Point Bonita Lighthouse

Marin (MD), San Francisco, California, USA

Late May 2007

The sun was once again setting over a deep blue sea, bathing the rocky buttes at America's edge in a rich golden glow as the Decepticons stood above their target.

The Silent Blade, Megatron thought to himself as his face split in a rare gleeful grin. This destination was worth every drop of fuel spilled to get here.

His exhaustion was palpable, even dulled as it was by the Dark Energon flowing lazily throughout his body. After the incident in Oregon, he'd insisted on dropping his Dark Energon usage to 11% in an attempt to understand the exertion of his warriors better. He was and always had been a mech of the people. A giver. A liberator.

And now, he was about to have the means to continue his crusade on a larger scale.

"Ravage!" he barked, eyeing up the nearby lighthouse, a short tower on a rocky island connected to the mainland by a long footbridge. Behind it, a Terran city scraped the sky with dozens of gleaming spires and a deep red bridge, both ablaze in the setting sun, spanning the straits that separated this land from the distant human population center. "This entry point is far too prominent for my tastes. Have you located another?"

He knew the answer before the Cassetticon, panting from the long journey and soaking wet with salty seawater, gave it. "Да. Sensors indicate potentially breachable access point on front of ship, but is buried in silt."

"And the land, it's more amenable to a military convoy, I take it? A softer slope into the waves, perhaps?"

Ravage did not answer save for an impatient flick of his long, spiky tail, a physical cue that Megatron had long since learned was the tygar's version of a wordless nod.

At that moment, two fighter jets came in overhead, passing very close to the highlands and treetops and announcing their presence with a sky-splitting sound. Several hundred meters out, they slowed dramatically and converted into Skywarp and Thundercracker.

"Ah, the Seekers! So you've decided to join us after all," Megatron hailed.

Fuelhog, the hulking Beastformer fuel truck, grunted in a very boarlike manner, befitting of the mechanimal which he resembled in his primary form. "Primus, you two. You look like you've both seen a data ghost. What happened? Sideswipe and Sunstreaker run into you on your way down here?"

He was right - the Seekers' identical eyes were wide open and they wore thin masks of calm over deep wells of unease. Thundercracker was managing himself slightly better than his trinemate, as usual - but even so, Skywarp was carrying himself stiff and upright, almost as if he was afraid to move and expecting to knock something over if he did.

"You're late," the Decepticon leader growled. His optics narrowed as he surveyed the wayward jetformers. "Mere tardiness? How very unlike you two. What kept you?"

He was met with an uneasy silence. This made him even more suspicious.

"Skywarp, Thundercracker . . . tell me now - is there anything you'd care to share with the group? Anything at all?"

Thundercracker, ever the stoic, bore the brunt of Megatron's expectations. He swallowed hard and stepped forward in his typical composed manner. "Negative, my lord. Nothing to report. Forgive our lateness. There was . . . an unexpected change in the weather."

Megatron snorted derisively. "You, of all people, delayed by the weather? Come now, Professor. Are you losing your touch? By the AllSpark, I wouldn't think you two could be held up by anything short of a hurricane, on account of your . . . unique capabilities."

"The, ah . . . the thermals on this planet are unpredictable, Lord Megatron! Please forgive my trinemate. He's always said it's a bit of a learning curve anytime he's deployed into a new planet with its own weather systems. Right, TC - er, Sergeant Thundercracker?"

"Enough, Air-borne. I don't care for excuses in the first place, but you two have earned my favour with your exceptional performance these past few lunar cycles. You are here now. That is sufficient."

Thundercracker blinked in surprise. "Thank - thank you, my liege."

"Now then, if we're done, let us begin." Megatron snapped his fingers, causing his borrowed trailer full of Energon to roll on over of its own volition. There were several tools hidden across its surface, and he selected four of them after a brief moment of deliberation.

"No grand speeches this time, my Decepticons. Just you, the seafloor, and your spade. Fuelhog, Ravage, accompany me into the depths. We will begin the recovery efforts. Once a path is opened to the interior of the Silent Blade, with the energy we have collected, we will finally be free to continue our crusade!"

The exhausted Decepticons tried to muster their enthusiasm, but couldn't quite stomach the idea. If Megatron noticed their hesitance, he didn't say anything, even as he handed out shovels to the others.

"The rest of you, rest here for a time, but keep a sharp watch. Terrans or Autobots, either one is a liability to our plans and must be dealt with accordingly. I trust you all know what to do to trespassers?"

This time, the Decepticons were a little more energized when they grunted their bone-tired affirmations. Their leader nodded once, a thin, cold smile flashing across his face for a moment, then he took a step back and was gone off the cliff's edge.

Excellent, he thought to himself as he sank into the warm saltwater. Despite himself, he couldn't help but feel a spike of grim determination and even a touch of fleeting joy, warming the edges of his weary spark. The revolution will continue as planned.

Up the hill, elegantly ensconced within a eucalyptus forest that provided ample cover but muddled his razor-sharp sensors with the sweet, intoxicating scent they gave off, General Shakar of Median lowered his viewfinders. He cursed in his native tongue and muttered under his breath as he fiddled with the old, worn devices, which had seen just as many battles and just as many stakeouts as he had and - like him - had come off quite the worse for wear afterward. Eventually, the accursed lenses spat out a data disk which Shakar snapped up as soon as he could and loaded into his unusually beefy wrist communicator.

"Ah, Optimus Prime, you well-meaning old 'ahmaq . . . We could have dogged them all the way down here from the platform, laid siege to their operation right away, but no, let's send that grouch Gears down there himself for a laugh. Let him keep an optic on the most triggerhappy psychopaths in the galaxy all alone . . . he did a few assassination missions back in the day, he's perfectly fine to crouch in some fraggin' organic shrub and hope this damn tree-stink is enough to fool Ravage . . . you know, only the most celebrated spy in the Decepticon Empire. Literally a serial killer in a predator's body. No, of course, Gears can give HIM the slip. Not like he's got anything better to do, like securing interpersonal ties with the natives, nailing down suppliers, setting up a transportation network, preparing the rust-hulk for intensive combat operations on a new world, bina'a mustawdae dhakhirat jamil . . ."

The buffering icon on his communicator continued to spin, unimpressed by Shakar's irritation, which just made him angrier. This caused his constant stream-of-consciousness rambling to seamlessly transition into a diatribe about the lack of good communications coverage on Earth. His voice also got louder, which caused him to be even more nervous than he was before once he realized what he'd done.

"C'mon, c'mon . . . aleuml, alat sakhifa! I'm a sitting waterwing up here!" Shakar whispered, casting a fearful glance around the forest.

Little did he know, he was already being observed - but not by the party he expected would notice him any moment now. The eucalyptus forest may have concealed him from the line of sight of the Decepticons overlooking the lighthouse. What Shakar hadn't taken into account was a potential watcher atop the nearby mountain, a prominent peak that the humans called Tamalpais.

It wasn't any particular failing on his part. General Shakar, with his clear mind and centuries of experience, had chosen his vantage point well and accurately counted the number of Decepticons in the Emperor's raiding party - his justifiable fear of Ravage notwithstanding. He had been correct in his assumption that Megatron hadn't left behind any scouts to take the high ground yet. The only problem was that he had very seriously underestimated the true scope of the situation on Earth.

"This place just gets weirder and weirder every time we visit," a slim electric-blue mech murmured as he watched the proceedings below with the help of a helm-mounted Special Operations visor. Despite his lithe chassis and ropy, well-maintained musculature, he was average height for a groundbound Cybertronian truckformer, quite the engineering feat when one considered the contrasting sets of kibble upon his back that proved his status as a rare, coveted Triple Changer.

"Think they suspect we're onto them? Or that they're technically on Confederation territory? Pit, I'll wager you next week's salary that they think it's still War-Cycle. Whaddya say? Wanna bet?"

His companion, who for once wasn't looming large over the environment around her, hands clasped casually behind her back like she owned the place, didn't respond to any of his statements, even with the generous pauses between each one that he afforded her. Rather, she glared at the party of Decepticons below, her bloodred eyes darting around as if an opponent had just sprung an ingenious ploy upon her in a chess match. She was looking for a way out . . . or a way in. As she strategized, she muttered half-formed thoughts under her breath.

"How could this happen . . . no, how could MAS overlook such a contingency . . . If I could make contact surreptitiously . . . argh, too obvious, no, it'd have to be-"

"Captain. Hey, Captain, snap out of it. You're doing that thing again. We need solutions, Shatter, not a rabbithole of 'might have beens' and 'what ifs.'"

Shatter blinked, visibly shaking herself out of her feedback loop. "Apologies, comrade. I'm merely . . . taken aback, that's all. The raiders of the last Ark, revitalized and active in the modern era . . . this changes everything. Everything."

"Saber's Light," her companion groaned, rolling his eyes. "We've been at this gig for a couple of centuries at this point, Shatter. You can call me by my name at this point, you know."

"Fine, Lieutenant Dropkick," she responded, turning that cold, analytical gaze upon him. Despite lacking the accent to go with it, she pronounced her companion's rank in the antiquated Tarnite fashion - that is, with an f sound rather than the more common long o pronunciation - a verbal convention that irritated him once but no longer did. "Why don't you take a crack at formulating a strategy, then, wrap all of this up with a neat little bow? It'd be good practice for you, I think."

"Eh, you know me. Only viable solution I've got is to start throwing punches and see what comes out the other end. Don't think that'll go over so well with some of the guys down there."

"Any other time, I'd be inclined to agree with you, but as much as I hate to admit it, your approach might have some credence to it in this situation. You saw what he did to that ONYX installment in Coos Bay. Megatron turned loose on Terra after hundreds of years asleep . . . he threatens to undo everything the Confederacy has strived to build. This cannot stand."

Dropkick chuckled without humor and without taking his eyes off Point Bonita. "Here I thought you were supposed to be the logical one. Now you're advocating for, what, walking up to the Great Liberator, Lord Megatron of Tarn himself, and punching him in the nose?"

"No, of course not. Nothing so crude as that. We just need to rein him in . . . keep him on a short leash with or without his knowledge. Without would likely be . . . easier," Shatter said, looking almost offended.

"Bummer. It'd be a thrill to do that to 'im," Dropkick remarked offhandedly. "'Punch 'im, I mean. Course, it'd be the last thrill you'd ever experience, but fun's fun nonetheless. Think we should call this in?"

A strong wind blew in from the Pacific, carrying a dark cloud with it that blocked most of the evening's glorious sunset from view. The temperature, already cool and breezy, dropped even further as Shatter considered their next move.

A Triple Changer like her longtime partner, Shatter was much taller than him, possibly more well-built than he was, and had seen more than her fair share of scraps during the War and in the planetwide confusion and chaos that followed its tumultuous end. As a constructed-cold Made-To-Order enforcer for the planet's largest police force, she was the farthest thing from most people's conception of an attractive femme - at least, at first glance. However, her rough, battleworn exterior belied a razor-sharp mind and a keen database for political theory, philosophy, names, faces, and personal quirks that allowed her to run ideological and rhetorical circles around most mechs who would dare to consider underestimating her.

Dropkick flexed his rotors, uncomfortable with his partner's long silence. "Well . . . we could do this the smart way. The by-the-book way that you're so well known for following. We keep our distance, submit our report, wait a while. Megatron and the boys are picked up inside of the week. We get commended. Maybe even promoted. Smiles and sunshine all around."

"Or," he continued doubtfully when Shatter still refused to bite at his bait, "we take matters into our own hands. Show some agency, like General Skullgrin's always suggesting we do. Let the Raiders cook. See what they dredge up. Lie to our C-Os for a while. Risk the wrath of the MAS. Possibly - possibly - get in on some insight, get some juicy blackmail, about covert actions on the Colonies. Use the Great Slagmaker himself, in the flesh, as our personal puppet. No matter how we play our cards, we'll earn someone's favor . . . and someone else's wrath."

"That's about the long and short of it," Shatter finally replied after a longer time still. A strong gust of wind tore through the canopy of the eucalyptus forest. A storm was picking up.

" . . . You're gonna take the second option, aren't you?"

"I would be open to any other alternatives you had to offer."

Dropkick groaned, running a hand over the shock of electric-blue fins that protruded above his head. "I was afraid you'd say that . . . look, Shatter, we've spent years and years building up our credentials, first with the Empire, now with the Feds, all right? We've both received accolades for valor, diligent service, bravery in battle a thousand times over. But now, you . . . you're really willing to just throw all of that away?"

"That's just the way things are done now, comrade," Shatter snapped, her optics flashing with the crystalline intensity of decision. Already she was formulating a plan of attack. "How do you think the Confederacy rose to power, how they were able to rouse order from the chaos that our planet was mired in for so long? Politics is the greatest game one could play. Its rewards are great-"

"-and once you slip up, you're done. Finished. You've clearly been spending too much time in Iacon - you're starting to sound like that skidplate Senator Ratbat."

Shatter held up a hand. "Nothing that ambitious. I see a rare sort of opportunity here to cash in on - not a lifelong career. This is hardly the most boldfaced power grab ever seen in Cybertronian society. We're not trying to change the future here - just bend it to our own advantage."

"I'm not convinced . . . ah, but screw it, we've gotten this far. Not like we haven't done cover-up jobs before. I trust you . . . for the time being."

An uncharacteristic smirk briefly crossed Shatter's face, but she didn't respond to her partner in any other direct manner. "We'll need to lean on our informants, establish a network. Start up a listening post close by, so we can keep an eye on Megatron's activities."

"Ooh, could we figure out some way to find the Ark, too? I've dreamed of cracking that case for decades."

"In time. I'm sure that Autobot down there will eventually give his friends away. For now, we need to get off this mountain. Find somewhere . . . less offended by our presence."

Dropkick suppressed a shiver. "No kidding. Swear to Primus, it's always something with this mudball."

Dark clouds were beginning to form around the peak of Mount Tamalpais, swirling around the rocky precipice as if they were fixing to make a tornado. They were only the harbingers of a much larger cloud, a massive cumulus that seemed to have sprung out of nowhere and showed no signs of slowing down. Just underneath the wind, which had transitioned into a nearly constant gale off the tombstone-grey Pacific Ocean, the Cybertronian detectives could almost make out a nearly inaudible drone - an angry, fathomless sound, like some Titanic wounded warrior screaming the names of those next to die on the battlefield.

"Sounds like we've overstayed our welcome," Shatter remarked hurriedly. "Quickly now - to San Francisco. It's past time to formally begin our stakeout."

"Please, after you, m'lady," Dropkick offered with an exaggerated, sweeping gesture. He, too, was eager to get off of Mount Tam, but, unlike his partner, he chanced one last glance at the diminutive war party below before leaving.

Still can't believe it, he thought to himself. His spark was in a confused sort of turmoil - overjoyed at seeing the sovereign of his race returned to life, yes, but certainly apprehensive of the road to come. Lord Megatron is alive.

Villa Al-Muharibun

The Tarnished Coast, Damah, Southern Cybertron

Spring 780, Dawn-Cycle

Megatron is alive.

Four sets of optics snapped open, awake and alert as soon as they had been booted up. The mech they belonged to bolted upright upon his lavish recharge pad - and was already reviewing the last few minutes of footage he'd received in his sleep before his feet hit the ground. By the time he'd crossed the room, he'd gone over this earth-shattering new data three times over.

He knew what he would do about it before he opened the twin doors onto the balcony overlooking the Great Rust Sea.

He just . . . wasn't certain about the way he'd go about his next few moves.

Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

On the balcony, a deep, vivid orange glow filled the sky and reflected off the undulating not-quite-waters of the Great Rust Sea, Cybertron's largest aquatic body. The sun hung lowly overhead, seemingly rendered much larger than it was supposed to be due to some quirk of the oxidizing metals and gasses in the atmosphere that the mech didn't fully understand. Its light cast the metallic structures dotting the shore, the natural formations that almost resembled organic palm trees, into shadow. It was hot and muggy already - though the day was very young - as befitting the tropical climate of the region.

In the distance, the towering spires and minarets of the city of Damah raked the clouds, much like the nearby Equatorial Spires, which were currently hidden behind a series of roiling thunderheads due to an incoming storm front. The city had woken up to start the day only a few hours earlier according to the Decepticon's internal chronometer, and still hadn't lost the subdued, optimistic cheer of an average spring morning. Damah was at peace.

Megatron is alive.

The mech ran a clawed hand over his helm. "It's been so long . . ." he muttered to himself. It was a fact that he knew to be true - his familial bond with the irreverent investigator Dropkick proved that nothing short of divine interference could bring him erroneous information through that avenue. He'd planned it that way, a long time ago.

Even before the Mask.

Barricade of Praxus stepped away from the sunstained vista before him and retreated into the darkened villa where he spent most of his days. He breezed past the unkept recharge slab, crept silently down the stairs into a hab-suite still cluttered with the remains of a bespoke cocktail party that he'd hosted just the other night. It had been a retirement party. Rollerforce was her name. Good 'bot. Better cop. A veteran, like Barricade was. They served together for a time, not only in the infamous Iacon Precinct, but during the Gorlam Campaign as well.

"Probably passed out in a penthouse somewhere, surrounded by empty engex bottles and a couple of strapping young highlander-types in town to trade," he mused to himself. A grim smile crossed his face. "Ah, good for her. She deserves it, record that long. That storied."

All thoughts of merriment disappeared in an instant as he approached the basement door. Behind it lay another, more spartan, staircase, which descended into a pitch-dark gloom deeper than his own midnight-black color scheme.

Unlike his usually meticulous villa above, the basement was crammed with towers of dusty tchotchkes and artifacts accumulated over the course of hundreds of years. There was a wall of awards and accolades from the IPD nearly hidden behind a stack of worn datapads. A cluttered workbench with tinkers' tools and cans of nanobot spraypaint dominated what little floor space was actually available. Barricade turned sideways and squeezed past it, into his little jungle of junk, sending a few old hubcaps rolling into the gloom with a muttered curse.

The memorabilia got . . . spikier, more regimental, as he traveled deeper into the basement. Here was a file cabinet filled with hundreds of after-action reports from the War and smothered with a thick coat of greasy black dust. Here were a few dozen tokens of valor not dissimilar to the ones he'd received over the course of his career in law enforcement. "Serving with Distinction." "Injured in the Line of Duty." "Presented to Barricade of Praxus for Exceptional Bravery at the Corcapsia Incursion." All formal medals and fading certificates from a time when the Empire and the Army still gave out such physical things, back when resources were plentiful and a spirit of optimism hung over the conflict.

Those days were long gone by now. So why was he down in the depths?

Barricade liked his life. He got a good pension from the Confederacy every month. He could afford to pursue his hobbies instead of his targets. In the past few years, he'd rediscovered his long-dormant love for the written word, fine drink, and sailing on the Great Rust Sea during its rare periods of calm. It was a blessed existence. A simple one.

It made him complacent. Comfortable.

And there was still that flame within him, the "old Decepticon spirit" that his elderly Staxisian mentor had told him about all those centuries ago. It burned in his chest, calling out for an avenue of release, a just cause to fight for, a lifestyle of constant improvement. A thirst for purpose that his daily trips to the ruins of Damah's ancient Grand Garrison and its extensive military-grade training grounds, which had remained open to the public throughout the entire War, just didn't slake.

He liked his life . . . but was he truly built for it? Cocktail soireés with veteran groups, the Confederacy's most grueling triathlon tournaments, Seastorm Sailing contests . . . they were distractions from what truly mattered. Good distractions that he enjoyed immensely, yes, but still distractions. They didn't challenge him like they should have anymore. They coddled him.

At the back of the basement, he happened across the item he was looking for. A simple old chest constructed entirely of tungsten, heavy not just because of its makeup, but also with the weight of the past held within. He laid a hand on its surface and steeled himself with a quote from Towards Peace - his favorite of many manifestos he'd read over the course of his long life.

"Make no mistake, your life is mapped out in front of you, as clear as the grooves in your transformation cog," he recited bitterly. "You can no more choose to change jobs than Cybertron can suddenly stop orbiting Hadean."

Within the box was a bodykit and a small arsenal of weapons from a past life. Atop them rested the sharp, angular features of a Decepticon logo.

The Mask of Tarn.

Barricade sighed, a sound composed of equal parts resignment and excitement, roiling beneath a surface of stoicism. Tumultuous currents, raging within a calm sea. He knew what he had to do.

"It's time to get the band back together."

Very Large Array

Magdalena, New Mexico, USA

"Here it is now, Hoss. Pull over."

The mercenary's soft voice snapped Soundwave out of his stupor. In contrast to the exuberant first half of this long, long desert journey, the Cassetticons had been deathly quiet ever since the inexplicable incident at Hoover Dam. He was still shaken to his core, devolving every half hour or so into a shivering fit that rattled his cassettes in his chest compartment and caused him to swerve over the centerline before he could reassert control over his own body. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in centuries.

Fear.

The voices still screamed in his ears. Not even the soothing tones of an Aghartan SynthAxe, played over his altmode's radio from his personal music collection, could calm his nerves and restore to him true balance. And so, Soundwave of Harmonex did what he always did in times like this: he set aside everything and focused on the mission.

It was a clear night in the province these "Americans" referred to as New Mexico. A desert realm, the air was naturally cool and dry - inimical to cloudy conditions. This, combined with the sheer distance from any major human settlement, resulted in the clearest sky Soundwave had seen in . . . in . . .

"I can't recall," Buzzsaw murmured, finishing the thought his creator had started in private, "the last time I could see such magnificent stars from the ground."

"Laserbeak would love this," Rumble agreed. "Too bad she's, ah . . . still wiped."

And indeed she was. The only two Cassetticons who were stored in Soundwave's chest compartment were Catgut, whose tiny electric-vehicle altmode lacked the range to finish the journey alone, and Laserbeak, who was too exhausted from the flight from Hoover Dam to stay online as they crossed the barren Arizona wastelands. For the final leg of their journey, Rumble had puttered alongside Soundwave in his comically unassuming hatchback form. Meanwhile, Buzzsaw took full advantage of his helicopter mode's flight capabilities and remarkable fuel efficiency to scout the road ahead and the area around it for any more abnormal energy signatures like the one Soundwave had experienced at the Dam.

Frenzy, the Decepticon second-in-command could tell, was furious for one reason or another and was intentionally lagging behind their strange little convoy to tackle the dusty highways of the Desert Southwest by himself. He'd catch up shortly, though.

Catgut growled. "Yep, see the whole galaxy from here, all right. All the civilized systems laughin' at us for eons. Lemme out now, Soundwave. I wanna look at this with my own optics."

Soundwave obligingly opened his compartment. The Beastformer mercenary jerkily clawed his way out in robot form, unused to the spymaster's particular dimensions, and landed on all fours. He stretched in an exaggerated, catlike manner, then rose to his usual bipedal stance.

"Thanks for the ride. I'll put in a good word with Spyglass when she busts out. Not a whisper 'bout the dam breakdown. Call it a professional courtesy."

Despite himself, Soundwave felt a stab of good humor pierce through the veil of unease at the mention of the Photonicon spy. Nevertheless, he remained professional.

"Circumstances aside, I am your superior officer, Catgut. Do not forget this. We are not friends. We are comrades . . . and I have access to your unabridged, uncensored files."

Aw, come on, Soundwave, why treat a fellow Decepticon like that? He's been with us for almost a whole cycle by now and THIS is what you finally decide to say to him?

Be silent, GLITCH, Buzzsaw snapped. Our creator is still the spymaster of the Empire, even on this beautiful mud rock at the edge of space. He is no longer a mere psychiatrist to be bantered with. He must keep up appearances with the gendarmes - or else, he's a tiger without teeth. Understand?

Beneath the brim of Catgut's elaborate wide-brimmed helm, the sullen orange ring of a cy-gar-ette flared to life. "All work and no play, as always. Do your worst. I got nothing to hide. Blackmail don't work like it used to - and it never worked on me, anyhow."

Soundwave transformed. Even in a crouching position, he was at least twice as tall as the mercenary. "Enough pleasantries, Photonicon. Tell me - what information has your carrier managed to scrape together? Or shall we operate on gut instinct alone?"

Incredibly, the mercenary managed to chase away the scowl on his face that had developed after Soundwave's specific word choices with a cold grin. "Heh. There's the soulless son-of-a-sprocket we all know and love. I'm just playin' around, boss. I understand you've got appearances to maintain and all that."

"Details. Now."

"Fine, fine. Here's the deal - the facility's heyday was a few decades ago. Nowadays, it's just used to listen to empty space. These fleshies prolly don't even know that there ain't no interstellar transceiver system 'round here 'til Alpha Centauri. Morons."

He's got such a way with words, Glitch thought to himself, not realizing he'd cast it over the sparkbond until he was done. This earned a derisive snort from his brother, who'd perched on a nearby windmill to rest his rotors.

"Anyway, point is, this place don't see much military attention and the public can even drive their vehicles right up to the dishes. Even has a visitor's center. Nevertheless, we - and by that, I mean you - should be able to coax some kinda signal outta these deaf ears and silenced tongues. It'll be spottier than a ham radio and twice as cheap, but with the proper calibration, we could certainly get a signal to Stanix at least."

"Stanix . . ." Rumble breathed. It was a name that conjured up memories for the entire House of Sundrake - some good, and some much worse. "Wouldn't that be somethin'. Boss, you sure you can work that kinda miracle with this kinda hardware?"

Soundwave crept to the edge of the rocky precipice, gazing into the starlit valley below. Though he was Megatron's second, a spymaster, and a warrior, he was also responsible for overseeing the communications of the entire Decepticon Empire. He knew just what he was looking at. "It will not prove to be a hindrance."

The Demolitions mech clapped his hands together once, causing a small shockwave that actually blew some organic debris around in a ten-foot radius. "Alright! Then let's call in some more mooks, get ourselves a standin' army down here. Whatcha need from us?"

Soundwave stroked his chin as his analytical, rational mind finally kicked into high gear. "We will need overwatch. Catgut, provide it. Remain here and inform me if anything . . . inconvenient occurs."

"Sure. I could use a smoke and a stretch," he shrugged. "Haven't sighted in my rifle yet, though. Watch yer heads down there."

"That will be unnecessary. Even if an organic happens upon us, a verbal warning will suffice." Buzzsaw, execute Operation Gouged Optic. I suspect high surveillance that must be quelled. Once you have completed this task, I will need your assistance with the dishes.

Oui, monsieur, the corpsecrow replied dutifully. He added in a dramatic screech for Catgut's benefit and took flight right away.

All others, sentry positions. Do not stray far, do NOT engage any hostiles, and be prepared to be recalled at a moment's notice. Rumble, when your batchmate arrives, instruct him to do the same.

Gotcha. Let's do this.

Laserbeak . . . Laserbeak, activate yourself. We have arrived. You must be ready to take flight once more. Stand by, little light.

. . . sure, sure, I'm ready when you guys are. Just say the word . . . the Saboteur yawned.

Soundwave knelt down again, one hand resting lightly on the dusty earth. It crumbled beneath his fingertips. He was the very picture of calm composure, a seasoned track star ready to bolt forth from the checkered line, yet he was ready to hurl himself into action at a moment's notice. "We are prepared. Let us begin."

The mercenary took a long drag from his cy-gar-ette. "Well, then, lady and gentlemechs, may I present to y'all the Very Large Array. One of humankind's most advanced radar sites. A true marvel of engineerin' and physics alike. I expect this to be a quick deployment. Good luck."

The Array stretched out, filling the desert valley below before ragged buttes rose to contain it in their grasp. Above it, a glorious vista of purples and blues saturated with bright white stars filled the clean night sky, free of light pollution, smog, or anything else that could interfere with the light the Decepticons were about to fling into the universe. A stiff, dry wind whipped across the landscape, temporarily rejuvenating the rows of sleek windmills that marched soldierlike into the valley.

Soundwave blew out a breath, then lunged forth off the overlook.

He was fully transformed before he hit the ground, and roared into the VLA complex with all six tires spinning.

It only took an hour and a half of backbreaking, mindbending labor. The VLA was somehow even less advanced than the Decepticons had given the humans credit for - but even so, it had enough moxie and materials for them to eke out a weak signal in the direction they wished. The massive dishes, boosted by Soundwave's communications knowledge and the equipment he kept on his person at all times, forcibly dragged into place by the Cassetticons working in concert, and hotwired by Frenzy's nimble fingers, were just able to handle what was required of them by the Empire's spymaster.

"Y'know, we've really done the humies a big favor here tonight," Rumble panted when all was said and done. All that remained was for Soundwave to send the message, a short one encoded with his simplest cypher, as it was all the Very Large Array could process. "We should charge them credits for our services."

Sundrake and Sons Cable Repair, Buzzsaw scoffed. I suppose it has a good ring to it.

"Silence, please. The signal is presently being sent."

Ensconced like a spider in his web at the base of the VLA's central dish, the largest one by far, Soundwave spun his cypher. Ethereal lights traveled along a series of fiber-optic cables that linked the closest three dishes. The cables had been appropriated from the Cassetticons' own supplies as well as some of the more advanced tech around the Array itself.

Vents on his back and legs opened up, spewing thick plumes of steam into the air as his personal heatsinks did their best to manage the sheer amount of logic he was processing. The power supply was provided entirely by his own spark, which took a toll on his stressed and overtaxed systems - a toll that was very nearly too much for his body to handle. He was already exhausted from his long drive across the American West, the inexplicable incident atop Hoover Dam - and this final task threatened to use up the very last of his energy reserves.

He'd have an easier time with more advanced technology, and if he'd been fully rested beforehand - but this desolate land was not a place to dwell on such luxuries.

But Soundwave had a trump card up his sleeve.

He tapped into a well of foul energy within him, one that had been forced upon him not a month ago by the mech he thought understood him. It was wrong, corruptive, repulsive to Soundwave's very being - but he'd always figured that his desires didn't matter that much if they reduced his usefulness to the Empire and its noble ideals.

The dream of the Decepticons was far too important. One mech mattered not at all.

A sliver of nausea lurched up his throat as Soundwave activated his store of Angolmois and sent a whisper of the narcotic power through the cables, just to give the Array that last boost of energy. No matter where it came from.

The sickly purple glow of the stuff shot eagerly into the Array's central dish. Clearly, it was just a titch too much. Soundwave finished his preparations, dropping bonelessly to the ground as he was beset by convulsions. He didn't even feel it when he hit the desert sands below.

nothing matters without her

the very stars fade from the night sky

gah, the voices

so loud

quiet. be quiet. be quiet. be quiet. leave me in peace, just me and this rebreather of simultronics. fade away into the dark

"What are you doing with that? ENOUGH! Control yourself! You are a Crucible, for love of the Black Beast! Take that idiotic thing from your faceplate this instant and get up! GET UP!"

"- get up, boss, c'mon. You're makin' us look bad in front of the merc."

Soundwave came to again, with a splitting headache and vision full of toxic green tolerance warnings. He chased them away with a wave of his hand.

"Agh . . . Rumble. How long was I offline?"

The demoman shrugged his massive shoulders as he eased Soundwave into a sitting position. "Nyeh, about a quarter of a breem. Ain't been too long."

"Was the signal sent?"

"Heh. Would you expect anything less? We ain't openin' up no dialogue anytime soon, but I think, with all that work we put in, we're bound ta get someone's attention back home."

"Good. I am pleased to hear this."

"Nasty fall you took just now. You a'ight?"

Was he? Between the fatigue, the incident at Hoover Dam, now the disgustingly familiar itch of addiction's ghost roiling back up again from a time long since past, he wasn't quite sure.

"I am . . . tired, Rumble. Merely an old, weary mech attempting to carry on. It has been a long, long road . . . and even I require rest from time to time."

Rumble nodded sagely. "I get it. Whatcha need is a nice, thick vessel o' Visco. Frenzy and me, we can hook you up soon as we're back with th' others. Spectro keeps a bottle in his subspace compartment, but it's wasted on him, I tell ya. Lunkhead."

"I appreciate the offer . . . but, of course, I cannot officially condone it as your superior officer," Soundwave declined.

"Oh, of course. Appearances an' all that."

"Perhaps upon our return to Cybertron - a Cybertron under Decepticon rule, for the first time in eons - I will take you up on it."

"Sounds great! Say, speakin' of lunkheads . . . 'Ey, Glitch! Get on over here an' take a look at th' boss!"

"I'm on my way!" came the chipper response.

"Come now, I do not require-"

All camaraderie fell away from Rumble in a heartbeat. He drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive, height and looked Soundwave in the eyes, something few mechs dared to do even in this day and age. "Hey, zip it for a sec, boss. You do. You channeled that damn Pit-sludge again, this time to get the signal sent, yeah? Look at what it's doin' right now."

Soundwave knew what awaited him. He looked. He was correct.

A small, chaotic cluster of jagged, sharp-looking purple crystals had forced themselves from several gaps in the VLA's plating. They twinkled menacingly in the starlight, providing a vivid violet contrast to the night sky's deep, dark blue tones.

"You see that up there? The spiky crud wit' the scary lights? Yeah. That's inside you right now. I know ya know, don't bother tellin' me again. Look at me, Creator. You don't need that scrap to send a message, not even across the galaxy. You were at Tryptich Station just like I was. You saw what this does to people - what it's doin' to our boys right now. Don't be like them, OK?"

A dozen excuses immediately boiled to the forefront of Soundwave's mind. "I didn't have enough power," "I've been driving for two days," "It was essential to the mission," even "Quiet yourself, Private! A Decepticon Warlord does as he pleases!"

He knew enough to quell them on the spot. In his mind's eye, all he saw was a black tygar - his black tygar - staring him down, teeth bared, as he lay nearly insensate in the filthy channel of a Staxisian grease-gutter.

Rumble had been there too that night - in spirit, if nothing else. He and Frenzy hadn't even been born yet. Just two nameless little spark fragments floating freely within Soundwave's incredibly fertile laser core, designed and handcrafted by the House of Sundrake for the sole purpose of protecting and nurturing the young.

The Decepticon second-in-command choked up. It was disguised by his modulator, but his offspring knew all the same. "I am sorry."

"Just . . . goin' forward, let's keep the mind-altering substances restricted to th' Visco, yeah? For all our sakes."

At that moment, Tigertrack arrived on scene in his first-responder form, right on time and oblivious to the true nature of the conversation that had just taken place. The white tygar had no words about the Angolmois he found in Soundwave's system after his preliminary scan, aside from a meaningful - and uncharacteristically harsh - glare.

Frenzy wasn't too far behind, only offering the explanation that he was decapitating a suspicious cactus. He'd since cooled off.

The Birds, even more spent than Soundwave was, came down and landed upon his shoulder and his outstretched arm. Each of the Cassetticons were weary, dreading the long journey back to the coordinates that their creator had marked as the last known location of the Silent Blade. The other Decepticons waited there, laboring away at all hours, slowly making significant progress deep under the silty waters of the Gulf of the Farallones.

Lord Megatron of Tarn himself, the Emperor of the Decepticons, was right there alongside his men, scraping and shoveling away in the murk even as his soldiers rhythmically tired themselves out and had to return to the surface to rest and recharge. Megatron felt nothing - not anger, not joy, not fatigue, nothing but a fire in the pit of his stomach - as he dug.

His Dark Energon usage steadily crept up the percent scale. He didn't know if he noticed or not, but kept tirelessly working even as the spade itself was slowly ground away, shaving by shaving, molecule by molecule.

He unconsciously hummed a song to himself while he worked, a beautiful, stirring, yet repetitive martial adaptation of an orchestral symphony that looped on itself as all good marches did. It was called The Empyrean Suite.

On Cybertron, the veteran began the long process of preparing to visit the Colonies. There was paperwork that needed to be done, of course - but not as much of it as the average Ultracon had to face. Connections had their benefits, even in this post-war world.

The Autobot Ark was under siege. A cloud of death hung over Mount Saint Hilary once again.

But in Magdalena, New Mexico, everything was calm in the shadow of the newly upgraded VLA. The stars blazed brightly overhead, clear and crisp as a mountain stream. A warm wind blew across the desert as Soundwave and the Cassetticons took a moment to sit and relax before their next mission. The air smelled of dry mesquite and a whiff of silicate sweetness carried down from the crystals encrusted upon the main dish.

They rested there for an hour, leaving as one just as the sun began to come up.