Chapter Text
“Do you think they’ll come?”
“No. I know they’ll come.”
“Hmmph. Wish I had your confidence.”
Over-Run settled further back into his chair. “Sparkplug, many members of our race have long wished you possessed my confidence, my poise, my abilities. Though lacking in them, you have always possessed the next best thing.”
Sparkplug sighed. “Which is?”
“Well now… having me as your chief advisor.”
The golden Mini-con shook his head and bowed out of the conversation. He should have known better than to even start it. Over-Run was old, incredibly wise and a font of knowledge that bordered, sometimes, on the omniscient. That didn’t, however, free him of a pretty nasty case of ego. He might have been the closest thing the Mini-con race had to a shaman – and, unfortunately, he knew it.
Still, that might not matter for very much longer. The universe around them had changed and, now, it fell to the Mini-cons to do the same. For the first time in millions upon millions of years, Sparkplug had called an enclave - a mass meeting of his race. Under enclave, all enmities were ignored and factionalism disregarded. It was a peaceful meeting, called only in the most dire of circumstances, to which all Mini-cons were welcome.
Not that it always worked that way.
The last time enclave had been declared, it was so Sparkplug could order an evacuation of Cybertron. It was a decision that continued to haunt the small golden robot. His first command, his first order as leader of their race, and the vast majority of Mini-cons had ignored him. All but 17 chose to side with either the Autobots or the Decepticons. Worse, still, his actions had caused the Transformer Civil War to spread to another world… Earth, the home of their human allies. Upon Sparkplug’s own shoulders rested responsibility for the sins committed on that beautiful, strange organic world.
Most of those 17 sat around the large, polished conference table, waiting. High Wire, Grindor and Sureshock were, as usual, talking happily amongst themselves. Ransack was trying to convince Dune Runner and Iceberg to take on the highest of the Manganese Mountains, with little success. Dirt Boss was talking quietly with Payload, ignoring Astroscope’s droning lecture – the same one that had Mirage and Downshift on the verge of passing out from boredom. Skyblast, meanwhile, tried to flag the low spirits of Incinerator, who was still tender from his time on Speedia.
“Movement outside,” Over-Run, the last of the escapees, said as he glanced at a monitor. “We’ll know how many responded to your invitation soon enough.”
This time, enclave was for a much different reason. Firstly, the Mini-cons had to decide what to do with their future. No longer slaves of Unicron, no longer needing the protection of one faction or another, they had a genuine chance to make a home for themselves on the restored Cybertron – to have real lives, for the first time! Secondly… and even more importantly, in Sparkplug’s processor… they had to decide the fates of three of their own – the last three members of the group that escaped Cybertron.
Heavy steel doors cracked and slid apart, permitting entrance to those outside. Sparkplug’s optics widened with surprise. Everyone had come.
Firebot, Makeshift and Prowl entered first, flashing broad grins and burnished Autobot insignias. Jolt, Six-speed, Reverb and Long Arm followed. They were the group most dedicated to the Autobot cause, and were still high on the victory at Iacon. With them was Zapmaster, the cocky little punk responsible for Thundercracker’s conversion to the side of the angels, and Windshear – who was shackled, an obvious prisoner.
Of more concern was the next group. Buzzsaw and Drill Bit came in first, giving support to a dishevelled-looking Clench. Now that Megatron was gone, it seemed the Decepticons did not take too kindly to the overbearing, self-important, self-proclaimed “powerhouse of the Powerhouse”. Broadside, Fetch and Scattor scurried in and instantly took to the shadowy corners, as was their nature. Oceanglide strolled in as if he owned the place – his snivelling cronies, Stormcloud and Waterlog, at his salty heels. Ramjet, too, paraded around like lord and master, banking on his association with Tidal Wave despite their recent incarceration. Behind them all strode Dualor, the heavily-armoured heavy thinker… the one who worried Sparkplug the most.
Most of those mechs had long-term partnerships with one soldier or another… how would they respond to the idea of peace?
Skid-Z led the next contingent, which made Sparkplug sit up and take notice. He and his group – Side Burn, Gunbarrel, Terradive and Thunderwing – came in separate from the rest of the ‘con sympathisers. Perhaps the rumours of a schism within the enemy ranks… of a split between Starscream and Predacon… were true. Sparkplug was dying to know but resolved to say nothing. For one, enclave was not the place for factional talk. And, for the other, the wrong question could endanger the life of Side Burn who was – and had always been – the Autobots’ secret weapon within the Decepticon camp. The nervous, often frightened Mini-con was the reason Iacon had remained safe for so many, many vorns. His information feed, direct to Omega Supreme, was second-to-none.
The doors shut with a heavy, sombre clang. Sparkplug felt something gurgle in his sump. He realised, sadly, that the 40 of them… plus the three whose fates they would decide… were the last of their kind. The sole survivors of the Transformer Civil War. The last remaining “children” of the Chaos Bringer, Unicron.
Well, he thought glumly, at least there won’t be too many votes to count if we go to secret ballot, then.
Grim, gallows humour… but necessary, if he was going to make it through this meeting without breaking down. He gave everyone a moment to compose themselves – for dark, threatening stares to flash across the room – then tapped his fist on the table. Within a minute, the group fell silent.
“Thanks… for coming. All of you,” he said, falteringly. “We have a lot to discuss, so I’ll just get right into it. With the war over… at least, on the surface of Cybertron itself… we have some decisions to make, as a race, about our next step. But I want to get to that in a breem or two. First…”
He signalled to Over-Run. The older mech left the room briefly, returning with a long metal trolley on wheels. Atop it lay the Star Sabre, the combined super-weapon form of the Mini-cons Runway, Sonar and Jetstorm. A few hisses rose from the ‘con-allied side of the room – obviously, Starscream had yet to realise the weapon had been stolen.
“Our friends, here, have been in this form for more than half a vorn,” Sparkplug said quietly. “While I arranged for their return, I didn’t feel it was right for me to decide their destiny by myself. Those of you who have combined or weapon forms know the risks involved… you lose sentience for a time, perhaps even your identity. You also become heavily influenced by the feelings and opinions of the Transformer wielding you.
“So my question is this: given their length of time in this form, and given that they were enslaved to Megatron himself… do we de-construct the Sabre into the Air Assault Team and hope for the best, or do we simply leave them like this?”
-----
It seemed, to Snarl, that when an Autobot fell, it was a pitiful, bleating, blubbering occasion not even worthy of a morsel of prey.
He would have liked to regard to scene before him with cool dispassion, but could not. It was so sentimental, so self-serving, so nauseatingly weak that it offended his very Spark. Row upon row of alleged “warriors” sat sullenly, ready to salute the passing of a fellow weakling. Tow-Line, the cantankerous journalist, had departed this plane by having his very essence ripped from him. That, in Snarl’s opinion, was worthy of acclaim and celebration – he had thrown off the innate flaws of the Autobot way of thinking and embraced pure, vengeful fury, living a few wondrous moments in a blood-red rage. But Tow-Line’s peers seemed only to want to make excuses for his “odd behaviour”, and mourn the “tragic circumstances” of his death.
“Pathetic,” the wolf hissed. “When our meat is devoured and our steel rusted, all that remains are the tales of our hunt. They do him a disservice.”
Loud footsteps thundered behind him, and a familiar, brutal voice assailed his sensitive audio sensors. “You taking seat? It about to start,” Grimlock said. “And it not the done thing, standing at back of funeral.”
Snarl wrinkled his lupine nose. “Where I come from, none of this is the done thing,” he said contemptuously. “The weak fall on the same plains as the brave, the Brimstones pick their superstructures clean, and the hunt continues.”
“Yeah, your home really pleasant place,” Grimlock quipped. “Me often wonder why me ever wanted to leave. Oh yeah – high percentage of psycho ‘cons with god complexes. Forgot for moment.”
“Even Flame Convoy, at his worst, treated the death of a hunter with truth,” Snarl replied. “He wouldn’t seek to apologise for the blood thirst of the dead, be they friend or foe.”
Grimlock shook his head. “Hello, selective data recall,” he growled. “This mech who stuck claws into your processor, who ate own troops whole just to bump up power levels. Me no think he sort to mark any ‘bot passing with more than satisfied burp.”
“You are entitled, of course, to your opinions,” Snarl sneered, “erroneous though they may be.”
The Dinobot shrugged and walked on, taking a seat in the front row with the rest of the inner circle – Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Red Alert and Silverstreak. Snarl noted Vector Prime, Downshift and the human called Kicker were also there… the biggest apologists, he decided, got the best seats.
Funerals, as a concept, mystified him. In one building did gather everyone you knew and who knew you, they spoke well of you, then your remains were blasted into space with “full military honours”. Hardly the most effective use of resources. It was wasteful, much as… it galled him to admit… Flame Convoy had become in the dark days. Better to recycle the fallen, consume their chassis, and strengthen the rest of the army.
Not that any one would have listened, had he voiced his opinion. Tow-Line’s husk, devoid of Spark, had been secured to a small space barge. The device was slanted at a 45 degree angle, facing up toward the night sky. Its trajectory would take it up, out over Iacon and into space proper, to eventually collide with a nearby star and meet its molten end. Completely ostentatious, in other words.
A rancid stench assailed his delicate nostrils. Snarl’s expression soured, the steel plates of his face warping with distaste. Never before had he suffered such an odour – it was worse than the reek of cowardly death, worse than the tang of wasted flesh. So many putrid scents rolled over one another and up into his systems… rotten, filthy, sickening smells… that he could scarcely bear to try and identify even one.
Snarl turned on his clawed feet, seeking the source of his disgust. He expected to find some sort of half-dead vermin, a tiny, scurrying creature that ate and lived in waste, a being from the sewer system that had surrounded the Plasma Energy Chamber. Instead, his pained optics settled on another Transformer.
It was an Autobot, standing perhaps half Snarl’s own height. White and grey arms sprung from a square, blocky torso, which itself rested on two stubby, white-and-blue legs. At least, that was Snarl’s best guess… every inch of the mech seemed coated with grime, dirt, oil and other undesirable residue, caked so thick its original colouring could have been totally different. In one hand it clenched a long, lethal-looking crimson and grey rifle. Its head was small, blue and grey and, in Snarl’s opinion, somewhat rodent-like. When it spoke, more of that disgusting stink flowed from its vocal cavity.
“Hey there, Chopperface,” it whined, a vein of sarcasm running through the words. “Did I miss anythin’? Thought it’d be bad form to be late t’ my predecessor’s funeral, know what I’m sayin’?”
Snarl wafted the stench away with his wolf’s-head hand. “Predecessor?” he managed to choke out.
The mech grinned wryly. “Oh, sorry ‘bout that – shoulda started with introductions.” He extended a grimy hand. “Name’s Armourhide… I’m the newest member o’ the core Autobot team. Howyadoin?”
-----
Sparkplug sighed and ran his hands over his face plate.
“C’mon, Goldenrod, it’s not that frelling hard!” the small purple jet continued. “Break the boys free, pick a plot of land somewhere in Kalis... you peace-loving weaklings can live the hermit’s life, and leave us warriors to get back to slagging some turkeys!”
He grinned maliciously. “Just make sure the spot you pick is a nice, easy target for when the ‘cons take this ‘burg over again, okay? Do that, and maybe we’ll go easy on you.”
Gunbarrel rose, slamming his fists on the table. “You’re living in a dream world, you little suck-up,” he growled. “Your boss couldn’t lead nanites to an Energon picnic. There’s only one True Path to retaking Cybertron and, proto, you ain’t walking it.”
Prowl called out next. “If any of you idiots think you have the remotest chance of getting this planet back, you’re dumber than ever,” he roared. “Remember Iacon? Remember the Impossibles kicking your skid plates, and the resistance cells taking over your bases? There’s no coming back now, femmes and mechs – this planet is free, and it’s going to stay that way.”
Thunderwing suddenly leaped across the table, knocking Prowl off his chair with a solid right cross. Firebot moved to retaliate but Oceanglide kicked him. That was all it took… enclave shattered spectacularly, devolving into an all-out brawl. Fresh oil and Energon snacks flew across the room, splattering all over the immobile Windshear and the injured Incinerator. Sparkplug moved as far out of range as he could, finding himself sharing cover with a grinning Zapmaster.
“See? If enclave had always been this entertaining, I’d have turned up more often!” he cackled. “Thundercracker would love this!”
His Spark sank. How could he possibly hope to resolve this mess? It was an insane situation. Yes, he was the duly elected leader of the Mini-con race. But, for the better part of four million human years, he’d been an absentee leader. He and the escapees had lay dormant on Earth while those who stayed behind had forged new relationships, partnerships and destinies of their own. He was wrong to have tried to bring back old customs – archaic customs that had no place in this new world. And he had no business trying to tell other Mini-cons how to live their lives. He…
Laser fire tore through the room, bouncing off the polished walls and ricocheting into the ceiling. Mini-cons dove for cover, scrabbling to cover their faces and vital systems from the punishing purple bolts. When the gaggle of bodies cleared, Sparkplug could see Dualor, in his tank mode, swinging his smoking barrels left and right.
Dualor, to be honest, had always frightened him. The mech was a zealot, pretty much, convinced that Mini-cons were infinitely superior to the main Transformer race. During that long-ago election, he’d advocated an alliance with Megatron – then a military general, not yet a terrorist – as a way of solidifying Mini-con rights. The end, to Dualor, always justified the means… and his means were always backed by pure power. Like Sparkplug, he was a walking reservoir of Unicron’s power, a potent weapon for anyone who wanted to use… or abuse… him.
“You will all sit down,” Dualor said, his voice reeking of death, “and you will listen to Sparkplug. We will obey the traditions of enclave one last time and, then, we will decide our own fates. This is the last time we shall all meet like this, and so we will do it right. Now… sit back down!”
As one, the Mini-cons obeyed – Astroscope tripped over Jolt in their mutual hurry to find seats. Order was restored as quickly as chaos had spread. Dualor waited until everyone had settled, then transformed and began to speak.
“What none of you seem to understand,” he said gravely, “is that, from the day of our creation, the Mini-cons have been slaves. Tools. Devices to be used at the whim of another. Our own creator, Unicron, made us as an elaborate trap to annihilate Cybertron. Megatron used us as slave labour and, then, as weaponry. Even Optimus Prime, in his own way, used us… as bait for the Chaos Bringer, as part of the scheme to destroy it.
“Some of you may be comfortable with that idea. Some of you may have actually made real, genuine friendships with your masters. That is your prerogative, and your choice. Today is about personal choice – what we do from here decides the future of not only the Mini-con race, but each of us as individuals. First, we must choose if we will offer the same option to the Air Assault Team. Then… then we will make our own decisions, truly, for the first time.”
He turned to Sparkplug, who tried to hide his surprise. “I think,” he said slowly, “a secret ballot is in order, if only to move proceedings along.”
Sparkplug nodded. “All… all right.” He swallowed hard, then pressed a button on the table. A thin panel rose up in front of each seated Mini-con, each with two coloured buttons – one white, one black.
“These data tracks record the number of votes, but not who made them,” he explained. “If you believe the Air Assault Team should be separated, no matter the risk, press the white button. If you think it best to leave them as they are, then… then press the black button.”
A couple of the Mini-cons nodded. Several stabbed their buttons instantly. Sparkplug reached up, gingerly tapped the white button before him, and waited for the final result. A choice between life and processor death for three of his friends.