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| Transformers 1999 (Rated T); I actually have something to post ! | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 28 2005, 06:29 AM (614 Views) | |
| rjb182 | Jun 28 2005, 06:29 AM Post #1 |
First Lieutenant
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I'm told by a reliable source that the Transformers cartoon was anime, and that therefore-- somewhat to my surprise-- I have something on-topic I can post here. It's an older fanfic, and looking back some of the concepts seem questionable, but well... you be the judge. According to your rating system, I believe it'd be T... TITLE: Transformers 1999 AUTHOR: R. John Burke RATING: T SPOILERS: For much of the original animated series and also the movie. DISCLAIMER:"Transformers" are a copyright of Hasbro and a bunch of other people, and they certainly don't belong to me. This is non-profit fan fiction and may not be sold in any form. No infringement on the rights of any party who owns their rights is intended. ARCHIVE: Ask permission, please. SUMMARY: This storyline attempts to fill part of the gap between the classic Transformers TV show, set in the 1980's, and the Transformers Movie, set in 2005. It basically follows Transformers "canon," but I have made a few alterations in order to "update" the series for an older audience. Basically, I'm trying to turn a cartoon into more-or-less serious science fiction, and I have to take liberties to do that. I will probably also borrow from the old Marvel comic book (which often differed from the TV show in the way events-- like Optimus' death-- took place), and may even take a cue (or at least one character) from Beast Wars/ Beast Machines. It is my hope to preserve the spirit of the original cartoon loved by kids of my generation (including me), while utilizing plots and storylines a bit more mature than the "blow up the bad guys and sell toys" focus of the show. With luck, you'll find something in here for both the adult and the kid in you, particularly if you were an 80's kid. That really was the best time to grow up, you know. The 60's had the Beatles, the 70's had disco, the 90's had boy bands. The 1980's, bless them, had Transformers... ********************************************** TRANSFORMERS 1999 Episode #001: "The Autobot City" Executive Producer, Writer: R. John Burke Okay, the place to start explaining is with the Ark. The Ark is our spacecraft, actually the central computer "brain" of our DX-111 model System Hopper spacecraft. And it hates me. Why does it hate me? I don't know. There was that time I spilled lubricant on its keyboard-- I don't think it ever forgave me for that. Whatever the reason, by now we have a long-standing tradition of hatred, and neither of us would care to alter the relationship. Who am I? Well, that's kind of tied up with the Ark hating me. Just promise you'll give me a chance to explain before you laugh. My name is Bumblebee. Stop-- hey, stop, you promised! Stop laughing, dammit! Thank you. You see, I am an Autobot, a cybernetic life form from a star system many light-years away from yours. Eons ago, I was part of a war between the Autobots and a faction called the Decepticons. I was on the losing side, which is more or less the story of my life. We were forced from our home planet, Cybertron in your tongue, and pursued across the stars. Seeking a viable world for colonization, we located the Sol star system in the prehistory of your people, and crash-landed here under Decepticon attack-- and incidentally, under an avalanche. Most of us were damaged, and the Ark's Automatic Compensation systems took us all off-line for repairs. Unfortunately, the Compensation system had also sustained damage, and repairs weren't completed for about seventy thousand years. Bet you thought *your* mechanic was slow. All right, if you can accept all this-- and why shouldn't you? We Autobots have been in the news for years. You must have heard of us by now-- we're almost home free. You see, communication between Autobots and their Decepticon brethren on the Homeworld was accomplished by high-intensity data burst-- a fast version of Binary, you might say. We did not speak when we came here. The Ark's Compensator had to program us for that. Unfortunately, it had named us all before we woke, and we never got much say in it. Most Autobots got really cool names like Prowl and Sunstreaker and Jazz. The Ark looked me over and decided that of all the letters it could put together in your language, the ones that described me best were "Bumblebee." I hate that computer. The Ark also had to decide on secondary forms for us. You see, we Autobots are not just cybernetic life-forms, but cybermorphic. Our highly-advanced circuitry is capable of adapting to a number of modes, allowing us to more easily perform our function, or-- in a survival situation such as the one we found ourselves in after the crash-- to blend in with the local populace. Unfortunately, the Ark is used to searching for cybernetic life, rather than organic. Its preliminary scans located the most advanced machine life on your world-- or, in this case, not life at all, but mere automatons. We were patterned after vehicles. Here again, the Ark chose to vent its frustration on me. While other Autobots were being reformatted as racing cars, sleek imports, and powerful 18-wheelers, I was chosen for a somewhat humbler destiny. I became a Volkswagon bug. Now, I ask you, if you could be any vehicle in your world, would you want to be a Volkswagon bug? No, you would not. I mean, they're good little cars, fuel-efficient and all, but there are *limits*... The sad thing is that the Ark probably made a good choice. That's all I am in this war, really. A bug. Fuel-efficient, stealthy... and utterly unimportant. The war interests you, huh? You want to hear about that? Well, okay, but it's a long story. How long? Oh, one or two hundred million years. But hey, you've got the time, right? You see, sometime in the pre-history of the Homeworld, so far back that even the Ark's databank does not record it, an organic race such as yourself built the Autobots to do their bidding. Our progenitors were probably not all that different from your automobiles, or should I say your assembly-line drones. We were mindless workers. Well, time passes and all things evolve. A few million years went by, and technology on the Homeworld improved. First, artificial intelligence was developed, then Simulated Life Protocols. From the SLP's came the first cybernetic brains, and from those-- over a span of time so great as to render your little millennium-obsessed calendar meaningless... came the Matrix. What is the Matrix? That would take almost as long to answer as your war question, but basically the Matrix is what made non-organic life possible. A computer mainframe so sophisticated as to contain the essence of life itself. All sentient mechanicals contain a "Spark," or a download from the Matrix. This is the thing that separates me from your toaster oven, in terms of intellectual capacity. The Matrix has great religious and cultural significance, and is traditionally entrusted to the wisest and most worthy of us. But more on that later. At any rate, mechanicals on our planet became sentient, but our organic overlords did not recognize this. We were persecuted and treated as slaves. And so, under the leadership of the great Autobot Alpha Trion, the Founder of the Matrix, as we call him-- we rebelled. We took the Matrix for ourselves, and began our own society on the Homeworld, free from organic rule. Our overlords were-- as you can imagine-- less than pleased. And so, with what information they still possessed from the Matrix, they created a new group of mechanical sentients-- the Decepticons. Programmed and trained to hunt down the Autobots, these creatures proved to be so ruthless that they actually turned on their masters. Before long, all traces of organic life had been eradicated from the Homeworld. Unfortunately, as any Windows 95 user can tell you, old programming dies hard-- even for a *sentient* machine. The Decepticons still had that pesky directive, a directive that turned to hatred. Destroy the Autobots. If our culture is built around reverence to the Matrix, Decepticon culture is likewise founded upon reverence for that which brought them into existence-- the need to exterminate *us*. And so, for the second time, my people were hunted and persecuted. Destroyed, or worse-- used as labor for our Decepticon brethren. Our initial attempts at diplomacy were rebuffed, and the Autobots had no way of defending ourselves against this threat. A peaceful people, we had laid down our weapons at the conclusion of the Rebellion. Besides, we were constructed to be simple workers. The Decepticons were forged as warriors. And then, one day an Autobot arose who was both. His name was Optimus Prime, and that's where my story starts to get good... "I christen you Metroplex, the Autobot City!" Optimus meant to shatter the bottle of Terran champagne against the walls of our newly-founded Autobot City, but unfortunately the little bottle was so comically small in his hand that it broke when he pressed his thumb and forefinger together. The crowd cheered anyway. A human politician-- the governor or something-- had been planning to shake Prime's hand, but that little demonstration changed his mind. Instead, he just sort of put a hand on Prime, and let the reporters have their photo op. It was silly, but I applauded with everyone else. Next to me, Jazz chuckled. "Think it'll go to his head?" "Prime? Nah." I liked Jazz best of all my comrades-in-arms. A medium-sized mechanical, painted white with blue stripes, his eyes were hidden behind an optic shield that almost made him look like he was wearing shades. Jazz invented cool and laid-back, and didn't take everything as seriously as some of the others. I looked up again at Prime on the stage, and had to laugh. "I mean, what could ever *reach* that head?" Jazz chuckled right along with me. Optimus Prime was a tall, stocky mechanical, red-and-blue in color and huge even by our standards, which made him enormous to any of you. I mean, I'm about the smallest Autobot, and I seat three of you. He just looked ridiculous, answering questions from reporters who looked like toy dolls beside him. But Prime took it all in stride, of course. On the Homeworld, ages ago, Optimus Prime was a simple worker in one of the energy-extracting stations. Those Autobots from his Cluster-- it's our equivalent to a family relationship, mechanicals who share a part of their Sparks-- had all been taken away to the camps and destroyed. As powerful as he was, Prime was still useful to the Decepticons-- they would never have taken him. But they did make the mistake of taking two of his friends from the plant on charges of conspiracy. Those particular Decepticons never made it as far as the door. The two Autobots, Elita and Kup, escaped to the Underground, and I heard they asked Prime to go with them. He declined. He understood, even then, that he could not hide. He had a destiny. He led a revolution against the enemy, and damn near pulled it off. For the first time in eons, Autobots had hope, as they rallied around a new and courageous leader. Prime proved to be smart as well as big. You have a legend-- Robin Hood? They just couldn't catch him. Not that they didn't try. The Decepticons must have had half their armada chasing Optimus Prime at one point. It seemed like a sure thing that the entire Autobot population would rise up to follow him. That was when I joined up. Hey, I never said I was brave. I always like to support the winning team. Well, you can imagine what happened next-- the underdogs turned out to be just plain dogs, I guess. Or maybe it was Megatron's fault. Megatron was an enemy soldier, a marksman with his overpowered canon, and-- I've heard, though this isn't necessarily fact-- an old friend of Prime's. Rumor circulated that he was an upgraded Autobot who had betrayed his entire city to the Sweeps, and received a Decepticon commission in return. Prime tried to stop him, and the two went at each other, nearly shaking apart a couple of city blocks in the process. Circumstances forced the battle to a premature end, and Megatron, for one, has been looking for a rematch ever since. Well, I don't know how much of that is true. But I do know Megatron. I saw him in battle a couple of times-- from a distance. He was as big as Prime, all silver-and-gray, with these red eyes that... well, he looked in my direction once, and for a second I thought he was looking *at* me... my engine just about froze up on the spot. Megatron eventually became ranking General of the Decepticon army. It was he who pursued Prime into space, when anybody else would have said just let the rabble go, and good riddance. As a human might say, Captain Ahab must have his whale. And once he got here, Megatron didn't want to leave. He was just a general on the Homeworld. On Earth, on a planet of under-developed little organics... he was a god. Or so he hoped. If any of his detachment ever raised the idea of giving up and going home, I bet he didn't live to see the next staff meeting. Well, that was all a while ago-- we first came on-line here in 1984, your calendar. The war continued, and we've been doing much better here than we ever did on the Homeworld. The major reason for our newfound success proved to be public relations. Prime did his best "We come in peace" routine for the human population, and your media ate it up. I think he was actually on the cover of "Time" a couple of years ago. A less reputable magazine published pictures of his 18-wheeler mode driven by Elvis. I was above all that sort of thing, of course. Mostly because nobody asked me. Prime addressed the UN, and some of the others appeared on the Tonight Show, and even Jazz hosted a couple of MTV awards specials. Nobody called me. There's a life lesson for you to take to heart: Volkswagons don't get to do Letterman. But I didn't mind. I actually kinda like it here, where I'm not always the shortest one in the room, and the people have other things to do than fight. Well, some of them do. And even if the media doesn't care about us little foreign jobs, the whole transforming thing usually gets me a good hand from neighborhood kids. I spend a couple of months a year on the hospital circuit, and they're always very appreciative. So it's a good life, at least when we're not fighting, and the fights have been less frequent since we got here. Back home, the War was constant. It could drive you mad-- it *did* drive a few of my friends mad. Here, the locals don't like Megatron any more than we do. I take that back. They liked him fine at first, until he opened his mouth. Turns out "I will crush you like the puny carbon- based insects you are" doesn't go over real well here. You gotta love irony. Here, Megatron is the hunted, and we're heroes. Heck, we've even got our own country. It's a really little country, but you start small. Okay, I'm exaggerating. What we've got is Metroplex, which is basically the shell and main computer from the Ark rebuilt into a little piece of Cybertron right in the good old USA. The humans call it "Autobot City," and it's like Vatican City in that it's considered sovereign by the UN. That makes us a political entity, which was fun. We had to have a Chancellor and everything. Of course, everybody knew Prime would get elected, but he insisted on a fair, secret ballot. Every Autobot in the city voted for Prime, except two. Somebody voted for Megatron as a gag. Somebody else voted for Nixon, and I'm not sure which would be scarier. I voted for Prime. Like I said, I go with the best. The big guy is maybe a little too earnest, a little too clean-cut, but he'd go to the ends of space for any one of us, and all of us-- yes, even me-- would die for him. It's not even a question. So there. I *can* be sentimental. And you thought German cars were all about efficiency. Anyway, Metroplex was in 1999, and things had been quiet for a while. If there's one thing you can count on in life is, when things have been good for a while, they're about to go straight down the drain. So I was standing there in Metroplex when my sensors pick up somebody behind me. "What are you doing way down here?" I turned around like a shot. Jazz played it cool, as usual, kind of stretching around, like he was gonna be looking in that direction anyway. "Oh, hey, Arcee..." My vox chip tends to disconnect from my CPU when females are present. "Um, I mean, who needs the spotlight, right? There's all that publicity and bother and--" "We weren't invited," Jazz said, more succinctly. Arcee was a tall, lovely Autobot (except for that terrible pink paint job-- but trust me, you're not looking at her paint) who came over with several others from the Home Resistance about ten of your years ago-- that was back before the Sweeps stepped up their security, when there was still a bit of contact with the Homeworld. She looked at Jazz when she spoke. "I thought Prime wanted everybody from his original group present at the ceremony." Still not looking at me. I could have burst into flames right there, and it wouldn't have changed much of anything, except maybe she'd comment to Jazz that it was getting a bit warm. "Yeah, well, like 'Bee says, we like to hang back, maybe take in the scene away from the crowd." Jazz was born to smooth-talk. He gave Arcee an appreciative smile. "The view is much better down here." "We?" Arcee looked down, and further down. I hate being short. "Oh, you're with... um..." "Bumblebee," I muttered, kind of hoping she *wouldn't* hear me. "Oh, right. Hi. Jazz, Prime really wants all his officers up there." Arcee paused a beat, looked down at me again. "Say, haven't you been with Prime since the beginning?" "A while," I said. "Hey, don't let old VW fool you, now, he is like the James Brown of espionage." I couldn't help but smile. Good old Jazz. "I remember this time, back when Megatron was trying to use this Bridge thing to zap himself back to the Homeworld..." "Is that so?" Arcee said, very politely. She couldn't possibly have cared less. "I really have to get back. Are you coming?" "Nah, think I'll chill here for a while." "All right, then. See you later, Jazz." Arcee glanced in my direction. "Dragonfly." "Peace," said Jazz, as she returned to the platform. His optic sensors intensified briefly. "Now *that's* what I'm talkin' about." "Classic styling," I agreed. "*Dragonfly...?*" Jazz shrugged it off. "Don't let it worry you, brother. All you got to do, see, is just kind of ease your way into it. Don't get all tense." "Go short-circuit, huh?" I should make one thing clear: The sharing of Sparks I mentioned earlier is not really equivalent to human reproduction. Gender specification among our people isn't much more than a remnant of the days when we were patterned after our organic masters. But there are *some* similarities, and I'd been influenced by Earth culture for quite a while, and... well, anybody can admire a well-maintained machine, right? So you can imagine that I wanted to change the subject. I was about to get my wish, but really, I think I'd have picked a different subject. A robot named Wheeljack, sort of our high-tech medicine man, came running out of one of Metroplex's sensor suites. "Prime! Prime!" Prime looked up from posing with a Senator "What's wrong?" "We're picking up an all-channels emergency beacon!" Prime was off the podium like a shot, public relations forgotten. The Big Guy is Always on Duty. "Location?" "119 mark 004." Wheeljack paused, allowing us all to process that. It didn't mean anything to the humans, but to those of us who'd made the trip in the Ark... I whispered it along with Wheeljack. "It's coming from the direction of the Homeworld." "See if you can cut through the interference." "I'm trying, I'm trying," said Blaster, our Communications Officer. He was another from Arcee's resistance group-- actually, he'd been with the first wave of newcomers, about a year after our initial expedition came on-line. He was a large, red-and-yellow Autobot with the unusual ability to transform into a portable communications unit-- you know, a boom-box. Don't ask me how the Ark pulled *that* one off, but even the Ark is subject to the laws of physics-- any human who tried to lift him would quickly discover that, no matter how small he might appear, Blaster still weighed a couple of tons. Blaster was good friends with Jazz, a likable enough guy whose primary motivation in life seemed to be cranking out the tunes-- he fell in love with Earth music before he even got here, while monitoring Terran transmissions to search for the first recon team. I liked Blaster too, but unfortunately his surveillance capabilities often got paired with my stealth on missions. They'd send me out on patrol, with Blaster along to record anything interesting. Ever try to carry somebody twice your size on your shoulders? Now picture having them in your back seat. Blaster was saying, "I'm scanning all frequencies now... no sign of the beacon... Hey, leave it there! Leave the frequency alone for a second!" Wheeljack had returned to the sensor suite along with Prime, Arcee, me and Jazz, our Chief Science Officer, Perceptor, and two big, high-ranking Autobot soldiers, Ironhide and Prowl. Wheeljack was operating the scanners while Blaster listened, and he obediently paused the scan. "You've got something?" Prime asked. "Oh, *yeah*," Blaster said, this big, goofy grin on his face. Nobody spoke for a second. Finally, I couldn't take it any more. "What is it? Is it a signal from Cybertron?" "Even better," said Blaster, "early Stones." He began to tap his feet to music I couldn't hear. "Can't *get* noooo... Sat-is-fac-tion..." "We don't have time for this," Prime reminded him. "Blaster, continue scanning." "Oh, all right. Mark that station for me, huh?" Blaster went back to work, and after a second, looked up again. "Whoa! Hey! Stop there! Emergency!" I groaned. "What is it now? Springsteen?" "Laugh it up, Little Yellow, but I am getting seriously bad vibes from the direction of the Homeworld." Blaster quickly Transformed, plugging into the console so that his speakers could relay the message. The translator technology of Metroplex instantaneously changed the binary transmission to words. "...any Autobot within the sound of my voice: This is Kup, on Moon Base One. We're taking heavy..." the transmission dissolved into static. A moment later, "...the Sweeps. Nothing we can... [static] ...but try to break the blockade. Tell Prime... [static] it's just like that time on Sigma Four. Remember, with the... [static] Well, enough about that. Just have a [static] waiting for us..." Blaster Transformed again. "Transmission ends there." Prime looked concerned-- well, he always looks concerned. But more than usual. "Can't you clear it up?" "Hey, if I can't clear it up, no one can!" "So how long until you'll have it clear for us?" Prowl asked. "No one can." Prowl made a face. "You're certain?" "Absolutely. I ran that through the same calibration routine I use for Metallica." "Oh," I muttered, "the Priority band..." Prime was not amused. "Keep trying. Could anyone make sense of what got through?" "I believe," said Perceptor slowly, "the message was addressed to you, Prime." "Yeah," said Jazz, "and I think I heard something about the Sweeps." "I believe the word was 'swap,'" Perceptor countered. "Swap? Now, what would anybody on the Homeworld want to swap?" Arcee broke in with, "I thought the message said something about a--a tune basin..." "What the hell's a tune basin?" Ironhide grumbled. It was about then that I realized the rest of them had gotten even less of the transmission than I had. I may not be much of a fighter, but my auditory sensors are as finely calibrated as anybody's. You drop a pin in South Bend, I'll hear it in Manhattan. I cleared my throat. Nobody listened. Prowl was saying, "What if he didn't mean Prime, but 'prime' as in primary target?" "We simply must have a better transmission," Prime said. "Yeah, or better ears," Jazz said. He kind of did a double take in my direction. "Hey, better ears..." Good old Jazz. Ironhide picked up on it, but he looked doubtful, as he does in all things concerning me. "You got something for us, short stuff?" "Maybe. If you ask *nicely*..." I can't stand being called names. My own is bad enough. But then, Prime looked down at me with that 'I'm counting on you, son' expression. "Bumblebee, report." "Yeah," I muttered. All right. I'd report. But I'd do it right. I pushed by Ironhide to stand next to Blaster at the console. "Give me a little room, please. Let's hear it one more time, Blaster." "All riiight," said Blaster, shifting form again. "From the top, for the man in the German import..." We ran through the message again, but that was just to clear up the details-- and to make it look harder than it was. I pretty much knew what to report already. When the transmission ended, everybody was looking at me. Even Arcee, for once. I wanted to make the most of it. I wanted to show them-- show *her*-- that I really was an important part of the team. I wanted Prime to say 'well done' in those serious tones, and maybe send a few reporters my way for the inside scoop. I wanted... "Well, come on. Let's hear it." I wanted to get on with it before Ironhide found it necessary to harm me. "The Sweeps are making some kind of big push against the Resistance," I said. "That message was from an Autobot named Kup..." Prime flinched at the name, as I thought he might. "He's on Moon Base One with some kind of last-ditch gathering of Autobots. They're really taking a pounding." "Taking into account the low fidelity of the recording," Perceptor said, "we must consider the possibility that this message is a deception." "Agreed," said Prime. "Bumblebee, did Kup say anything that might confirm his identity? Did he give any of the recognition codes?" "No codes," I said. "I think he was a little rushed. But then the whole middle of the message is some kind of war story..." Prime looked relieved at this, though at the time I wasn't sure why. "Something about Sigma Four...?" "It's Kup," Prime said, apparently satisfied. "Go on." "Huh?" I suddenly remembered that this was still my show. "Oh, right. Well, they've got a ship. They're going to try to break the Decepticon blockade and come here to Earth." "Effectively surrendering the Homeworld to the enemy," Prime muttered, "perhaps forever..." "Maybe," I said. "All I know is, he said to have a berth at Metroplex ready for him." "Understood," said Prime. "We'll have to have a guard ready as well, in case Megatron decides to make a move for the ship on its way in." "I'm on it," said Prowl. "Though I'm not sure why. It's been so quiet lately-- I'd almost think Megatron's on vacation." Most of them were filing out of the suite with Prime, ready to receive orders. Blaster tossed a "Hey, good ear, small fry" my way before departing. The others pretty much forgot about my help immediately. Except Prime. He stopped at the door. "Good work." "It was nothing." Well, one out of four isn't bad. Or was that two out of four? Arcee had remained behind with me and Jazz, looking like she wanted to say something. I wouldn't have prompted her. Unfortunately, Jazz did it for me. "What'd I tell you? Has he got the moves, or what?" "Very impressive," Arcee said. "Bumblebee..." She got my name right, at least. Jazz tossed me one of those 'am I right, or am I right?' looks. Even I was starting to think that maybe, somehow, this little deciphering job had made a difference. And then she finished, "...Bumblebee, did Kup mention a younger Autobot? A friend of his? Maybe somebody he referred to as a... a young punk?" The way she asked said it all. Jazz winced. I showed no reaction. "No, uh... nobody but Prime. Why..." as casually as I could, "why do you ask?" "No reason." And she exited, stage left. "That's gotta jolt the ol' shock absorbers," said Jazz. "Sorry, buddy." "Nah," I said, already on my way out. "Happens all the time." "Hey..." In two long strides, Jazz had caught up to me. "You're still the Man as far as I'm concerned. What Blaster and I couldn't do with auditory sensors like those... I tell you, the whole city would be jammin'." I laughed, and we left the sensor suite together. I don't know this next part for myself. I'm only repeating it as it was told to me, and given Megatron's reputation, I wouldn't be surprised if it had gotten a bit exaggerated. We don't call him "The Slag Maker" for nothing. Still, it comes from reliable sources, and if I don't pass it on, my story won't move forward. So... Prowl was righter than he knew when he suggested Megatron was on vacation. In point of fact, Megatron had reactivated his Bridge to Cybertron-- a sort of a wormhole-in-a-box-- and had spent the last week there, manipulating events to bring about the Decepticons' push. Then he went to see the Chancellor. You'll understand, I hope, that this conversation was probably conducted in Binary, and that the Chancellor did not, as yet, have a Terran name. Translating it seems like the only way to relate the events in a way you can understand, so I hope you'll forgive me. Megatron made his way into the Control Room one step at a time, backed up by two of his Sweeps, Starscream and Skywarp. Both were large, colorful robots with a swagger to their step. They grinned with anticipation, but Megatron was all business. They found the Chancellor, Shockwave as he's now called, studying a series of tactical readouts at the display table. His full attention was on the table, but then, he's only got the one eye to focus-- a glowing, yellow eye peering out from a dark depression in his armor, as though his nonexistent face were hidden by a cowl. He was clucking and muttering to himself in his odd, echoing voice. "Not good, not good... Megatron, had you seen this?" That brought the general up short. Megatron hadn't realized Shockwave was aware of his presence-- or even that the Chancellor knew he was on Cybertron. The sweeps looked at him doubtfully. Megatron shrugged it off. No matter. "Aren't you pleased to see me, Shockwave? It has been such a long time." "You are a very proficient soldier. I had no doubt you would return eventually." Shockwave looked up. "How many cycles has it been since our last contact?" "Five." "Five, then." Shockwave shrugged. "And still Prime lives. Did you not, one time long ago, swear to me that you would return with the head of the Rebel leader?" Megatron took a step forward. Unlike his troops, who occasionally might see fit to disarm themselves, Megatron wore his high-powered "fission cannon" as though it were a part of his arm. None of us has ever seen him take it off willingly-- and why should he? Megatron is a creature of war, part and parcel of chaos. He has no interest in any situation where his artillery would not avail him. I used to wonder sometimes what he'd ever do if he won the war, and had no enemies left to hunt. I truly think it would've driven him mad. "There were... complications." "Indeed." The other mechanical was not so large as Megatron, but still powerful enough to put a little fear into the Sweeps, who kept their distance in this confrontation. Shockwave had been quite a warrior himself, at one time. "Complications such as your infatuation with Earth? Yes, I can see how that would get in the way." "I have no love for the Earth or its inhabitants," Megatron said evenly. "I don't waste opportunities as recklessly as you do." "I am never reckless," said Shockwave. He returned his attention to the monitor, as though dismissing Megatron. Finally, when he realized the other mechanical would not be dealt with so easily, he looked up again with something like a sigh. "If you have nothing else to do, you might see about controlling your Sweeps. They have scrambled against the Autobot enclaves on both moons, quite against my orders." "Really?" Megatron drawled. He did not seem in the least surprised. Shockwave noticed. "Ahh... so it is you who has fomented this little revolution. Megatron, you are many things, but I never took you for a traitor." "And I never took you for a fool," Megatron said. "Haven't you been paying attention to the Autobot movements for the last cycle? I haven't even been on-planet, and I've heard." Shockwave looked pensive for a moment-- actually, that and anger are about the only two emotions his limited face can present. "You are referring to Elita-1." "And Ultra Magnus. Their two sects have combined, on the first moon. Surely you know this." "I do," said Shockwave, no more disturbed than if they had been discussing a routine download. "So it's settled. We strike now, while they're together and vulnerable. Before their insurrection has a chance to spread." Shockwave considered this for a full minute, giving Megatron the vague impression that he agreed. Then, abruptly, "No." "No?" "No," said the chancellor. "It is unnecessary. Magnus and Elita will never come to an alliance. They are too dissimilar." Megatron scowled-- and you don't want to be in the room when Megatron scowls. "How so?" "Elita is brash, inventive... she strikes swiftly and surely. Magnus prefers to bide his time, waiting for a distinct tactical advantage." Shockwave paused, considered, then finished, "Either style has its advantages, but they will not be able to coexist. I predict dissension within one twelfth-cycle, followed by infighting and disunion within a quarter-cycle." Another long beat. "So you see, it is quite unnecessary to attack them. They will destroy themselves... provided you do not rob them of the opportunity." "And if I disagree?" Megatron hefted his weapon dangerously. "You input has been considered. It is of little value. Return to your Earth." "You can't override me so easily!" Megatron snapped. "I am the ranking General, High Commander of the Sweeps! I..." "A post you abandoned millennia ago for a fool's errand to Earth," Shockwave reminded him. "Your lack of foresight is sufficient to provoke my sympathy-- but there's nothing to be done about it now. All Decepticon forces are now under the direct control of the Chancellor." Megatron digested that at length, and hung his head. "I was afraid of that." "Perhaps, if you were to agree to a lesser position..." Megatron hadn't finished his thought, however. His weapon-arm came up, the deadly barrel of his cannon pointed at Shockwave's chest. "... I suppose that means I'll have to *be* the Chancellor." "If you wish to challenge me, I will accept," said Shockwave. His attention went to the tactical display again. "At a more opportune time." "Here's my challenge!" said Megatron, and he fired. The sheer force of Megatron's blast knocked Shockwave halfway across the room, and he skidded to a halt against the far wall. A massive gash had been cut just below his chestplate, and he tried vainly to shift to his more powerful alternate form. Megatron approached him slowly, those red eyes glaring down. "Poor Shockwave. Have I disillusioned you?" "I had no illusions about your sense of honor." Shockwave's words came as a whisper, as his damaged transmitter struggled to produce them. "But you're wrong-- I am honorable." Megatron smiled. "You're highly intelligent, and not useless on the field of battle. I make you this offer: Serve me. I will make you second in authority among all Decepticons." This got a rise out of Starscream, the larger and meaner-looking of the two Sweeps. "How dare you, Megatron? It's *my* place to--" "Hold your tongue!" Megatron snarled, and his fission cannon had the effect of emphasizing his words. Starscream lapsed into silence. The general's attention turned to Shockwave. "Make your decision. I grow weary of waiting for you." Shockwave did produce a sound-- but not words. Not even a Binary burst. It was the closest thing he could vocalize to a laugh. "Does Megatron think I have so few resources at my disposal? You will regret this." "You've decided, then?" "I have." Megatron lifted his cannon-- then paused. "There's been enough waste today. I see no need to spend fuel on you." He turned his back on the Chancellor, already on his way out. "Starscream, Skywarp-- explain my thinking to the Chancellor." The Sweeps chuckled and cackled, moving in for the kill. Let me back up for just a moment, to explain about the Sweeps. These were not, obviously, *the* Sweeps, the ones later commissioned by Unicron. Those mechanicals gave new meaning to the word 'scary,' and I'm just glad I never tangled with them. I tangled with Starscream a few times, though, and he was bad enough. In those days before Unicron, "Sweep" was a generic term for a Decepticon hunter/killer, one of the units specially commissioned to track Autobots. On Cybertron, they often take the form of cutters, fast and sleek starfighters. On Earth, this translated into jets. Well, if Sweeps were jets, Starscream was Air Force One, the captain of them all. Faster than fast, deadly, powerful, shrewd in his way-- he was vain and disliked by all, even within his unit, and not up to directly challenging Prime or Megatron. And that is all you can say against him as a warrior, because he's about as cold a customer as you'll meet. He nearly killed me once, face-to-face, and I escaped through fortune alone. I don't envy Shockwave in that moment, with Starscream and his crony bearing down. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the unfortunate prey is as good as dead in that situation. To the shock of everyone involved, this proved to be the hundredth time. As Starscream and Skywarp approached their prey, they might have noticed a thin cord spread across the floor halfway between them and Megatron. Might have, I say, had they been particularly sharp-eyed or quick-witted that day. Apparently, they were not. Both Sweeps went sprawling, cursing as they fell, and Megatron look around for the source of this new attack. Starscream slammed into the wall next to Shockwave. Skywarp used his unique teleportation field to avoid the wall, landing on his feat at Megatron's side. "What's going on?" the general demanded. "Don't you know?" Shockwave said, enjoying himself-- though I guess it must've hurt when he laughed. A blast from Megatron's fission cannon is nothing to sneeze at. I mean, assuming mechanicals could... well, never mind. "I told you I have my resources," Shockwave said. "What resources? How did you do that?" "This is pointless!" Starscream said, before the Chancellor could answer. He pressed one of his repeat blasters against Shockwave's single eye. "Let me finish him!" Megatron still was unhappy about the turn of events, but he nodded slowly. Starscream fired-- and howled with pain. His repeat blaster had jammed, destroying itself and taking most of the Sweep's right arm with it. Enraged, Starscream brought the weapon in his left arm around. "Wait," said Megatron, catching Starscream's good arm just in time. He began to laugh. "Starscream, you idiot. Look." Starscream looked down at his weapon. The gun's barrel had been jammed by a dark, threadlike substance-- the same substance that had tripped up the Sweeps' initial attack. Shockwave laughed and laughed. Megatron grabbed him by the throat. "What treachery is this?" "Treachery, Megatron? The treachery is yours. We are defending ourselves." "We?" Megatron's question was answered in a most unexpected manner-- a cry for help from Skywarp. Both Megatron and Starscream turned... The remaining sweep was being throttled, a noose of the same cord-like material (albeit slightly thicker) wound all about his neck and arms. Behind him, controlling the threads, was... a thing. It was, actually, a Drone Crawler, a multilegged work unit commonly found on the Homeworld, rather spider-like in appearance. But this, clearly, was no mere drone. Starscream raised his weapon, cleared now of the pervasive substance, but Megatron again stayed his hand. "Wait." The Decepticon general stood, flashing his best smile, the one that makes him look like a hungry crocodile. "Who is this? Who can defeat two of my best warriors with such ease?" The Drone Crawler released Skywarp, who thudded to the floor in pain. After a moment of staring at Megatron with its opaque eyes, it transformed. It was, of course, a Decepticon-- but what Megatron had perhaps not expected was that it was a female Decepticon. For whatever reason, the technicians who designed their race had not commissioned many trackers with a feminine appearance. Female Autobots are relatively common, but they have few counterparts among our enemies. The mechanical before them was all black, except for its large, silver eyes. Its "legs" folded up behind it, giving it something of an insect appearance even in its primary mode. It had a weapon trained on Megatron, and spoke in a harsh, throaty voice. "Arachnia is my name." Megatron took a step forward. "You're Shockwave's bodyguard?" "And assassin, when the occasion calls for it." Megatron seemed amused by that. "Could you assassinate me?" "I'd like to try." This made Megatron's optics light up. It's not often he finds a mechanical, friend or foe, who doesn't shrink from a fight with him. Perhaps that's why he's so interested in Prime... the one opponent who never feared him. Or the first opponent. Megatron sized up the newcomer for a long moment, and gestured at his lieutenant. "I don't think that will be necessary. Why don't you try against Starscream instead?" "WHAT?" Starscream may have been overconfident, but he was nobody's fool, and he was decidedly reluctant to face off against this creature. Arachnia didn't move. "I don't take my orders from you." "Would you be willing to?" the general pressed. "I can offer you much more than Shockwave, I assure you." The assassin snorted. "Promises. I hear many promises, in my business." "I imagine you do. My offer is sincere. I respect your strength." "You would be wise to do so. I've really given you very little choice." "You're wasting your energy, Megatron," Shockwave said. "I have paid for Arachnia's services. She is a professional, bound by honor, and has served me since..." "Oh, shut up!" Arachnia said. Shockwave's good humor vanished very quickly. "If I have to hear you ramble one more time about contracts and honor..." "Yes..." Megatron said, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "He's very cold, isn't he? Logical. He doesn't understand a warrior." "And you do?" "If you believe I don't... approach me, and find out." "I will take you up on that one day," said Arachnia. "I'd like to hear your terms." "In time." Megatron smiled. He went over to Shockwave's tactical console and looked it over. "For now, though... there's a ship leaving momentarily. I think someone of your talents could give it a very appropriate sendoff." "Here they come! Clear the field!" Cliffjumper, a red Autobot not much bigger than me, but-- naturally-- quite a bit tougher, took the initiative in backing everyone off Metroplex's landing field, as a ship-- a 440 System Hopper, same design as the Ark but considerably smaller-- glided towards our location. I stood with Jazz and Blaster. Somewhere above us, a few of our own jets-- few Autobots possess the power of atmospheric flight, but there are exceptions-- were flying air cover, on the lookout for Megatron's Sweeps. On the other side of the crowd, I could see Prime with his designated "tough hombres" Prowl and Ironhide, along with our healer, Ratchet, ready to receive our guests and possibly casualties. Arcee stood with this group, looking anxious, but at the moment my curiosity about the ship outweighed any jealousy I might feel. Plus, I was a little bit nervous about my company on the landing pad. Several meters away from me, a human woman stood with a microphone, talking to a news camera. "... Patricia Grant, reporting for WTZT News from the Autobot City, where today, nearly ten years after the last shipload of visitors from space arrived here in the Western US, another shuttle is about to land just behind me. I... Phil? Phil? Damn!" She practically dropped the microphone. "Larry, what's wrong now?" "Don't blame me," said a human male. "It's that ship-- puts out some kinda weird interference." "Well, maybe if you can't fix it, you'd better take it down to the Radio Shack and wait on line for some technical support! They'd be about as much help as some salaried cameramen I know!" Patricia Grant was about medium size for your people, with skin shaded towards the darker part of your spectrum and hair done up in tight braids behind her head. As I now know very well, she was not one to accept adversity quietly. While Larry the cameraman started to argue, I nudged Blaster. "See if you can clear up some static for her, huh?" "Will do." As the shuttle landed, Grant was saying, "Well, maybe you'd better get on the freaking line to freaking New York and see if..." "We're on the air!" somebody called. Grant lifted her microphone without missing a beat. "...see if these latest Autobots will require medical attention. It is our understanding that they are coming directly from the ongoing war on their home planet, Cybertron, and may well have casualties. We advise our younger viewers, and those were are, um... squeamish about their cars... to exercise caution during this report." The shuttle ground to a halt. The ramp opened, slid down to the ground. A blue-armored foot stepped out... And suddenly I was on the ground with a headache. Jazz was trying to help me up, and the mechanical who had been standing on my other side was still trying to shove forward to get a better view, snarling and threatening when appropriate. "Ow! Grimlock, watch where you're going, you big oaf!" You remember I mentioned my vox-disconnect problem? Well, I assure you, my CPU had absolutely *no* control over my actions when I picked a fight with Grimlock. Grimlock is the biggest mechanical you ever saw, possibly including Cybertron itself in that assessment. He's the only one of the Autobots who could physically match up with Prime, and he's... how shall I put this delicately? He's a few circuits short of a motherboard. He was an Enforcer for the Decepticons once, or so I understand, recruited along with his squad by Prime, at great personal risk. When the Ark deactivated the rest of us after our crash, Grimlock's squad was left on-line and charged with protecting us until we could be activated. This they did very well-- at least, I have no complaints, but then I was unconscious at the time-- but they ended up with rather primitive alternate forms. As the Ark could not at first locate any machine life, it altered them to fit an ancient survey report of the planet. But those old scans were hopelessly outdated, and the life they resembled had been extinct for some sixty-five million years. Now you see the extent of my problem. I, known variously to my comrades as "pipsqueak," "squirt," and "small fry," had just mouthed off to a T. Rex. Grimlock growled wordlessly for a moment. Then, slowly, "Do you want something, Bugbot?" "Ummm..." "Grimlock can give you something, maybe. Maybe you'd like a nice funeral, eh?" I whimpered softly. "Matrix keep me... No, no, I really don't think so. Thanks anyway..." "You will say you're sorry." That penetrated to whatever part of my brain was still functioning. Unfortunately, that turned out to be the "proud and not overly bright" part. "Me apologize? You just knocked me on my..." Grimlock reached down and physically pulled me to my feet, allowing me to hover in mid-air for a few moments before dropping me. "Apologize." Jazz stepped between us. Now, unlike me, Jazz is not particularly small or weak, but neither is he a big-league fighter, and if Grimlock had chosen to take offense, well, there would have been two hulks rusting in the junkyard instead of one. But Jazz, as always, kept his cool. "Hey, chill now, big guy. You know ol' VW don't mean anything by it. It's not fair, you picking on somebody that size." Grimlock glowered down at us. "Perhaps Jazzbot likes it if I pick on him instead?" Jazz balked at that one, but he didn't actually give ground. "Hey, come on, Grimmy, everybody knows you're big and bad. Nobody wants to rumble." "I think maybe Bugbot does." Jazz looked at me, and said very slowly, "'Bee, tell Grimlock how sorry you are." "But I..." "Tell him," my friend repeated, and this time I caught a distinct hint of 'or I'll smash you myself, you little troublemaker' in his tone. "Sure," I said. "I guess I got in your way. Sorry. No hard feelings, right, Grimlock?" Grimlock continued to growl for a moment, but by degrees-- so slowly, in fact, that it took us a while to realize he'd made his decision-- he turned back towards the ship. Me and Jazz moved a few meters to the right, anything to get away from that sociopath. "You sure can pick 'em, VW. Tell me, why you gonna start something with a 'bot like that?" "I didn't start it," I grumbled, "but just once I'd like the chance to finish it." "Against Grimlock? Sure. All you need's a thermonuclear device or two. I think we got some in Storage..." Well, by the time we got where we were going, we were standing right next to the news crew, and several passengers had already disembarked the shuttle. Just to show that your people are right about that whole rains/pours thing, the first thing I saw when I looked up was Arcee with her arms around this flashy, red-and-orange mechanical. She backed off quickly, as though the hug had been an impulse, and in fact she immediately launched into what looked like an argument with the guy, but I can't say that improved my mood any. There were more coming down as we watched-- Kup, a rusted old- timer whose picture I'd seen, was chatting away with Prime and Ironhide. With them was a female mechanical, red-and-white in color. She looked dangerous, like a warrior, and I guessed her to be Elita-1. Then there was Springer, a powerful soldier who carried an honest-to-goodness sword and looked like he could use it, quite a few others including more females than I would have expected, and last out of the ship... Last out of the ship was Magnus. I'd heard of Ultra Magnus, whom Prime had left in charge of his Resistance sect ages ago, but I'd never seen him before. My first thought was that even Grimlock would run away from this guy. Jazz whistled softly. "Megatron, look out. We have got some serious backup, now..." Still in poor spirits, I could only grumble, "Didn't they bring anybody *little* with them?" Even as I was complaining, I was knocked to the ground for the second time that day. "Whoooooa, sorry-sorry-sorry. Don't know my own strength which is strange because if I don't know it who does and anyway what chance will I ever get to use it now that we've left the war behind and that's good I think because I'm a lover not a fighter, not that I've done much of either lately." The sleek, bluish mechanical paused just long enough to help me up. I thought that was nice of him, considering he was insane and all. "Who-- no, I take that back-- *what* are you?" "Blurr's my name, and I'm built for speed-speed-speed-speed. Don't believe me? Want to see me race around the city? Want to see it again? When I get going there's nothing faster on four wheels or two. Even one, but then how fast can a unicycle go and hey who are you anyway?" I started to answer, but before I could get the first syllable of my name out, Blurr was off again, knocking me down for the third time just for good measure. He was shaking hands with Blaster, Grimlock, everybody right on down the line. He'd greet them, ask their name, and then usually zip right off before they could answer. "He must've had a little too much Super Premium, huh?" Jazz said. After a moment's thought, I gave my friend my considered opinion on the subject. "We shall have to kill him." "You're just grumpy," said Jazz. "Need another hand?" "No, that's all right." I was getting used to picking myself up off the floor. "Hard day?" This wasn't Jazz speaking-- actually, it didn't sound like a mechanical at all. And it wasn't one. From my upside-down vantage point, I could see a human face staring down at me. Grant, the reporter. Quickly, I dusted myself off and sat up. Too quickly, probably. She had to jump out of the way to avoid bumping heads-- and my head is steel-reinforced. I smiled, a little sheepishly. "What makes you say that?" "Takes one to know one." "Oh, yeah..." You know, despite what your people say, misery doesn't really love company. What misery loves is finding somebody who's even *more* miserable. "Sorry about your broadcast. I thought you covered well." Grant snorted. "Tell that to the network. I'll be lucky if I'm not sent to Tuskaloo, Wisconsin, to cover the Cheese Festival." "It wasn't that bad," I said. I remained sitting down so she wouldn't have to look up. I'm always looking up at people, and I'm hesitant to inflict that upon others. "Thanks to you and your friend," she said. "I heard you ask him to help." "Blaster probably would've done it, anyway," I said. Then, in my best Optimus Prime voice, "He'll never rest so long as an audio signal somewhere in the galaxy is threatened by the evil minions of static." Grant laughed. "Hey, you guys *do* have a sense of humor." "Of course," I said, with pride. "I used to kill them down at the Sears Auto Center." More chuckling, but then she looked at me more carefully. "Don't I recognize you?" "I very much doubt it." "Sure I do," she said, snapping her fingers the way your people sometimes will to jog you |
| The Garden Spot: It's an online comic strip. About vegetables. Seriously. | |
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| rjb182 | Jun 28 2005, 06:32 AM Post #2 |
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First Lieutenant
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Well. You talk about being bowled over. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing-- I thought for a moment my translation algorithm must have shorted out. "Let me get this straight..." I said. "You were going to interview Prime... but you'd rather interview...?" I pointed at myself mutely. "You got it. What do you say? Is it a deal?" "Is it! Quick, which is my best side? This one?" Hopping to my feet, I Transformed into my vehicle mode. "Or this one?" Grant laughed. "Well, I'll want to get a few shots of both. First, though, I'd like to spend some time together-- you know, just chat a bit. Get a sense of what your day is like. It'll help me find the right angle. Does that work for you?" In reply, I simply opened my driver's-side door. "Hop in." "Great." Grant turned to her cameraman. "Get back to the station, tell Phil what I'm doing. See if you can't get a full crew over here. We ought to be ready to shoot by tonight." Larry didn't move for a second. "Pat, d'you really think...?" "Trust me. Get going." The cameraman shrugged and trudged off, and Grant slid into my driver's seat. She hesitated for a moment. "Er... I feel kind of guilty, you carrying me..." "Forget it," I said. "I barely feel it. Now, some *other* people I could mention..." Of course, my optical sensors are not visible in my alternate mode, so she couldn't tell I was looking at Blaster, whom I affectionately think of as Old Leadbutt. "Okay, great..." Grant reached towards the interior control panel. "Um... this steering wheel doesn't move." "Just for show," I said apologetically. "Oh." She shrugged. "You drive, then." I started backing up, directing a comment at Jazz as I rolled past. "Don't wait up." My friend looked doubtful. "I dunno, 'Bee. I think Prime wanted everybody to stick around for the whole meet and greet thing." "What was that?" I had already shifted into forward, aiming for the nearest Transit Path. "You'll have to speak up! Couldn't hear you!" As we left Metroplex behind, I barely heard Jazz's muttered reply. "Brother can hear a signal trace halfway across the galaxy, but when ol' Jazz talks, it's just in one receiver and out the other..." I resolved right there to pay better attention to Jazz's sound advice-- in future. At that moment, however, I was already planning to parlay my first interview into worldwide fame and fortune. Okay, so I went a little overboard. The Matrix punishes arrogance, you know, but I still don't think I deserved what happened next... "Form up; fire on my signal." Five aircraft were approaching the Autobot City from the South. Four of them were the standard 'interceptor' models: Thundercracker, Dirge, Ramjet, and Thrust. Thundercracker, one of Starscream's lieutenants, was in charge, which might have been a good thing for us if there'd been more time. Rather a solemn, thoughtful sort, Thundercracker never did much care for his lot in life. He would have much rather let us remain on Earth and returned home-- or even given up on the war altogether, and lived in peace. Unlike his fellows, he often went out of his way to avoid damage to the Earth's native life. He considered himself to be a patriot, only doing his job, and as far as we could tell, he took no pleasure in it. We used to hope that something would happen to Starscream, leaving this more reasonable officer in command of the Sweeps. But even if that had happened, Megatron never would have put up with such a reluctant warrior for long. Anyway, if we'd had time to reason with him, Thundercracker might have been our ally-- but the nature of a Sweep's job does not leave time to sit around and chat. They're made for lightning, precision strikes, and Thundercracker was as good at that as anyone except his captain. Besides, this particular mission would not have been the time to approach him, for the fifth aircraft in the detachment was bigger and heavier than the others-- well-armored and packed to the gills with firepower. This was Blitzwing, one of Megatron's favorites. Technically, he outranked Thundercracker, but it was not his job to lead the Sweeps-- unless their wingleader should fail to do so. Both of them knew Blitzwing was along to make sure that the lieutenant did not get sentimental. As big and mean as he was, Blitzwing was not the worst the enemy had to offer. He was a fearless, intelligent soldier-- many of us respected him. But he was also ruthless, a straight-ahead type who would not allow his mission to be compromised. He often served as Megatron's personal bodyguard and representative. It was in this official capacity that he reminded the others, "Make it a clean hit. We only need to frighten them and pick off the stragglers." "We knew that," Thundercracker said. "Go for the humans, if you can-- Prime knows he'd be lost here without their goodwill. He'll protect them." "No. They're not a threat. I will not allow..." Blitzwing's grating voice broke in with, "Megatron... *commands* it." "Megatron can come attack them, then. My Sweeps will only strike against military targets." When the other started to object again, Thundercracker snapped, "There's no discussion." "Look, personally I don't care who we follow," Ramjet said. "Somebody just give me a target and I'll hit it." After a long moment, Blitzwing said, "Fire on military targets, Sweeps. Your leader has spoken." Thundercracker was just about to comment that he didn't care for that particular tone with the tallest spires of Metroplex appeared in the distance. "Nine cycles... has it been that long?" "Longer," Arcee said. The others had mostly moved off the Metroplex landing pad, leaving her and her flashy friend-- a youth named Hot Rod-- alone at the base of the ship. "I thought you were 'right behind me.'" "I would have been on the next transport, and you know it." Rod hesitated. "But there was no next transport, was there?" Arcee started to walk away. "After all this time, it's a matter of complete indifference." "Right. So that's why you're here waiting for me." That pulled Arcee up short. She tossed over her shoulder, "You had nothing to do with it. I was worried about Kup and Elita." Rod flashed his best rogue's grin-- in those days, he really was the most irresponsible mechanical you'd ever want to meet. "Funny, I must have missed the part where you hugged them." "In the first place, *you* hugged *me,* and in the second..." Arcee trailed off. "In the second place, what is that smell?" Hot Rod activated his olfactory sensors. "I'm not sure-- it's coming from the ship." "Ship... it's coolant!" Arcee tossed Rod a wicked grin. "You must not fly as well as you think you do, hotshot. Smells to me like a coolant line got severed." "Is *everything* my fault?" Rod countered. "We were facing about two dozen Sweeps on the way out-- it's a wonder the whole ship didn't blow apart." He tapped a control, and the ship's ramp extended down again. "I'll fix it." "Oh, stop showing off. Just call in a repair team." "*Repair team?*" Rod balked. "Nobody touches this ship but me." Arcee smirked. "Really? Would you two like to be alone?" "Very cute," he said, climbing the ramp. "Like you said, it's probably just a busted line. Won't take a second to fix." "Well, don't expect me to wait for you..." In fact, Arcee was already heading off the landing field, probably wondering how she ever got mixed up with such an arrogant loser in the first place. Wait. Maybe that's what *I* used to wonder. Anyway, she hadn't gone three steps before Hot Rod came racing back. He grabbed Arcee's arm and pulled her along with him. "What's the matter? She reject you, too?" "Funny again. You must have been practicing while I was gone." Without missing a beat, Rod pushed her forward. "Run." "Run? Why, what's the..." "Just RUN!" Rod changed to his alternate form in mid-stride. He'd been modified for Earth travel during transit, and this was the first time he'd tried out his new form. It proved to be a sleek, overpowered racer, just right for the task at hand (some guys have all the luck). He patched out, leaving skid marks on the landing pad. Arcee didn't wait for further information. She Transformed as well, hitting her top speed just in time to avoid the blast of flame spewing from Rod's abandoned ship. She swerved quickly to avoid a hail of shrapnel from the explosion. Rod was not so lucky. He was going much too fast too maneuver, and a long javelin of debris snapped one of the decorative fins off his rear quarter. "Somebody's paying for that!" he snarled, skidding to a halt and Transforming again. Arcee braked a few meters away. "Are you all right?" she said as she reverted to her primary mode. "Just a scratch," Rod mumbled. He was watching their ship burn, its hull shattered and ruined, greasy smoke billowing out the open airlock. Overhead, several of our jets were circling around, probably radioing coordinatess for a repair team. The team would come too late-- the ship would never fly again. "After all she got us through," Rod was saying, "a *freak accident...*" Arcee put an arm around his shoulder. "Nobody was aboard. That's the important thing." Rod made a face, showing precisely what he thought of *that* idea. He watched as a helicopter-- he didn't know if it was human-piloted or a fellow Autobot, and he didn't care-- flew low over the damaged starship. "Whoever left that coolant line unattended had just better hope I don't find out about--" And then, as suddenly as the helicopter had appeared over the landing field, the small craft disintegrated. "...the HELL?" "Get down!" said Arcee, pushing him to the ground just as a pair of Sweeps shot overhead. Several small, smoking craters on the landing field marked their strafing run-- missing Hot Rod by a hairsbreadth on either side. He lay there for an extra half a moment he didn't really have. "Ooookay... *now* I'm mad." "Be mad somewhere else!" Arcee cried, pulling him to his feet. The Sweeps had concluded their run, and were coming around for another pass. "...this is Jetfire. We're taking heavy damage here..." "...Powerglide is down! Medical to A-119!" "All personnel to battlestations. Raiders within the defensive perimeter. This is not a..." "They got Blades! Where'd they *come* from, anyway?" "...all sensors seem to be down. Repeat: this is Blaster from sensor suite three. I have no audio, no video, no MTV, no anything! We are deaf, dumb, and blind! Does anybody read..." Suddenly, a voice cut through the confusion on all channels. "This is Prime. All able-bodied troops regroup at vector 149. Jetfire and Silverbolt will fly cover. Above all, remain calm!" "You heard the man," said Arcee. She Transformed again. "Move it, hotshot!" "You go on ahead," Hot Rod said. Another of the Sweeps-- Ramjet, I heard-- was barreling towards him, firing away. I want to stress that Hot Rod used to tell a lot of stories. Not as many as Kup, but enough that you didn't always know that he did what he said he did. But Arcee backs him up on this one, more or less. According to him, Ramjet held his fire as he closed in. That part of it's not too implausible. Ramjet was a little crazy himself, used to like to crash things. Notice I said "used to." It wasn't really his fault-- he had no way of knowing that, as crazy mechanicals go, we'd just brought in a ringer. As the Sweep barreled in on him, Hot Rod-- this is how I heard it told, I swear-- held his ground until the last instant. Just as Ramjet's nosecone would have put a neat hole in through his torso and out the other side, Rod leapt, catching his arms around the Sweep's nose. "Yaaaaahhhh! Get off me, you idiot! I'm losing control!" "Sorry, but that *is* the idea!" As Rod spoke, he brought his weapon up against Ramjet's cockpit and shot out the Sweep's entire control panel. Well, veteran fliers can assure you that a plane with no pilot is going to crash one hundred percent of the time, and without his control console, Ramjet couldn't steer. As Rod leapt off, the Sweep introduced himself to the bountiful ground of your Earth, where I'm told he makes a lovely pothole to this day. After Ramjet had crashed, Hot Rod picked himself off the ground to find Arcee looking at him, wide-eyed. "What?" "Have you, perchance, lost what was left of your mind since we last met?" "Nah," he said, Transforming as he spoke. "You've just gotten old and responsible. *Now* we can go." "Who are you calling old?" Arcee called after him. But she followed. A double-burst of fire from one of our jets nearly caught Thundercracker's wing, and he rolled out of the way. A mechanical named Jetfire shot past overhead. "Let's see you match that!" Thundercracker's reply was a shot burst of laughter. "No, thanks." He switched directions and comm channels simultaneously. "Blitzwing-- the game is up. They're regrouping." "Yes, I know." The Sweeps' commander waited a beat, but no reply came. "Ramjet is down. There are only four of us..." "Just hold them off for a short time longer," Blitzwing said. "Me? What about--" "Cover me," Blitzwing snapped, "I'm heading past city limits." Thundercracker swept his sensors. "Why? What's out there?" Blitzwing chuckled. "A little piece of scrap who thinks he can get away." It took several moments for even Thundercracker's finely- honed sensors to distinguish between me and the landscape. I tend to be inconspicuous. "Him? Leave him. He's not worth the..." "Megatron *wants* that one," said Blitzwing, and he changed course without another word. Lucky me. Now, by this time, I was cruising. Speedometer maxed out, radio up loud... showing off, I guess. The land just outside the city is mostly desert, barren and flat-- perfect for just driving with no destination in mind. Unfortunately, I'd turned off my comm, and wasn't monitoring the emergency channels. You screw up one little time... "Can you-- can you turn that down?" Grant was saying, her hands over her ears. "Don't like the Beach Boys?" I'd picked up a lot about Earth music from Blaster and Jazz, and was wondering if she might prefer a more contemporary channel. But I obediently lowered the sound a few notches. "No, they're fine-- but we have work to do." "Oh-- right. So, uh... what do you want to know?" Grant leaned back in the seat. "Tell me about your homeworld." I would have shrugged, if I'd been in any position for it. "Cybertron? Well, it's small-- a little bigger then your moon, I guess-- but dense. High metallic content, high gravity. There's almost nothing organic left. The whole thing's been..." "No, no, no," said Grant. "People don't want to hear technical specs. They want to hear your *story*. What's it like to *live* on Cybertron?" I mulled that over. "Dangerous." "Dangerous? Because of the war?" "Not really," I said. "I wasn't part of the war for a long time-- but it was still dangerous for me, just because of who I was. What I was." "I see." A long beat. "I've heard Prime talk about how the Autobots were persecuted. He says he got special treatment because he was useful." "That's true-- to a point." Grant made a little 'hmm' noise. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't strike me as someone they'd find particularly useful." "They didn't, really." I had slowed down during the questions, and now I pulled over to the side of the road as we talked. "So..." Grant lifted her tape recorder. "What was it like for you? How were you treated?" "I got threatened a lot," I said, thinking back. "But then, I get threatened a lot now. I was always low on energy... and if you didn't do your job fast enough, they could get pretty rough." "Job? What job did you have?" I turned off the engine for that one. We were getting into Really Bad Memory territory. "I came on-line as a runner for a construction facility. My old form was somewhat faster than this one, but I was never military-grade, so I'd usually get kicked around a bit for arriving late." I shuddered. "Once, a supervisor was waiting for some data, and I didn't get to him fast enough-- he shot out my conductors. Then he sent me on my rounds-- I could feel my strength draining away all day. He said... he said, if I wanted a repair slip, I'd better complete my rounds early and be back to him before the end of the day. Then he laughed." I couldn't speak for a long moment. "Picture having to run a race while you're bleeding to death." I could watch Grant with my internal sensors. Human expressions are often hard for us, but I could tell she was affected. "Emmy, nothing, this is a damn Pulitzer... What about your family? No-- oh, what did Prime call it-- your Cluster? The people you were close to. How did they deal with all this?" I didn't know how to answer, at first. "Bumblebee?" "I... have no family," I said. "I was the only member of my Cluster when they activated me." "Like Prime? Wasn't he orphaned, too?" I sort of cleared my throat. "Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that. Besides, I wasn't 'orphaned,' as you say... I was most likely a failed design. Cliffjumper is a similar model, but it looks like they only commissioned one from my particular template." "Do 'related' Autobots have to be of the same design?" "No," I told her. "Actually, the body can be designed in any shape you'd like. It's the Spark that is generally contributed by other Autobots... the mind." "So who contributed to your Spark?" "I don't know." Grant frowned. "Is that common?" "No," I said reluctantly. "I suppose, in your parlance, I was... abandoned." "Wow..." Grant now produced a pad, and began scribbling on it to supplement the tape recording. "This is going to rock..." And speaking of rocking, at that moment, something exploded right next to my passenger-side door, throwing up a hail of dirt and jostling me pretty good. "What the hell was that?" Grant said/ I brought my emergency sensors on-line probably two minutes too late. "Oh... nothing." "Nothing?" "Well..." I shifted into gear. Ever tried to make a three-point turn under artillery fire? No? Well, I'm one up on you, then. "Um, buckle up." "Buckle..." Grant searched around a bit frantically, as another shell exploded nearby. "Do you even have seatbelts in this crate?" "Hey, this crate happens to be my body!" I got it turned around just in time. Overhead, Blitzwing was beginning a strafing run. "If you can't strap in, hang on!" Grant peeked out the window, then ducked back in as the shooting started. "You can outrun him, right?" "How many Volkswagons have you been in, ma'am? He's got jets!" "Then why are we..." The screech of my tires drowned out her question, and she repeated it. "Why are we running?" Another shell tossed me up on three wheels for a moment. I slammed painfully back into the ground. "You'd rather stick around here?" "Good point," she said. "Well... well, signal for help or something!" "The emergency channels are already full! Nobody's going to come for us!" I could still see the gates of Metroplex in the distance, and that's where I aimed, bobbing and weaving through Blitzwing's fire as best I could. "Nobody's going to come? Are you sure?" "Pretty sure, yeah..." She gripped the wheel with white knuckles. "But you know what to do, right?" "Sure," I lied. "Happens just all the time..." "Prime! Prime! Where's-Prime-are-you-Prime-you're-not-Prime! Out of my way I have to find Prime I have to I have to and I don't know where he is so how can I find him but I have to find him so--" Blurr had happened upon Springer, who was taking cover at the edge of the city, firing up at the Sweeps. Springer dealt with the excitable courier with his characteristic tact. "Shut up, you damn fool, and get to cover before somebody blasts you!" "But I can't get to cover Springer I have to find this Prime guy and it's not easy 'cause I don't know where he is I've never even spoken to him so I certainly can't know where he'd be in the middle of a battle and I just don't..." "Over there!" Springer snapped, pointing at random. "Thank you thank you thank you thank you..." Blurr hesitated for less than a moment. "There he is I see him gotta run..." And then he was gone again. Springer watched after him in puzzlement. As Springer tells it, if he'd known he was actually pointing Blurr in the right direction, he would have sent him the other way-- towards the Sweeps. Optimus Prime was standing by one of Metroplex's tall interior archways, a bit of handy cover to organize our counterattack. With him were Wheeljack, Jazz, and a soldier named Mirage. "I'm telling you," said Wheeljack, "there's got to be another attack coming from somewhere! Sweeps just don't strike with the odds against them!" "I was thinking along the same lines," said Prime. "We'll have to seal off the city for now." Blurr cut off any further debate, screeching to a halt maybe two centimeters from crashing into them. He Transformed and immediately began another tangent. "Prime? Prime? Which one of you is Prime oh wait you must be Prime you look like a Prime of course I'm not sure what a Prime looks like but whatever it looks like I bet you're it so--" Mirage looked from the newcomer to Optimus Prime and back. "May I please kill him?" Prime didn't think that was funny. I'm glad he didn't hear me say it. "You-- what's your name? Blurr? What do you have to report?" "Report? Oh, report of course report I don't know what I was thinking I have to report quickly because it's bad-bad-bad and..." Jazz placed a hand on Blurr's shoulder. "Chill." "Sorry that's just me I must be defective because I can't... Sorry." "Now... take it slow, brother. What's the problem?" Blurr 'took a breath,' as you might say, and proceeded more slowly, "I have a report from a mechanical named Blaster. He wanted somebody fast to deliver the message and I told him there's nobody faster than me so..." A warning look from Mirage made Blurr slow down again. "so I took it." "Took what?" Prime asked. "The message." The four other mechanicals exchanged a pained look. "What message would that be?" "The message I just gave you or maybe I didn't wait silly me I think I forgot and..." Again, Blurr trailed off. "There's a mechanical trapped outside the city. Blaster just picked him up on scanners." Prime's expression darkened. "Who? Who's out there?" "Don't know his name- he's a little guy yellow chrome kinda funny shape- oh and there's a Sweep right on his tail but hey I'm sure he can handle it I mean he's an Autobot right listen gotta go 'bye." With that, Blurr was off again, and nobody bothered to stop him. Jazz said, "That's got to be 'Bee he's talking about. Prime, I'll go." He started to move, but Prime stopped him. "No." "What do you mean, 'no?' If he's out there, we gotta get busy!" "We have civilians inside this city," Prime said. "Humans. Protecting them is our first priority." "Autobot soldiers are expected to take care of themselves," Mirage said, a little haughtily. Jazz grimaced. "Prime, the little guy's almost defenseless. Now, how long you think he's going to last against some badass Decepticon tracker?" "Hopefully long enough. Go down to Control and initiate Defensive Transform One." "But..." Prime was already Transforming. "Go. We'll help whoever's out there as soon as we know the humans are safe." Meanwhile, Arcee and Hot Rod were making their way around the outskirts of the city. Dirge, one of the Sweeps, continued to dog their trail, but couldn't get off a clean shot. "Aw, c'mon, just let me slow down a little!" Rod was saying. "So he can kill you? Keep moving, hotshot." "But he's *asking* for it!" Suddenly, Jazz's voice echoed across all channels. "To any Autobot in Metroplex, this is Jazz, coming at you from Central. Optimus Prime wants everybody at their stations for Emergency Transform One. Don't know what that is, stay with somebody who does. Just keep it real and don't let those Sweeps worry you-- they make a lot of noise, but they ain't all that. Good luck, everybody." He paused a beat. "Oh, if you're in the area of Grid 015, and you see a little yellow dude heading for the gates, leave a light on for him." Rod considered that as they drove. "Arcee?" "Don't worry, I know where to go." "Yeah, but... didn't that sign just say 'Grid 015?'" Arcee turned a corner, tires squealing, forcing their pursuer to overshoot them. "Yes, that's where we are. But I don't see..." A pause as she checked her sensors. "Oh, hell... that's Blitzwing out there. He doesn't stand a chance." "Don't worry," said Hot Rod, "I've got him. Can you ditch this guy on your own?" Dirge was already coming around for another pass. "I don't need any help from you, thanks. And you don't stand a chance against Blitzwing, either!" "Bye, now." "Rod, wait! Prime said to--" But then Dirge was firing again, and Arcee had other things to worry about. So there I was, motoring towards the city, knowing very well that I'd never make it in time. Finally I came to a decision. "I'm going to open the door," I said to Patricia Grant. "Jump out." "What? Are you crazy? I'm not jumping out of a moving car! Forget it!" "Would you rather be inside of an exploding car?" Grant hissed. "Look, I can't ask you to..." "He doesn't give a damn one way or the other about you!" I told her. "If we split up, you're safe. There's nothing you can do for me, anyway." Grant cast around in her pockets. "I've got-- I've got a cel phone. If your people can't help, I'll call the cops or somebody!" I groaned. We were wasting time, and each of Blitzwing's shots came a little closer. "Haven't you ever seen a Godzilla movie? The police are no match for him!" "Well, forgive me! I forgot to set the Department of Rampaging Giant Robots on my speed-dial! It's something, anyway-- it's better than leaving you!" One of the laser blasts hit home, shattering my rear windshield. I cried out, and I'm not sure how I kept on the road. In the driver's seat, I could see Grant holding her face, blood dripping between her fingers. She'd been hit by the flying glass. I decided then that I had only one option. "Sorry to do this to you, ma'am, but..." I simultaneously opened my driver's-side door and bucked hard to the left, actually rearing up on my side wheels. Grant screamed and flew out, hitting the dirt and rolling for a few meters. I could see through my rear-view that she was alive and moving. Which was more than I could hope for. I drove on for about thirty seconds more, drawing Blitzwing as far away from her as I could. Then, when I judged that Grant was safe, I hit the brakes and Transformed. Blitzwing went right past me at full throttle. I don't think he expected me to stand and fight. And why should he? I really am a runt by his standards, only about half again as tall as your people. No exterior weaponry, stocky but not in the sense of being powerful in any way. From my bright blue eyes to the head-mounted sensor jacks that make me look like I'm wearing a silly helmet to the flaking yellow paint, I couldn't threaten one of *you,* much less one of him. Blitzwing came around and dropped to the earth in front of me, transforming as he did so into a tertiary form-- a rare ability, and quite useful in this case, since Blitzwing's third form is nothing less than a tank. The ground shook as his treads made contact, and he rolled forward while I was off-balance. "I didn't expect you to have guts, little one." I produced my laser sidearm from its compartment. It's a decent enough long-range weapon against most opponents, but it wouldn't penetrate Blitzwing's hide if it were to explode while he was sitting on it. "Me, neither." "Choose," he said, the barrel of the tank swinging around towards me. "A quick death, or a fair fight, mechanical-to-mechanical." "I get a choice?" Uncommonly nice of him, I thought. "Let's get it over with, then." Blitzwing considered, a grating "huuuuuummmmnnn" sound coming from somewhere deep within him. Then he returned to his primary, robotic form. "Wrong." "Well, why'd you ask?" He shrugged. "I like to give the appearance of civility, at least." In one, long stride he was within striking distance. "Now, then..." A single, backhanded blow tossed me off the road, and I rolled to a stop somewhere on the dusty shoulder. He'd taken one of my sensor jacks clean off, disorienting me and causing something akin to a migraine. "Ow," I muttered, face-down in the dirt. "Get up," said his grating voice above me. "Oh, no thanks. I'd really rather just lay here and die, if it's all the same to you..." Well, why make it fun for him? I felt Blitzwing's hands digging into the metal of my shoulders, hoisting me to my feet. He forced me to look at him. "Oh, no, little one. You don't die. Megatron has plans for you." "He does?" If Megatron knew I existed, this was the first I'd heard of it. "Big plans," Blitzwing confirmed. He reached up towards my head-- planning, no doubt, to rip off the other sensor jack, leaving me almost totally blind and deaf. No, if you're wondering, I did not send Blitzwing a Christmas card that year. I tried to cry out as he started ripping-- and then, suddenly, he was gone and I was on the ground again. "Ow," I said again, this time in unison with Blitzwing. I peeked out of one optic. Blitzwing lay on the ground right beside me, on his back. His hide had been dented, and on the ground near him... Tire marks? "Yeee-ah!" said a voice I'd never heard before. The faint, metallic whirring of a Transform came from somewhere on the other side of me, and then I heard footsteps on the ground nearby. "Let that be a lesson to you, Decepticon: I don't brake for your kind." Blitzwing picked himself up, very slowly, off the pavement. I tried to do the same, but I didn't really have it in me, so I just rolled over to see the show. The show was Hot Rod, his red chrome gleaming in the bright sun, both of his arm-mounted 'streamer' guns pointed at the recovering enemy. "I'm afraid I learn my lessons rather slowly," said Blitzwing. In an instant, he'd reverted to his tank form. "Care to go again?" "Ha! Give it up! We've got you outnumbered!" "Do you?" "Sure we--" Hot Rod glanced over at me, lying face-up on the ground. "Um... a little help here?" "Sure," I said. I started to sit up, then collapsed. "Just five more minutes..." Blitzwing chuckled, a grating sound such as an organic might produce in the back of his throat. "Ooh, sorry, time's up. But thanks for playing. We've got some lovely parting gifts for you..." Rod was already moving as Blitzwing fired, and he just narrowly missed being a crater in the ground. He fired back, his sparkling electric beams chasing themselves around Blitzwing's turret. In a flash, he'd Transformed, driving a circle around the slow-moving tank. Well, that game lasted about four seconds-- then Blitzwing Transformed and snatched at Rod, getting a hold on the smaller mechanical's remaining rear fin. Rod transformed, too, to prevent it from being ripped off. "Hey! Hands off! That's a collector's item!" Rod followed this remark with a strong right hook, and soon the two were grappling together. Unfortunately, Blitzwing was to Rod as Rod himself was to me-- that is to say, there wasn't much doubt who would be the victor in a close-quarters slugfest. Already, Rod was starting to lose ground. Well, I may be a lot of things-- and stupid is one of them. Staggering to my feet, still holding my head as though it would fall off (and it might have), I aimed myself at the blurry battle and threw myself in. "Bonzai!" I landed squarely on Blitzwing's back and knocked him to the ground. "Get off me, rodent..." "Bug," I said, holding on for dear life. "If you must use that tired old vermin analogy, please do it right. I happen to be a bug." "You... are... *scrap!*" And with that, Blitzwing grabbed me with both hands, pulled me off his back, and tossed me what felt like a mile and a half. I landed hard, and I don't exactly remember what happened next. It got kind of dark for a while, and I heard a lot of struggling, and the next thing I saw was Hot Rod standing over me. "Did we win?" I mumbled. "Not exactly." I felt myself pulled to my feet-- but not by Blitzwing. Blitzwing was standing in front of me, gloating. I was being held up by a Sweep-- Thrust, since Dirge and Thundercracker were occupied with a struggling Hot Rod. Rod was all bravado. "What's the problem, guys? Metroplex can't have kicked your asses so quickly." "We've done what we came to do," Blitzwing said. "The city has transformed, hasn't it?" He wasn't talking to us. Thundercracker said, "It's done. But what was..." "Then scrap the big one. Bring the rodent." Thundercracker didn't seem to like it, but he raised his weapon towards Hot Rod. "Don't struggle. You'll want this to be clean, trust me." "You don't mind if I don't take your word for it, do you?" I thought I heard something in the distance-- a dull thrumming. Nobody else had noticed it, yet. I knew what I had to do. "Wait! Wait-- don't kill him! You can't!" "That's right!" Hot Rod said. "You can't!" "Why not?" I picked a hell of a time to draw a blank. "Uh-- why not?" Rod rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should tell them how *valuable* I am." "Oh, right," I said. "You fool! *Obviously* you can't kill him! You don't think Prime sent for that ship-- all the way from the Homeworld-- without some purpose, do you? He must have a secret agenda!" I pointed at Rod. "You could... maybe... beat it out of him." "Hey!" said Rod. Alas, Blitzwing wasn't dumb enough for that one. Heck, *dirt* isn't dumb enough for that one. "We're wasting time. Terminate him." Thundercracker lifted his head. "What's that noise?" Thrust, facing the other way, saw it first. Suddenly I was free as he pointed towards the city. "Look!" The other Sweeps turned around-- and they saw it, too, a little too late. A small group of Autobots-- Prime, Arcee, Wheeljack, Mirage, and a dented old truck I guessed to be Kup-- was approaching at full speed. "Transform and attack!" Prime said, and he followed his own orders. He put Thrust on the ground with a single shot. "Come on, kid!" I snapped, grabbing Hot Rod by the arm. I knew that, given a moment, either Blitzwing or Thundercracker would think of using their hostages as shields, and I did not want to give them that moment. We transformed and bolted in the other direction, running right over Dirge on the way out. A few shots nipped at our heels, but the Sweeps had been caught unprepared. By the time we reached cover behind the others, the battle had petered out. "Peace, Optimus Prime!" Thundercracker called, waving his arms. "We're outnumbered!" Prime and Arcee kept the two still-standing mechanicals covered. "Will you surrender?" "You know I can't do that." That much was true-- Megatron had it hard-wired into their programming. A Sweep who surrendered without orders would soon be a Sweep in several thousand tiny pieces. Prime should have destroyed them-- but he doesn't have that in him. "Then return to Megatron and tell him how badly his raid has failed." "Has it failed?" Blitzwing rumbled. He pointed behind Prime. Hot Rod and I, in the rear of our ranks, had the best vantage points. I cursed. "Look..." Behind us, the city was exploding. Well, not the entire city-- but the ships and quite a few of the buildings. Supposedly stable support structures just... collapsed. And then the big one. The city's Main Reactor, originally the engine core of the Ark. Situated in the center of the city, behind several dozen barriers, it was theoretically the safest place in Metroplex. The place the human reporters would have been brought for cover. And then it no longer existed. The explosion shook the very ground, sending up a cloud of debris and dust and flame. All seven of us stood rooted to the ground, mute with outrage and shock. Then Prime turned on the Sweeps-- who had been trying to organize a retreat-- bulled his way past the rank-and-file, tossed Thundercracker aside like a rag doll, and lifted Blitzwing bodily off the ground. "There were innocent people in there." Blitzwing cracked a smile. "Pity." Prime lifted him a little higher, actually denting Blitzwing's metal hide with his bare hands. "How have you done this?" "Guess." And then, to the shock of both sides, Thundercracker picked himself up off the ground, dusted himself off, and joined Prime, aiming his weapon at his colleague's head. "I was told nothing about this, I swear it," he muttered to Prime, but the big guy didn't particularly seem to care at that moment. "Tell me what happened, Blitzwing, or I'll shoot you myself." For just a moment, Blitzwing's self-assurance turned to fear... and then Prime's comm went off, ending the confrontation. Prime tossed the Sweep aside as though he was nothing more than a nuisance. "Yes?" A female voice I'd never heard before came across. "Optimus, this is Elita. Did you see what just..." "We all saw," Prime said. "What happened?" "We don't know. Everything just started to crash and burn. We've got casualties..." A long pause. "Mostly human." "Round up the fastest troops you can find and have them transported immediately for medical..." "Can't do that," Elita said. "We got the core partially stabilized before it blew-- but as you can see, it still blew. We have radiation leakage here." "How bad?" A thoughtful pause. "Not enough to damage us, but unless you want to endanger any humans within a mile of this area, we'll have to seal up. I mean full." Prime hesitated a moment. Kup stepped out of our ranks, went over to Prime. "Isn't that death for the humans already inside the city?" "We're setting up clean areas for them now..." Elita hesitated. "But frankly, most of them aren't going to make it anyway." Prime looked at Kup, as if for guidance. The old mechanical shrugged. "It's the only way, lad." "Seal it off," Prime said. "What can we do to aid repairs?" In the distance behind us, I could dimly make out the sound of Metroplex sealing itself off. Elita had wasted no time-- she probably would have sealed off the city with or without a go-ahead from Prime. When she spoke again, Elita's tone was dark. "That's the other problem. We can't open up the city until the generator is repaired, and we can't repair the generator without a new magnetic coupling. Yours is completely burned-out, and whatever hit us, hit the supply sheds as well." Wheeljack said, "I could get you a coupling easily enough back home-- but I don't think we can make one here without the parts we had in storage." From here on in, the conversation was pretty much a formality. "Then we'll have to get a new coupling from the Homeworld." He turned to Thundercracker. "Is the Bridge still operational?" The Sweep sighed. "It is. But you'll never reach it... without help." Prime offered his hand. "Then help us." Slowly, Thundercracker accepted the hand and shook it. "Traitor!" Blitzwing snarled, and leapt at Thundercracker. Without any discernible hesitation or remorse, the Sweep lieutenant shot him, then moved aside to let him fall. The big robot lifted himself to hands and knees, then collapsed and did not move again. "I do not conduct terrorist actions, nor do I assist in the murder of innocents." Thundercracker looked at Prime. "It's a risk for me... but I'll help you." Something about his words set off warning bells in my mind. Then I remembered. "Innocents! Slag it all-- Grant's back that way, and she's hurt!" Prime turned around very slowly. "Bumblebee, Hot Rod-- I'll speak to the two of you later. For now, see to the human and then return to Metroplex to assist." "Assist?" Rod said, "but they've closed up the city! We can't--" I elbowed him, rather hard. "Right away." We were being punished, you see. Even in the midst of a crisis, Prime wasn't about to forget that I'd left the city against orders, or that Rod had ignored the same to come after me. It wasn't too serious-- yet. In fact, coming out here to help us was the only reason Prime wasn't trapped inside the city, so we'd probably get off with a slap on the wrist. If we shut up immediately. Frankly, Rod wasn't that bright, and I had a feeling he might get us in more trouble. I had no idea how prescient I was. Meanwhile, Optimus Prime turned to the others. "My friends, we have a disaster on our hands. Until it's restored, the city is vulnerable to attack-- not to mention the danger it poses to the surrounding communities. We have to succeed." General murmurs of assent from the other four soldiers, although Arcee wasn't listening. She had her head half-turned to look at us. Or maybe just Hot Rod. "Transform and roll out. We're going home." "Good," said Kup, "'cause I think I left the iron on..." A few moments later, they were gone, along with Thundercracker. The three wounded Sweeps were trying to pick themselves up off the ground, and I knew we'd better be out of there before they succeeded. "Well, lets go," I said to Rod as I Transformed. Rod followed, muttering to himself. "'Thank you, Hot Rod, for your gallant bravery.' 'Oh, Rod, you're so brave...' 'Hot Rod, you're a hero. All of us are in your debt.' Shucks, folks, it was nothing. Just because I risked my life to..." "If you want to compare sob stories, Kid, you should know you're in with the champ. Now, come on." I put it in gear and started off the way I'd come. "I left a friend back there..." What I didn't know was that, the moment we were out of sight, Blitzwing picked his very much operational self off the ground and sent another signal. "They're on their way to you, General." Blitzwing's lip twitched, just a bit. "Thundercracker performed exactly as you expected he would. He's leading Prime to you personally." "The poor, honest fool," Megatron gloated. "I believe I'll have him melted down. And the city?" "The reactor is damaged, but not destroyed. I understand there are many human casualties." In the control center on Cybertron, Megatron smiled. "Excellent. I fear that my dear friend Prime is about to see a significant drop in his poll ratings..." "Don't be too sure," said a new voice, unheard by Blitzwing. Shockwave, recently repaired and resigned to a role as Megatron's second. "The humans hold Optimus Prime in high regard. It will take more than one fiasco to shake their faith." "Everything starts somewhere," said the general. He turned his attention back to the comm. "Blitzwing-- what about the small one? Did you get him?" "Negative," said Blitzwing reluctantly. "I didn't have much of a chance. I couldn't be sure Prime wasn't monitoring." Megatron considered this. "Leave him, then. Arachnia will handle him when he returns to the city. Excellent work, my friend. Your troops are to be commended." Blitzwing started to sign off, hesitated. "May I ask a reward of Megatron?" "What is it?" "The mechanical you want has a new friend, a Rebel just arrived from the Homeworld." Blitzwing smiled, and it became a sneer. "I would like to kill him myself." "Then..." Megatron returned the smile. "Have at it. By all means, have at it." "Thank you, sir. Blitzwing, out." When the holographic comm had turned off, Shockwave came over to stand next to the pensive Megatron. "What was that all about? Who is this small Rebel you want?" "Patience, Shockwave," said Megatron. He was already on his way out of the room. "Not everything must be revealed immediately... to the *Vice*-Chancellor." Shockwave was left in the dark, sterile control room that had once been his own, to stew in his betrayal and offended pride. If he'd known why Megatron needed me, he might have added 'fear' to that mix of emotions, as well. CONTINUED IN TRANSFORMERS 1999, Episode #002: "The Return Home" |
| The Garden Spot: It's an online comic strip. About vegetables. Seriously. | |
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| RommieSG | Jun 28 2005, 06:42 AM Post #3 |
Brigade Leader
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Looks like the carriage return didn't work out right. Might want to clean that up a bit......... Rommie 
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| Niko | Jun 28 2005, 02:58 PM Post #4 |
Traveller
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LOL!  I don't have time to read all of this right now, but thank you thank you THANK YOU for making Bumblebee the narrator. He always was my favorite Autobot! And yes, I did laugh out loud when the little guy gave his name. It didn't seem quite so ludicrous when I was a kid. :lol: Looking forward to reading the rest this evening. 
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| Pipster | Jun 28 2005, 07:38 PM Post #5 |
Pervy VA Fancier
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Well, I started to read it and got to about a third of the way thru but I'll have to read the rest this evening. Right now, I've got some housework to get done.
 Loved what I read so far though and I'm amazed at how much of the Transformers plot came back to me as I read. I really didn't remember much about that show from my childhood.
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| rjb182 | Jun 29 2005, 05:07 AM Post #6 |
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First Lieutenant
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Rommie: That's just the format I was typing in at the time, since I had the story online as a text file and had to supply my own line breaks. It doesn't, like, warp the screen, at least...
Yeah; mine, too. I really wanted to give him a starring role when I started this; I didn't really count on so many of my own insecurities leaking into his little yellow skull, though... tell me, do you think it's wrong to empathize so strongly with an imaginary giant robot? Thanks for the comments! I hope you both enjoy the rest of it! |
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| Pipster | Jun 29 2005, 06:22 AM Post #7 |
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Pervy VA Fancier
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As long as the side scroll isn't needing to be employed, I'm okay with the format. Though you may want to use the format for title, etc that is outlined in the Guidelines. I find that makes it easier to see what the story is going to be like for most people.
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| rjb182 | Jun 30 2005, 07:27 AM Post #8 |
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First Lieutenant
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^ Ask and ye shall receive, ma'am. Title format's fixed. Sorry 'bout that. I'm bad at reading rules and instructions and such... 
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| Raeven | Jun 30 2005, 01:21 PM Post #9 |
Second Lieutenant
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/////John - thank you for reminding me of my childhood - it's like a blast from the past
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| Niko | Jul 1 2005, 01:47 AM Post #10 |
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Traveller
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Wah! I finally had a chance to read this all the way through...it's so good! All the information about Autobot society is bringing the the Transformery goodness back to me. Jazz and Blaster and Grimlock and poor frustrated Starscream...he was a crazy, evil mo-fo, but I always felt a little sorry for him.
Love your take on all the characters, John, and can't wait to find out why Bumblebee's getting targetted...so cute! (And of course it's not wrong to empathize with an imaginary giant robot. Look at where you're posting, fer cryin' out loud. It's practically our raison d'etre...
:lol: )
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| Pipster | Jul 2 2005, 03:20 AM Post #11 |
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Pervy VA Fancier
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I was thinking about this earlier and realized we should probably put the rating in the topic title so that if it's rated T or M, the youngsters know to avoid it.
John, I went ahead and edited your's.
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| rjb182 | Jul 2 2005, 04:00 AM Post #12 |
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First Lieutenant
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^ Not a problem.
Niko: Um, I'm ashamed to say I don't really *remember* why Megatron wanted him. I remember they were going to play a particularly nasty mindgame with 'Bee, but I don't really recall why... I've got half of the next story on my hard drive and I'd love to finish it, but I've forgotten *how*... it's called "TF99" because I wrote it a lot closer to 1999 than now...
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| Niko | Jul 2 2005, 04:52 AM Post #13 |
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Traveller
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^Dude! I thought you'd just paused there to pace out the story a little. *sniffle* |
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| rjb182 | Jul 2 2005, 05:37 AM Post #14 |
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First Lieutenant
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^ Well, now that I'm looking at it again, maybe I'll remember the ending? There's always that chance...
Oh, and thanks, Rae-- it *is* a neat little nostaligia thing, innit? 
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