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“Fan out. Keep your weapons ready and your optics peeled.”
“Ooh. Don’t we just sound all leader-like.”
“Don’t try my patience, Strongarm. We were the closest available unit and so it’s up to us to contain the situation.”
“So sorry, commander Treadbolt. I’d forgotten you were a rough-and-tough military genius now, instead of the foremech of a geological-slash-metallurgical survey.”
“I said that’s enough, Strongarm. Get your processor on the job, all right?”
Signal Flare deactivated his internal communicator, silencing his two best friends in the process. He couldn’t take any more of the argument. They’d been through a lot together… seen a lot of worlds, mined a lot of ore, refined a heck of a lot of Energon… but combat was alien to them. Small wonder tempers were fraying already, even before they’d met up with the strike force proper.
He swung his Energon-powered radar dish over the area. Until the call he, Treadbolt and Strongarm had been surveying the Hydrax Plateau for possible ore deposits. Since the destruction of Unicron and the “great reformatting”, the planet Cybertron was fairly bursting with resources, fuels, energy and essential minerals. The act of transforming to robot mode and back had replenished Primus’ surface just as surely as their creator had renewed its children. Wounds, both personal and planetary, had been healed. The world dominated by the Decepticons for nine million years had been swept away and, in its place, revolved a globe of seemingly endless possibilities.
That meant redrawing the geological maps – looking at old regions in new ways. The Hydrax Plateau had always been a spaceport and transport centre, nothing more. Signal Flare was confident it could be the source of glorious wealth – another Kalis, perhaps – given time and careful study. And he and his team were the second-best metallurgists and geologists in the Autobot army, after Swerve. Now, it seemed they were going to be dragged into combat just as he had been.
Engines sounded overhead and his fluids chilled. Instinctively, Signal Flare transformed to robot mode and held his deflector shield aloft. Decepticons, he thought grimly, dropping to one knee to brace himself. I’ll have to let the others know that…
He caught sight of the incoming aircraft and he relaxed. One was a long, red-and-white craft with swept-back wings. The other was a snub-nosed blue plane with large rear engines and gold trim. Storm Jet and Terradive had arrived at the rendezvous point as scheduled.
Talk about conditioning, Signal Flare thought dourly. I watched the Decepticon retreat with my own optics, I know Ultra Magnus and the Impossibles drove them off-world, but I still duck and cover whenever I hear a jet. Guess that’s what millions of years of fearing the skies will do for you. He coughed, then corrected himself. Well, the Impossibles drove off every Decepticon… save for one.
As he watched, Storm Jet transformed in mid-air. With a yelp, Signal Flare dove out of the way – the maniac was falling right toward him! He crunched onto the metallic plains, narrowly avoiding the warrior’s large black feet. A booming laugh echoed around him. “Come on, scrubber, get up – that’s no way to greet a colleague, is it?”
Signal Flare had heard all about Storm Jet. He’d led a resistance cell for most of the war, but it could hardly be called “underground”. Possessed of an arsenal considered, by most Autobots, to be a generous upgrade, Storm Jet fought the ruling Decepticon class face-to-face. He also fought with most of his troops – he had a reputation of starting brawls with his subordinates just to pass the time. Legend held he was to be the next inductee to the near-mythical Wreckers, prior to their demise, and so chose to honour their memory by continuing their “wreck and rule” style of combat.
Conversely, he’d heard almost nothing about Terradive. Nor had anyone else, according to rumour. All Signal Flare knew was that the cheerful, golden-faced Autobot was supposed to be a berserker on the battlefield. Looking at his goofy grin and obscured hands, the geologists wondered how that could possibly be.
“Sorry, Storm Jet,” he mumbled, returning to his feet. “I’m not so used to your… style of welcome, shall we say.” He stared hard through his visor.
The warrior grinned leeringly. “Check out the bearings on this one,” he said over his shoulder, the comment meant for Terradive. “Spends half the war off-world scratching in the dirt, then comes back to peace-time and thinks he’s a big shot.”
Signal Flare bristled. He knew what he’d contributed to the Autobot war effort. Together with Strongarm and Treadbolt, he’d spent vorns clinging to precarious cliffs, or strapped to meteorites with decaying orbits, scrounging up the Energon necessary to power lunkheads like Storm Jet. He’d been happy with his off-stage role, with the quiet praise of Optimus Prime and the inner circle. But this was too much, even for his tiny ego.
“Listen closely, you poorly assembled excuse for a Transformer,” he spluttered, sounding less authoritative than he’d have liked. “The only reason you’re able to carry even a third of those jumped-up, high-octane, multi-purpose, fully-automatic cannons you have strapped to your frame is because I dug up the Energon needed to keep you running. So if you think you can drop in on me, belittle me and then expect me to follow you into a combat situation I’m clearly not experienced for, then you can reset your transistors and… and… and blow it out your afterburners!”
He fell silent, his body shaking with anger. He clenched his shield tightly, fearful of a retaliatory strike and yet, in some part of himself, welcoming it.
“Aw,” Terradive said simply. “The little miner doesn’t want to live anymore.”
Signal Flare froze rigid, suddenly terrified. The comment was frightening enough without the realisation Terradive was a femme.. She didn’t move so much as an inch, her creepy smile unchanged. There was no indication – not in the slightest – that she was joking. Signal Flare had met Arcee once and, yes, she was clearly lethal. But this femme was out-of-her-processor deadly to everyone, friend or foe.
The geologist stayed right where he was, too scared to move either closer or away. A familiar rumbling rang in his audio sensors, and he welcomed it… Treadbolt and Strongarm had caught up with them.
Treadbolt transformed, unfurling from a tan-and-gold earthmover into a towering robot. The foremech stood at least twice as tall as Storm Jet, and was perhaps three times the aerial warrior’s shoulder-span. His long, treaded arms ended in powerful pincer claws and the look on his white and blue face was menacing. As Strongarm had once commented: “the boss couldn’t tackle a ‘con to save his own life, but he looks like he could cause a decent scrap.”
“There a problem here?” he bellowed. Treadbolt’s sheer size had always been enough to end any excavation site scuffle, but Signal Flare doubted it would help much here.
Storm Jet looked the larger mech up and down, then sniffed. “You look kind of like an old friend of mine,” he said sourly, “but there’s an essential difference.”
“He’s dead and I’m alive?” Treadbolt glowered, seeming to understand the reference.
“No,” Storm Jet growled. “He was a warrior, and you just look like one.” His left foot snapped out, catching Treadbolt in the right knee servo. The big mech yowled and pitched forward, throwing his arms out in time to save face but not to prevent an embarrassing landing.
“I’ve had just about enough of this slag,” Strongarm roared. The little jeep twisted and turned until it became a stubby, stocky, angry little mech with a big frelling axe, then leaped at the resistance leader. Terradive was between them in less than an astrosecond, reaching out and changing Strongarm’s path mid-flight. The Diffusion technique worked perfectly, and the miner was dumped unceremoniously next to his boss. Terradive hissed.
“Let’s clear up the chain of command,” Storm Jet said grandly. He pointed to himself. “Leader.” He gestured to Terradive. “2IC.” He pointed to each of the miners. “Cannon fodder, cannon fodder, cannon fodder. We clear? Good.”
He sniffed again, running a gunmetal-blue thumb under his olfactory sensor. “The rest of it goes like this: when they turned tail and ran, the ‘cons left one of their own behind, here on Cybertron. Some of the resettlement units have reported seeing this mech around, swiping from their Energon supplies and scaring the non-warrior mechs.” He all but spat the last three words.
“Sensor sweeps have tracked the rogue here, to the Plateau, though it’s more likely the ‘con is operating out of the Rust Sea region that borders it. Autobot High Command wants to guarantee a safe environment for the Transformer population, especially in light of the incident at the Underbase a few cycles back. Ergo, it falls to the five of us to find this rogue ‘con, recycle its chassis and take its head to Iacon as proof of its expiration.”
Treadbolt growled. “We were the closest unit and so we got the call,” he said darkly. “I spoke directly with Red Alert, and he told me to bring the refugee – whoever it is – in, but fully-functional.”
“Red Alert isn’t here,” Terradive said smoothly. “And anything can happen on a battlefield, dirt-scratcher.”
“Well put, love,” Storm Jet said. For the briefest of moments, Terradive’s ever-present grin changed to a smile of actual joy – then vanished abruptly. Maybe, Signal Flare mused, Storm Jet is the reason nobody knows anything about Terradive.
Without another word, Storm Jet and Terradive transformed and took to the sky. “Sweep the coastline and keep in touch – leave the real scouting to us,” they called back mockingly. They rocketed away, twin plumes of exhaust marking their trajectories.
“Not too obvious,” Strongarm quipped.
“Come on,” Treadbolt said desultorily. “Let’s get this over with”
“Are we having less fun now we’re not in charge, Mr Leader-man, sir?”
“Aw, stick it in neutral, would you?”
A few hours later, when Strongarm began to crack wise about “combing the beach”, Signal Flare knew they’d been searching for too long.
The Rust Sea wasn’t a sea, per se. Cybertron, in its natural state, had no water. There were lakes of Energon and lakes of coolant, but no actual water. Had there been, the scraplet epidemic of a few centuries back would have been cured easily. The Rust Sea, which ran in an L-shape from Polyhex to the tip of Tyrest, was actually an area of unstable matter and molecular flux. Bigger processors than his would likely be able to connect it with some mechanical function of their living planet, some need of Primus’, but Signal Flare wasn’t about to enter such debates.
The Hydrax Plateau was bordered, on each of its five sides, by the sea-that-wasn’t, and connected to mainland Tagon Heights by a single, narrow freeway. Every now and again, the whole area would be illuminated by a solar flare – the power plants of the Heights venting off excess energy. While it was great for Cybertron, it was bad for Signal Flare and his friends… the more the planet and its inhabitants embraced alternative energy, the less work there was for them. That would increase their uselessness and, if Storm Jet’s opinion was any indication, further erode their standing within the Autobot forces.
He tried to push such thoughts aside, to concentrate on his task, but he couldn’t. Even within the Autobot ranks, scientists fought hard to earn any measure of respect. Few did. For every Red Alert, Downshift or Swerve, there were countless others who toiled in obscurity or, worse, ridicule. Sometimes, Signal Flare felt Megatron had done more than wipe out colonies and thousands of lives. Sometimes, he felt the despot had destroyed the Cybertronian way – peace, thought, enlightenment, advancement – with his war-mongering. These days it was hard, when you looked at mechs like Storm Jet and femmes like Terradive, to tell the difference between the ‘bots and the ‘cons.
Suddenly he skidded. His four front wheels lost all traction, while his rear treads scrambled for purchase. He caught brief glimpses of Strongarm and Treadbolt having similar difficulties – even the jeep’s thick, heavy tyres weren’t helping.
“Tide’s rising,” Treadbolt called out.
“That’s all well and good except for one thing,” Strongarm yelled back. “The Rust Sea doesn’t have tides!”
Signal Flare cast his scanners upwards. “It does now,” he told his friends. “Unicron’s head is exerting gravitational pull on the surface of Cybertron. Our planet has a moon, for the first time, and the sea’s reacting as any fluid mass should.”
“Terrific,” Strongarm grumbled. “Why the frell would a ‘con pick this area to hide in, anyway? I mean, who wants to get wet?”
None of us, Signal Flare thought, but we don’t have much choice. The “waters” are rising pretty quickly.
He transformed to robot mode, just as his friends did the same. Walking had become their only choice – the search had to continue. As they pushed on, the sea crept up and over the edge of the plateau, flooding the disused spaceport and its runways. The area kept filling, the fluid levels rising higher and higher. Within a few hours, found themselves wading. The “waters” came up to the mid-sections of the smaller two Autobots, and to Treadbolt’s knees. Now, walking wasn’t much more of an option than driving.
“This seems really familiar to me,” Treadbolt mused. “I can’t remember why. Maybe something I read somewhere?”
“Ah, who cares?” Strongarm groused, holding his hook gun over his head to keep it dry. “This is a big, fat, dumb waste of our time. We’re either going to get washed off the plateau or corrode in place before we find this alleged rogue Decepticon. And let me tell you, getting my tail pipes wet so the good citizens of the Tagon Heights resettlement can power down in comfort and safety isn’t real high on my list of priorities!”
As one, Signal Flare and Treadbolt turned to look at him.
“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly. “I’m wet, I’m tired, I’m getting low on power and we’re doing someone else’s dirty work. While that someone else and his lady femme swan about in the skies above, I might add.”
A shockwave hit them from behind, pitching them into the bog. Signal Flare went under, spinning over himself. He started to panic… he had no idea which way the surface was. The “waters” of the Rust Sea were thick, brown and murky – like being entombed in mud. No light penetrated the turgid depths, and his own headlights made barely a dent in the gloom. Transformers couldn’t drown, of course, but they could be swept away, dashed on the ruins of a spaceport or the jagged edges of a…
Powerful fingers wrapped ‘round his neck and dragged him, coughing and spluttering, back to the surface. His hazy vision refocused on Treadbolt. The big mech’s face was etched with concern. “You all right, little dreamer?” he asked, and Signal Flare nodded. Treadbolt set him right on his feet, then fished around and pulled Strongarm clear in much the same way.
“Come on, grumpy,” he sighed. “Get back on your… feet?”
Treadbolt screamed. Signal Flare had never heard that sound before – never even seen his boss express the remotest of terror. He shook his head to degauss his vision, trained his optics on his friends… and understood why the foremech was screaming. He’d found Strongarm, all right… half of him. The jeep had been cleaved in two, his lower torso and legs entirely missing. His face was a mask of agony and shock, and his once-amber hues had already faded to the dull steel of permanent deactivation.
“Sweet Primus,” Signal Flare whispered hoarsely.
With a loud splash, Treadbolt fell to his knees. He cradled Strongarm’s remains against his massive chest. “Buddy,” he groaned mournfully. “Oh frell no. Oh no.” Signal Flare rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder as he continued speaking. “We were going to go to Macaddam’s,” he said, voice thick with disbelief. “It never closed during the war, you know, but it was hard to get to. Especially if you weren’t carrying firepower. But we used to go, together, back in the day – before the war and all – and we were going to go there again to, you know, celebrate.” His tone grew bitter. “Celebrate the new peace.”
“It’s okay…”
“No. It’s not. Because my best friend is dead, and the last words we ever spoke to each other were harsh and cruel! Someone in this blasted muck stole my pal, and stole my chance to make amends!” He stood up suddenly, flexing one of his claws. A sub-space pocket opened in response to the silent command and ejected a long, slender demolition missile. Treadbolt inserted it into a small slot on his waist. Then he reached around and fastened Strongarm’s ruined torso to the magna-clamp on his back. “The shockwave came from that direction,” he said, gesturing. “Let’s go see what it was.”
As they started wading, Signal Flare did a quick check of his systems – his power levels were starting to run low. All this wading through thick muck is draining me, he thought, and I’m far more fuel efficient than Treadbolt. The big guy must be near running on fumes… or rage. We need to find this Decepticon soon, or high-tail it back to the Heights and recharge.
If there was one thing in the universe Signal Flare knew about, it was Energon. When Downshift had discovered the means to solidify the fuel source and use it to construct tools and weapons, he was one of the first to embrace the concept. Many a dull day of mining had passed with him sculpting intricate patterns, sculptures, and artefacts out of the glowing substance. Even the axe Strongarm used… well, had used… was a Signal Flare creation. If I can imagine it, I can make it, he used to tell his friends. He knew Energon’s range, and he knew its limitations. He knew how far it could be stretched before it snuffed itself out – and he feared Treadbolt was fast approaching that critical watershed.
“Over here!” Treadbolt called. Signal Flare quickened his pace as much as he could but, by the time he caught up, the bigger mech had already pulled a struggling, thrashing form from the water. But it wasn’t the Decepticon.
“Surprise…” Terradive muttered, her optics glazed and synthesiser garbled. “Taken… by surprise.” Her two-tone blue armour was cracked and pock-marked in several places, and one of her wings had snapped off. Her head-mounted dual guns were gone, a tangled mess of wires marking their passing.
“What happened?” Signal Flare asked.
“Fracked if I know,” Treadbolt replied. “Check out her foot – the right one. That’s the cockpit of her flight mode, and it’s all crumpled and twisted and mashed in. Almost like something hit her, head-on.”
“Something fast.”
“And blunt,” Treadbolt agreed. Years of mining had made him an expert on impact patterns and relief-fissures. “Maybe even bullet-shaped?”
Terradive rubbed her head with one stubby hand and eased out of Treadbolt’s grip, trying to stand in the tide. Little taller than Signal Flare, she was almost lost beneath the waves. “The dirty fracker timed it with a solar burst from the Heights,” she spat angrily, her faculties returning despite her damage. “Hit me right in the nose – rammed me, the crazy mech – and I went down. I was starting to regain control when the sonic boom pushed me down into this slag. What the frell was it? Did you see?”
Signal Flare heard a gentle plop sound, behind them. He turned, but there was nothing there. Another plop, this time to their side… followed by another, and another. He looked up, wondering if it had somehow started to rain – as impossible as that was – and was struck in the face by a falling metal object.
“Ow!” he yelped, stumbling. Treadbolt caught him before he fell into the water, just as two more pieces of debris clanged off his outstretched arm.
Objects rained down around them, and each one that connected was heavier and more painful than the last. “Over here,” Signal Flare called, raising his shield. The others ducked under it – Treadbolt almost submerging to fit – as he willed it to expand to its limits. He could almost feel the drain on his dwindling Energon reserves, but it had to be done. Having lots of power would do him no good if he was unconscious.
Pieces kept falling, bouncing harmlessly off the shield. None of them were particularly familiar… just jagged shards of metal, chunks of wiring, and what looked like broken weapons. “Maybe a defence satellite blew up?” Signal Flare wondered aloud.
With a dull thud, a chunk of garbage impacted on the dead centre of the shield. Lifeless optics glared at them accusatorily, while the ruined remnants of olfactory sensors crumbled into dust as they watched. Half of the proud black helm was missing, and the gold eyebrow band had been tarnished and blackened by heat. Despite it all, the decapitated head was unmistakeably that of Storm Jet.
“Frell,” Treadbolt muttered. “The ‘con must have detonated his payload. An explosion so big it’s taken this long for the parts to fall back to Cybertron.”
The sight was too much for Terradive to bear. “No!” she screamed, again and again, pushing past Signal Flare and back into the maelstrom of pieces. “Not him, not now, not ever!” she ranted. From a sub-space pocket, she drew a oddly-shaped, twin-barrelled, blue Energon rifle and started firing – into the air, into the water, her pattern indiscriminate and maddened.
“Take my wings, take my guns, but you won’t take him – you can’t!” she wailed, emptying her chambers at nothing. “You won’t take me, or him, or us, or…”
A snarling, roaring sound echoed over the flooded area and, with a shocked yelp, Terradive was sucked under the water. Seconds passed, waters churned and bubbled. Then her steely grey carcass bobbed to the surface, floated for a moment, then sank out of sight. Signal Flare retched, his sump churning. Treadbolt was muttering again.
“I knew it, I knew it, I knew I knew it,” he said quietly. “A battle on Earth… a book I scanned, that Misha showed me, when we went scouring for Energon that time. Culloden Moor…” he said the name like it was a tomb. “Culloden Moor… the English routed the Scottish. The Scots chose their territory poorly, making their charge across a peat bog.
“They weren’t just defeated, they were massacred… they were exhausted from wading across the mess and the English routed them, butchered them and hung anyone they caught running away.”
Signal Flare swallowed hard, the undulations in his sump unbearable. “Just like us,” he gasped out, thinking of his Energon levels. “Running on empty.”
Treadbolt stepped out from under the shield. He held his claws out in front of him, in something resembling a fighting stance, and swung his waist from side to side. “Whoever this ‘con is, he’s been to Earth – read about the same battle,” he said darkly, optics fixed on the water. “But that makes no sense. All the best tacticians are accounted for.” He started walking forwards. “Shockblast… Starscream… Soundwave… Cruel Lock…”
He took one more step, then froze. “What?” Signal Flare asked, his voice trembling. “What is it?”
The big mech gulped. “Land mine,” he said hopelessly.
With a geyser of water and a howl of pain, Treadbolt exploded. The force of the blast lifted Signal Flare off his feet and threw him, arms and legs waving uselessly, hundreds of metres back. He slammed into a leftover signpost marking the edge of the spaceport and started to fell. Something in him cried out, and so he grabbed madly at the sign’s shaft. Iron fingers dug into the softer metal and held fast, keeping him out of the murky depths. He’d lost his shield, but kept his head. So far, anyway.
His processor raced. Why can’t we see this slagger? It can’t be that he’s using the waters for cover – that’s too simple. He’s got to have some kind of onboard stealth package as well, some kind of device that’s shielding him from conventional detection. Storm Jet and Terradive obviously couldn’t pick him out from the solar flare, so it’s unlikely he’s radiating heat. But there’s one thing no Transformer can hide… his Energon signature.
Signal Flare raised his cannon-like right arm and concentrated, willing a small red Energon disk into existence. He pointed it at the water and it started to spin, scanning for anything that matched its very substance. If I can imagine it, I can create it… and I’m imagining a device that can pinpoint the very spot you’re swimming, you sneaky fracker, he growled inwardly.
A display came to life inside his head, toggling over the visual of his left optic. It detected the faintest trace of Energon moving in a serpentine path under the muddy brown waters. Faint because you’re hungry – perhaps even starving, Signal Flare grinned. You’re raiding the settlers’ supplies just to keep yourself online, using whatever weapons you have left.
He was thinking like a geologist, a metallurgist – breaking down all the composite elements of the situation and analysing them, one by one, to learn the truth of the whole. That’s the reason for the sneak tactics, for using Storm Jet’s own arsenal to detonate his arrogant hide. You’re strong, but only if you can sneak up on a helpless miner or a distraught flyer. That’s why you needed the mine to take out Treadbolt – bet it was your last piece of ordnance, too – and that’s why you won’t get me.
Keeping his sights locked firmly on the slithering signature, directed another burst of energy into the disc. His imagination was running overtime… with a thought, he could create a single-shot Energon cannon powerful enough to pierce the Decepticon’s weakened armour and bring him down. Revenge for Treadbolt, for Strongarm, for poor, deluded Terradive and even the arrogant, spiteful Storm Jet. One shot, and he’d still have enough power to stay online and call for help.
A voice rang out in his mind. “I spoke directly with Red Alert, and he told me to bring the refugee – whoever it is – in, but fully-functional.” Signal Flare grimaced. He couldn’t do it – have the first shot he’d fired in combat be not only fatal, but against orders. He thought again, twisting his Energon creation into a form of net instead. With enough power, it would be able to contain the fugitive. It might knock him offline, though. He activated the magna-clamp in his hand, locking himself to the signpost, then switched on his passive distress signal. He’d be in stasis lock, but the Decepticon would be captured and reinforcements would be on their way.
Gritting his jaw servos, he fired. The glowing net sailed over the waters, guided unerringly by the “scent” of Energon, and splashed down over a certain area. The filthy muck churned and bubbled once again as a large, bullet-like shape burst onto the surface. His power cells draining from exertion, Signal Flare still gasped at the black, orange and purple shape before him. Four sets of twin cannons swivelled uselessly, rear-mounted slashing fins flailed without effect. The oil-stained monster, pieces of the deceased sticking jaggedly from his armour, was Sharkticon!
Makes no sense, Signal Flare thought weakly. Sharkticon is a coward… he’s been running scared from Bulkhead for centuries. He runs from any fight as soon as it starts. Every mech knows that. So why… and how… has he killed everyone here?
Sharkticon seethed beneath the net, his rage almost tangible. “Let me out, Autobot,” he said, his voice ice cold, “and I’ll make it quick and painless. You can’t hold me… your friends couldn’t stop me… you’re dead anyway.”
Signal Flare shook his head. “You’re nothing but the power of suggestion – a ghost story, a horror movie,” he spat back. “Sneaking and lurking and killing from the shadows. Face to face, you’ve got no sway, no abilities… you’re just a fish in a net.”
The Decepticon lost his composure, thrashing about in the water and trying to transform to robot mode. “You’re no butcher of the bogs,” Signal Flare continued, remembering the story of Culloden Moor. “You’re a…”
He jerked suddenly, feeling fuel in his throat. An astrosecond later, his depleted systems registered the four laser blasts that had dug into his back. Still magnetised to the signpost, he slumped forward, fighting to stay conscious. A second dark shape crossed his view screen – a long purple skiff, Decepticon logos emblazoned on its side. From its deck rose a massive four-barrelled cannon… the weapon that had just ended his life.
As his perceptions darkened, Signal Flare watched the skiff crack open and swing out to reveal a lithe, grey-and-gold femme. Her long, smooth legs dropped into the water but she did not sink, thanks to the curvaceous floatation devices sprouting from her chest plate. To his surprise, she winked at him, then spoke to Sharkticon in a voice like razors.
“And so the mighty hunter is caught,” she rasped. “Centuries of… what was it? Laying traps and fattening bait? Yes, that’s it – millions of years of planning all undone because you don’t have enough power left to kill a single miserable Autobot. Forced to hunt to survive, forced to wipe out an entire Autobot strike force to prevent capture, you’ve finally broken cover. If that little smear on the signpost lives, the whole world will know the truth – Sharkticon is no coward, but the worst serial killer Cybertron has ever seen. All your power,” she gestured with one hand, “poof, up in smoke. Gone forever.”
Sharkticon struggled into his robot mode and glowered at her. “Get to the point, Chromia.”
The femme smirked. “If you don’t want to go down in history as ‘the butcher of the bogs’, if you don’t want the infamy that comes with your kill tally, then it’s time to consider a new allegiance. A different way. A True Path, if you will, to the conquest and domination of two worlds. Starscream left you behind after the Iacon debacle, and likely hasn’t noticed you’re gone. We can provide you shelter, Energon and, best of all, obscurity – let you kill in the quiet, as long as you kill for us.”
Chromia fired her weapon a second time, severing the Energon net. Sharkticon threw off his bonds and stood up, tall enough for the waters to come only to his upper thighs. His dark green optics flashed murderously. “Not that I have a choice, of course.”
“Not a one,” Chromia giggled unpleasantly. “But if you keep an open mind, you might find opportunities within the zealotry, as I have.” She winked again and nodded meaningfully.
“You’re on,” Sharkticon said. He gestured at Signal Flare. “And the Autobot?”
Signal Flare shook his head, trying to clear the static from his optics. It was no good – his systems were powering down, and he could no longer feel his legs. He was going to die – and his distress call was yet to elicit a response. He’d done his best, and it simply wasn’t good enough. Cannon fodder.
“Dead mechs,” Chromia sneered, “tell no tales.” Then she raised her weapon and fired a third time.