of humanity rose around one another. There was no pattern to it, no unifying characteristic that tied the whole city together but chaos and excess.
Soundwave was unimpressed. In his view, it was this exact mindset, small people with a propensity for overestimating their own grandeur, that caused the War he'd been embroiled in for his entire life. Las Vegas singlehandedly denigrated his burgeoning opinion of humans and their culture - though he continued to covet the planet's natural beauty and resources, both of which it seemed to have in abundance.
Of course, the 15-story-tall fountain in front of the monolithic complex called the Bellamo was still worth a look. Even he could admit that.
Soundwave trundled on through the Strip, his bulky military altmode quite at odds with the fancy rentals and sleek sports cars turning out at this hour for a cruise around the City of Sin. He turned East when he reached another massive casino-hotel called Mumbai Bay. He couldn't have known it at the time, but this gold-plated palace was one of the most lavish resorts in a city known for very little besides its resorts, a monumental tower of luxury complete with a tasteful Indian Ocean theme. This was evident in the large waterpark at the primary tower's base, which featured thatch-roof cabanas and swim-up bars scattered throughout an artificial archipelago. A wave pool, the largest in the American West, dominated most of the outdoor waterpark and featured little eddies and whirlpools off to the side for less adventurous beachgoers.
It was all encircled by a lengthy lazy river, which wound around that enormous wave pool complex, through groves of imported palm trees alien to the Nevadan desert and past towering landscape features meant to resemble the volcanos found throughout the myriad archipelagos of the East Indies. Even at this time, each one of the fiberglass mountains was belching a thick miasma of fog into the night air, which was itself illuminated from below by bloodred light strips around their calderas. This created an unconvincing, but recognizable effect of eruption all around the base of Mumbai Bay.
Such an image caused Soundwave to think back on an odd occurrence from a few days ago, before he'd had a chance to assemble a reconnaissance mission and set out on this lengthy roadtrip. There'd been a Raider there at Soundwave's escape from the bowels of the Ark, a strapping young Artillery Specialist by the name of Summit. As Soundwave recalled, this Summit fellow was a cold-constructed surgeon made to staff Polyhex Medical Institute in the last few years before the War. Though his vital position meant that he had a good life compared to other made-to-order Decepticons, the truth was he still had the lowly laborer's form of a rugged pickup truck - and no amount of skill or societal importance could absolve him of this. And so, he'd left his position of relative privilege to join the Decepticon Empire, where his keen eyesight and his insistence on keeping his quarters and equipment absolutely immaculate meant that he was right at home in Megatron's very first Artillery Brigade.
He also had a Conjunx Endura back in Polyhex. One that he had been unable to maintain contact with, even through the normally foolproof binary bonds that were endemic throughout Cybertronian society, yet still so poorly understood by the scientific community.
As he drove, Soundwave's mind - already tired from several days' furious action and dozens of hours already spent on the road - quietly fixated on this bizarre problem. He'd always considered himself a great communicator, even back in his days as a psychologist, and considered many issues between spouses to be nothing more than a breakdown in communication between the two. Summit had only spoken with him for a few moments as they returned to the Bunker, and only through a private military-grade commlink, but he'd managed to gather that the Artillery Specialist and his Conjunx hadn't seen each other for a number of years due to the War reaching its apogee. Perhaps, in that time, the link between Summit and his Conjunx had been sullied by the many emotional experiences they'd each had in their absence. Maybe all that needed to be done was for the two Decepticons to reconnect with one another.
Soundwave actually had a few ideas to that note. With the Decepticons in charge across Cybertron and, hopefully, the Prime dead and gone on this distant planet, there would be much work to do - but the first thing would be to restore morale. Perhaps a break was in order for the Empire's warriors, who had each given so much to the Cause-
GIVEN FREELY TAKEN CREATOR TO CARRIER TO SPARKLING AND OVER AGAIN
Soundwave lost his composure and began swerving wildly over the centerline.
THERE WERE NO SIDES TO BE TAKEN, JUST BROTHER WITH BROTHER SISTER WITH SISTER BECOMING ONE THROUGH THE AGES EXPANDING AND FLOURISHING
They were so loud, louder than he'd ever experienced since-
NEVER FORGIVE NEVER FORGET
Since-
SFORZANDO-PIANO VIVACE CUE THE HORNS AND THE DRUMS SPARK QUICKENS CRESCENDO AND A FALL
A void opened up in front of him and to the right. Through his splitting headache, he registered the sensation of his chest compartment instinctively dropping open, the Cassetticons purging themselves all over the night-wreathed road before him.
IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT
Tears of oil sprang to Soundwave's eyes despite the fact that his cranial unit was inactive somewhere within his driver's compartment.
THE CRYPTGLIDER GREW UP AND TASTED POWER FOR THE FIRST TIME THE CORRUPTION ATE HIM ALIVE LOOK AT YOURSELF IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT
BUT IT MIGHT STILL BE
Soundwave's front end smashed through a concrete barrier, which broke in much the same way that his mind felt like it was. He was screaming, gibbering incoherently - an already rare sound that was made downright sinister by his vocoder. His brakes were absolutely deadlocked in place around each of his six rugged wheels, so hard it felt as if his brakepads might shatter to bits within their housing.
One of the only programs that the Decepticon second-in-command had ever allowed anyone to install within his core processor kicked into gear. It bought him enough time to systematically wrest control of his own mind away from whatever had levied such a powerful psychic attack upon him. He quieted his panicked thought processes, shut away whole portions of his brain, and released a low, nearly inaudible hum to distract himself further, a final buffer on the edge of insanity.
Below him, an enormous sheer concrete ramp dropped away into the unknown, hundreds and hundreds of feet down. A black river glittered menacingly in the moonlight, far, far below, as it carved its way through the kinds of crumbling desert rifts he thought he'd never see again outside of Cybertron's Sonic Canyons.
It wasn't enough. His mental defenses were powerful. But they weren't enough. Not by a long shot.
There wasn't much time.
"Scrap on a shingle, Soundwave, what the SLAG was that?!" a voice panted, real, physical. He became aware of the brigade of terrified, disoriented mechanoids behind him, each one having chipped in to pull his unresponsive form away from the precipice, stopping him from sailing off into oblivion at highway speed.
He unfolded into robot form and cast an uncharacteristically frightened, suspicious eye about his surroundings. "Buzzsaw. Form a defensive perimeter. Two clicks in diameter. Begin immediately."
The golden corpsecrow seemed both ruffled and flabbergasted, but obeyed without question, converting into his swift helicopter mode and shooting off into the night sky.
"Frenzy. Operation: Complete Curfew. Execute pulse immediately upon charge accrual."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What happened, boss? You fall asleep at the wheel or something?" Rumble interjected in disbelief.
"Silence. No time," Soundwave hissed tightly, causing the diminutive Demolitions man to back up a step or two. The voices were returning already. "Laserbeak. Get me out of here right now."
Laserbeak eyed the sandy ridges around them with suspicion. "OK, then. What hit you? Is there a sniper around I should know about?"
"Negative. I . . . I am unsure. It doesn't matter. Just pick me up and fly. Fly southeast. Fly as quickly and as far away as possible. I will tell you when to set down. Not a nanosecond before, do you understand? In the event that I lose consciousness, stay your course until I recover. Aargh . . . Link with me, Laserbeak! Hurry!"
"Ach . . . yes boss, right away!"
"All other Cassetticons, Catgut included: return, return: all. This place - this is not somewhere to linger overlong. Return . . . return . . ."
And then Soundwave slipped away, into an exhausted spiral of fevered dreams, half-remembered names, and memory after memory that wasn't his, each one lobbying for an undeserved space in his databanks. Laserbeak lifted off and pointed herself towards the objective, pumping her wings as hard as she could even as she dreaded the next sniper bolt or system ghost or whatever had laid her creator low. Halfway across the Colorado River, she converted into a slapdash jet harness and burned most of her substantial energy supplies just trying to get away from that cursed canyon.
Frenzy was the last Cassetticon to leave the place, and only after he released an EMP that fried every electronic system, particularly cameras and surveillance equipment, in the area. He had the longest distance to go and the least efficient means to do so, but despite the odds against him, he transformed into his motorcycle mode and set off across the desert without complaint.
On the way out, he checked the human information network for information on the colossal structure across Colorado. For once acting in his capacity as a dutiful and responsible scout, he marked the location on his map for later study and remembered the human name for the humongous rift.
It was a large hydroelectric plant that the humans knew as Hoover Dam. One of the oldest in the world. Powered the city of Las Vegas and most settlements in the Colorado River Valley, with plenty of kilowatt-hours to spare. The bones of dozens of human laborers were entombed deep within the dam's slabs of cold concrete.
Cool history, but what a stupid name, Frenzy thought bitterly as the city lights of Las Vegas disappeared behind him.
New Glasgow, Tranquility, Oregon, USA
A wan smile crossed the face of Optimus Prime's holomatter avatar as the Autobot convoy ascended the Western side of Thunderbird Bridge. He'd heard good things about the city of Tranquility from his scouts and was pleased to bear witness to this human settlement with his own eyes.
He'd make another, more in-depth, trip into town later, once the crises were over and he could afford to do such a thing, but for now, he was content to just pass on through.
There was much work to be done. He grieved for every Terran who had lost their lives in the crossfire between the Autobots and Decepticons, but he and his men had managed to save their fair share - some of them politicians and dignitaries who could potentially provide aid to the Earthbound Autobots some time in the near future. But first, reports had to be made and contacts filed away for later reflection . . .
. . . and before that, I think a good night of rest is called for, he finished. With luck, General Shakar will report in when the sun rises, I'll find some room to serve as my office from here on out, and we can take advantage of this foothold we've carved out for ourselves.
He listened to the Autobots' chatter on general comms as they drove on, glancing around every now and again to marvel at the setting sun over the dense pines of the Pacific Northwest, the mountaintop glaciers gleaming in the fading light, the painterly hues that were thrown across the sky as if slathered on by some godly hand. To his left, the great Columbia River rolled on to the sea. To his right, an untamed landscape of extinct volcanos and ancient forests stretched as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful. The Autobots were tired, but in high spirits. No major casualties had been reported due to their insistence on protecting the humans while the Decepticons ransacked the rig. Their excited conversations lifted Optimus' spirits.
And ahead, Mounts Hood and Saint Hilary rose up on either side of the highway like the tombs of twin giants, the latter peak looking a bit deflated after its eruption. Their Western faces were lit up in shades of royal purple and pink, with the dark indigo of Terra's night approaching swiftly on the horizon behind.
Optimus allowed a powerful chuff of wind to escape his airbrakes. Like it or not, he thought to himself, this is our future. And our home for the time being. Better get used to it.
With a pang of longing, he thought about Elita-One. It hadn't even been a week and a half since the crash and he was already missing her. He hoped she was doing well, somewhere deep in the underground of an occupied Cybertron alongside his oldest friend, Ultra Magnus.
It was the only way to survive, he told himself. Here, on Terra, we have established a foothold. We can rest, regroup, gain allies and build a stronghold. When the time comes, we'll strike back at the Empire, reconnect with our allies, and wrest control of our world back from the Decepticons. They're not about to do much without their leader, after all.
Ah, but you're forgetting a few factors, a nasty voice within him retorted. Optimus realized how exhausted he truly was - the leader of the Autobots didn't often speak to himself. As long as there was still a ways to drive, however, he decided to humor his subconscious mind. Firstly: How will you get back to Cybertron? The Ark is totaled. It will never fly again. Your plan hinges entirely upon a broken starship.
We'll figure something out. Surely there are other survivors somewhere on Earth, waiting to hear from the flagship. With the knowledge split between us, we'll have enough resources and skills to raise a radar array at the very least. And if not, well . . . we'll cross that bridge when we get there.
Secondly: Megatron lives. He outclasses you and is in the same position as you, perhaps even better now that they've acquired enough energy to power their raiding party for lunar cycles at least.
I can't do anything about that at the moment. We're understaffed and outgunned. Our best hope is to beat him at the political game. Acquire allies. Grow in strength. The Ark is a strong position, and we must maintain it at all costs.
Politics! Bah. A game for idle fools to play between armed conflicts. The Terrans owe you nothing. They will either worship you or persecute your men to the ends of the universe. Besides, you only survived the crash because Megatron didn't bother to kill everyone else in their sleep. You got lucky once, Orion - it will not happen again with the humans.
Optimus' blood ran cold. As always, he was his harshest critic, and he usually had a point. His rival's decision to stay his blade had haunted him ever since his reactivation, even as he went without sleep.
Thirdly: You couldn't even maintain your grasp on the Ark.
His tires squealed as he swerved across the centerline in surprise. "What? What does that mean?" he demanded aloud, but he already knew.
Yes. Look ahead. You've brought turbofoxes into the energon paddy, Prime.
The excited chatter of the Autobots swiftly soured into incandescent rage and dull surprise. Sure enough, they'd rounded a corner, descended from the heights of the Thunderbird Bridge. And there, standing out on Mount Saint Hilary's ashen grey crown, was a single plume of oily black smoke, rising into the clean evening air.
The Ark was once again under attack.