Chapter Text
Now:
My name is Ultra Magnus. I’m commander of the earthbound Autobot forces – the Research, Infiltration and Defence units. I’m one half of the Binary Spark; tied by birth and destiny to the primal forces that birthed the Transformer race. I am referred to, by friends and foes alike, as the Autobots’ greatest warrior… an unconquerable enemy.
I am also about to die.
I have, in my right hand, the greatest weapon in my army’s arsenal. It can fire Teflon-coated, titanium-cored bullets. It can launch surface-to-air missiles. It can erupt with thousands of volts of crackling blue energy. And that’s just in its normal form – like my body, my weapon can transform. Once altered, it can interface with the Blue Planet Key – a potent, ancient artifact – and become a force of almost unrivalled destructive power.
That weapon can’t help me.
My chassis is one of the strongest and most potent ever created. Forged in the fires of our god, Primus, it possesses remarkable strength, incredible speed and blinding dexterity. There is virtually no object over which, in vehicle mode, I cannot roll. There exists no known opponent that, in robot mode, I cannot match… and defeat.
That body is useless to me.
Almost unrivalled. Virtually no object. No known opponent. These caveats… these flaws… these chinks in my armour consume my every thought. Because, until now, I was unaware of them. Until now, I paid no mind to weaknesses. Until now, I had no reason to compare my abilities against those of another for fear of finding myself wanting.
Until now, when I am about to die.
I will die because the enemy before me defies all natural laws – be they of Earth or Cybertron. My enemy is no longer a being but a force of nature. One does not defeat a force of nature; one does not turn back the tide. One can only rally against it, for as long as possible, and then fail.
My name is Ultra Magnus. I am a soldier, a leader, a warrior. In a few moments, I will be naught but a smouldering corpse.
-----
“You would leave an entire pack as nothing more than smouldering corpses?”
Snarl’s lupine features were set, his toothy jaw grinding with anger. Magnus sighed deeply. After all this time, and all these arguments, he should have been used to the fight. But it never got any easier. The white wolf of Animatros seemed completely incapable of accepting any view point besides his own.
“No one is going to die, Snarl,” he explained. “That’s not the goal of this mission.”
“Deprive a beast of air and they are as good as dead,” the other growled. “The breath of life is sacred – a concept I’m sure eludes one of your… mechanical purity.”
“We’re not going to kill them,” Magnus repeated, the exasperation clear in his voice. “Downshift’s inventions will render the Terrorcons unconscious so that we can capture them. Then, we can transport them to Cybertron where they can be imprisoned.”
“Pah,” Snarl waved him away. “You fail to understand the forces with which you meddle. Worse, you lack the honour to express your intentions truly.” He locked his yellow optics onto Magnus. “The breath of life is sacred and should only be taken in glorious combat. One does not steal air for personal gain, nor to augment oneself. If you would face the Terrorcons, do so as befits a warrior – treat it not as an experiment.”
“Gnngh.” Magnus rubbed his face with both hands. He looked up into the sky and counted to ten, trying to lose himself in the unblemished blue heavens. “You’re entitled to your opinion, Snarl, for as little as it matters,” he groused. “When you get right down to it, you’re a non-operational member of this team. A guest. I’m informing you as a courtesy, given the Terrorcons’ connections to your home world.”
“How I miss it,” the white Transformer crooned. “A world of battle, of the hunt, of glory and honour. Yes, there were those who fell from those lofty paths but we culled them… or they culled us. Such was the way of Animatros – would that it could be the way of all worlds! I miss the feeling of belonging somewhere.”
“Whether or not you agree with our course of action,” Magnus continued, “is immaterial.”
Snarl rumbled low in his synthesiser. “Then I assume this conversation has ended,” he snapped. With a whirl of parts he assumed his beast mode, then bared his golden fangs. “I am indebted to you, Ultra Magnus. For now, I am fully appraised of my place within this army of yours… and can therefore chart my future direction.” He loped away.
“Dammit,” Magnus hissed, clenching his fists. He didn’t pretend to understand his colleague – never had – but Snarl’s last comment was even more mysterious than usual. Not for the first time, he took comfort in the knowledge that the wolf had no way of exiting Fortress Maximus or its surrounds.
The beast wasn’t actually an RID unit – he was classified as such only because of the need for security. Snarl never left the base. He couldn’t; his alt mode made that obvious. While a human mind could forgive a larger-than-usual car carrier, or a half-tank missile truck in midtown, it could scarcely accept a 40 foot-tall ivory wolf as normal. Snarl wasn’t, therefore, equipped with a resonance circuit. Such a device would have vibrated in tune with the Force Chip shard that temporally displaced the base. That meant he, like the base, was stuck one second out of phase with the rest of the world.
Magnus had, from the start, taken great pains to inform Snarl of those facts. Still the beast had insisted on joining the Earth mission in order to “escape the sterility” of Cybertron. To make matters worse, Red Alert had seconded the idea. The medic and chief surgeon feared Snarl’s presence on the Transformer home world – so utterly foreign to his previous life of trees, vast plains and dense jungles – endangered his very sanity. The wolf’s erratic behaviour after the Planet Key quest… his outburst at Tow-Line’s funeral… seemed to bear out those fears.
Hooray for us, Magnus thought to himself. I thought having Bulkhead under my command was frustrating. By comparison, those were halcyon days.
He transformed, thundered up the base’s entrance ramp and made for Downshift’s lab. The engineer had broken his self-imposed munitions ban “just this once” to create an anti-Terrorcon device because he’d discovered the flaw in their impressive powers. Magnus had no idea what had changed Downshift’s mind… and how much Rodimus had to do with it… but he didn’t care.
It was a detail – interesting, perhaps, but insignificant in the bigger picture – with which he could and would not concern himself. A decade ago, he would have agonised over the gap in his knowledge, questioning the path he chose because of it. He would have allowed his processor to fill with doubt and drown his self-confidence. He’d have paralysed himself by thinking too much.
Those days were long gone. Magnus had first trained, then curtailed his extraneous thoughts. As much as Primus had reforged his body, he’d reforged his own mind… completed the transformation from Mini-con to Autobot. Doubt, as Optimus Prime had so often told him, was a luxury those in charge could ill afford.
“I see the guest of honour has finally decided ta grace us with his presence,” a familiar voice sneered. “Maybe now our resident mad scientist’ll be prepared ta tell us how he’s gonna blow our skid plates ta smithereens this time around!”
Magnus transformed and stepped into the lab. Armourhide – he of the snide welcome – was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded over his boxy chest. The would-be comedian was whole again, thanks to a stint in the CR chamber. Magnus noted Armourhide was keeping his new right arm close to his body, and had covered it with his “original stock” left limb.
Scattorshot, Jazz and Rodimus were crowded around a bench, muttering happily about something. He was surprised to see Koji with them. The human child had spent much of the last few weeks locked in his room, venturing into the best of the base only rarely. Magnus knew the toll this behaviour was taking on Jazz – the good-natured mech blamed himself for Koji’s lack of trust. Given his personal connection to the Jones family, he also felt it was his responsibility to bring the child around and help him understand this new world of “robots in disguise”. It did Magnus’ Spark good to see the smile on Jazz’s face, and how it was mirrored in Koji’s organic features.
Downshift stood a little way back from the group, his expression a disquieting mixture of pride and shame. Magnus considered offering comfort, but dismissed the thought. The engineer had grown more introverted and secretive over the years – his façade was, at times, more stern than Grimlock’s – and even the friendliest of gestures was unlikely to break through to the fun-loving mech he’d once been.
He joined the group by the bench. Armourhide quickly followed. “How’d it go with ol’ Chopperface?” he murmured.
“Worse than expected,” Magnus whispered back.
“Terrific. Even the dog’s mad with us. We ain’t living in a happy home, sweetheart.”
“Shut up, Armourhide.”
As Downshift squeezed in to complete the circle, Jazz bent down and scooped Koji onto his shoulder. All six RID units, and their ally, were together and ready to listen. If only that meant we were a team, Magnus mused.
Irrespective of what Earth meant to him – the promise he’d made to Evac – the gathered Autobots saw RID duty as a means of escaping post-war Cybertron. Whether it be boring peace-time lives, war-time sins or destinies revealed, every one of the mechs was running from something. Each of them had a shame, often a former source of pride, they wanted to forget. Okay, Scattorshot doesn’t, but the rest do, he thought. I’ve always known that and it’s never mattered. Until now. If we can’t pull together, I fear for this planet.
“Uh,” Jazz said hesitantly. “You’re tellin’ me these things are gonna take down the Terrorcons? Really?”
“They sure are,” Rodimus grinned. “Those freaks are going to be so surprised.”
“Oh yeah,” Armourhide sighed. “I mean, da last thing they’re gonna expect is ta die laughing.”
Magnus peered over the smaller Autobots. He had to admit, the various devices splayed across the workbench were less than impressive. Certainly, there were pale shadows of the ballistic beauties Downshift had constructed in the past.
“They’re not that bad,” the engineer muttered. “And they’ve been produced on short notice, remember. Plus the materials I’ve got to work with…”
“Poor workmen an’ tools,” Armourhide quipped.
“Simmer down,” Scattorshot growled. Magnus knew his second-in-charge had very little patience for sarcasm, having been a target of it for so many vorns. “How ‘bout we let the mech explain his work ‘fore we start rippin’ on it?”
Koji tapped his chin thoughtfully. “They kinda look like the guns Daniel and I… sorry, Jazz and I… used in our computer games,” he said, prompting an appreciative grin from the Autobot. “You know, snub-nosed barrels and bulky stocks.” His face grew concerned. “But they were short-range weapons.”
“So are these,” Downshift said.
The response was automatic and disapproving. Armourhide threw his hands in the air, then slapped them hard on his face. Jazz frowned, one metal eyebrow arching in disbelief. Koji’s mouth hung open. Scattorshot all but slumped in place, like someone had drained the Energon from his frame. Rodimus’ steel skin flushed with heat… with embarrassment… and as it cooled, so did his attitude.
“How short is their range?” Magnus asked in measured tones.
Downshift shrugged. He was obviously uncomfortable. “A couple of metres, at best.”
“You just said a couple o’ hundred metres, right?” Armourhide asked. “Because if you just said dese things only work from a couple o’ metres, like under 10, you’ve guaranteed we’re all gonna get slagged before da end of da day!”
Magnus understood his pain. The conflict between the RIDs and Terrorcons was young but, already, Armourhide had suffered the most. Though Divebomb, the enemy who’d sliced off his arm, was in custody, the commando still felt he had a score to settle with the rest of the “True Path”. Add to that the fact his severed limb had been stolen – likely by the Terrorcons, for purposes unknown – and you had one furious, uncompromising, slightly scared Autobot.
“Calm down,” he ordered, waving a hand for emphasis. “It doesn’t really matter that much. Suffocating the Terrorcons was never going to be enough to bring them down – this is an aid, a way of weakening them so conventional weaponry can do some damage.”
Armourhide snorted. “Easy t’say when you’re twice their height and armed to the teeth.”
There was a short, sharp noise as Scattorshot banged his fist on the table. “A’right, ah’ve had just ‘bout enough o’ that,” he yelled, silencing Armourhide with a glare. “If this’ what we got ta take on the ‘cons, it’s what we got. Switch off yer synthesiser, strap on yer new gun and roll out!”
He tucked one of the designs under his right arm and strode purposefully toward the central assembly point. Rodimus’ grin widened as he followed suit. Jazz and Downshift went next. Magnus – still impressed by his protégé’s stance – was suddenly alone with Armourhide.
“Worst thing you ever did,” the commando grumbled, “was givin’ dat chump a leadership role.”
“Actually, it was one of my better decisions,” Magnus sneered. “You wouldn’t believe the wear and tear I’ve saved my synthesiser, now that someone else calls you on your garbage.” He reached down and took the largest of the new guns, threw its strap over one shoulder and walked away, leaving the little mech to his muttered curses.
A glimmer of movement caught his optic. He turned – Koji was kneeling by the lab’s doorway. For one outrageous moment, Magnus thought he saw a tool in the child’s hand. But that was impossible, surely. “You all right?” he asked, dismissing the thought.
Koji was red-faced. “Jazz put me down and I slipped,” he explained. “Guess I’m not used to the vibrations you guys put out when you start running all over the place.” He picked himself off, dusting the knees of his jeans. “I’m fine, Ultra Magnus.”
“Good to know,” Magnus said. “After all, if you’re not in perfect health when your parents get back, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “My parents?”
“If these new weapons work, Koji, we’ll be able to take down the Terrorcons by the end of the day,” he said confidently. “From there, it’s a simple matter of tracking their path from their base and, once there, freeing Kicker and Misha.” He stooped, running one giant finger affectionately over the boy’s head. “This is almost over, soldier. I promise.”
Koji was beaming. “I know, Magnus,” he said, one hand patting his jeans pocket. “I can tell you that I honestly believe this is all about to end.”
-----
“Magnificent.”
Predacon’s saurian eyes roamed the interior of the Global Space Bridge, his gaze caressing every curved archway. Rainbow hues from the walls – brilliant in the half-light – shimmered over his tan-and-green metalwork. Goose pimples rose on his fleshy sections as endorphins flowed through an intricate, inter-connected network of fuel lines and veins. Rarely had the master of the Transmetal process… the high priest of the True Path… felt such elegant satisfaction.
“No, not magnificent… masterful,” he whispered in a reverential tone. “Who would have believed the Autobots – a race so closed-minded to the beauty of technorganics – could create such fitting tribute to the True Path?” He stomped across to one of the walls and trailed a two-fingered hand across its smooth surface. “Yes,” he breathed. “You have done well, my disciples, in securing such a glorious asset.”
Keen ears picked up the sound of shuffling behind him. “Um, Predacon?” came a halting, nervous voice. One of his devotees was uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand how a tunnel system could be a tribute to our ways?
The metallic Tyrannosaur turned around… slowly and deliberately… and fixed the speaker with a blood-red gaze. “Ah, Insecticon,” he sneered. “Forever the Doubting Thomas, as the humans would say. Thanks to my science, your compound eyes possess vision unparalleled amongst our ranks. Yet can you see the brilliant, glowing Path that stands before you? No. You are so achingly blind.”
He sighed and transformed. His long, segmented tail became a crackling energy whip, and he swirled it casually. The green weapon swished through the air as he walked, closer and closer, to Insecticon. The gruesome little troll flinched, curling around on himself, legs twitching helplessly.
Predacon leaned down, pressing his face right against that of his hapless troop. “Look closely,” he growled, “at the blending of two worlds. Yes. It’s all around you.” He straightened up but left the whip threateningly close to Insection’s stunted form. “The Autobots have carved veins and arteries of steel and technology into the very bedrock of this planet. They have connected forest to city, desert to ocean, as surely as tendons link muscle and bone. Earth has evolved through their actions, becoming just a little technorganic. That provides us with a foot-hold for our agenda, and it will be of immense benefit as our endgame approaches.”
“Oh,” Insecticon whispered, his voice hoarse with concern. “Now I see.”
“I’m sure you do,” Predacon said evenly. He stepped away, retaking his beast form as he moved. “Though your questioning ways are an annoyance, Insecticon, they serve as stark reminder of the ignorance that exists in this universe. You are a case example of how blinkered a Transformer can be until someone broadens its horizons. What you must remember is that you are one of those who will grab at the optics of the sightless and stretch them, unswayed by pity and mercy, until they weep lubricant with joy at the vista suddenly revealed to them.”
He looked back and smiled, row upon row of vicious teeth glinting in the multi-coloured light. “Those who cannot see the way fall to the side and become as prey,” he said. “So it is written, so shall it be.”
“Praise the Path,” came the chorus, as expected. Skid-Z, Wreckloose, Battle Ravage and Sky Shadow were the sort of mechs that warmed his heart – devout believers whose processors were filled with faith, not doubt.
He heard Insecticon mutter the reprise, noted the disdain in his voice. Long had Predacon harboured concerns over the psychological warfare specialist; he resolved to raise them with Cruel Lock, upon his return from Cybertron, and have them… investigated. His second-in-command had done such a masterful job extracting Wheeljack and Crumplezone from the Autobot prison. The velociraptor would likely find extracting the truth from a bug little challenge.
“My lord.” Wreckloose was in robot mode, his head pressed to the ground. The tracker’s hands were splayed over the concrete, searching out vibrations. “Vehicles,” he growled, his odd-shaped jaw working the word as if it were a curse. “Seven… no, six. One is so large it sounds like two.”
“Ultra Magnus and the rest of his loser patrol,” Skid-Z cackled.
Predacon paused to regard his smallest soldier. In many ways, Skid-Z was the most devout of his legions. The tragedy was that, of all the True Path, the Mini-con was one of but two who were incompatible with the Transmetal process. Like the idiotic Buzzsaw, the brown car’s systems rejected any flesh grafted to his form. Predacon remained unsure if this was due to some difference in Mini-con biology or some nebulous science he had yet to discover.
The problem did not reduce Skid-Z’s usefulness to the cause but it did lessen his standing on the Path. As a result, and in spite of his value and his loyalty, Predacon counted the little mech among the first he’d sacrifice for his goals. He was, after all, doomed to an eternity of imperfection.
“Just because they retreated last time doesn’t make them losers, Skid-Z,” he admonished. “Were we talking about Grimlock, or someone equally pig-headed, I might be tempted to agree. But Ultra Magnus is no fool – indeed, he is a tactician nearing Cruel Lock’s brilliance. Underestimate him at your peril.”
“Yes, lord,” Skid-Z replied, suitably cowed.
“How far?” Predacon asked Wreckloose.
“A few kilometres, no more than 10,” the moose lizard replied. He stood up and hefted his antler shield. “Orders?”
“We could spread out like we did last time, then spring out of the gloom,” Insection offered. “You could let Battle Ravage take point and shred the tyres out from under the Big Bot.”
The metallic jaguar growled. Not for the first time, Predacon wished Divebomb had been present to translate for his long-time partner. Still, the meaning was clear – he who was most dangerous among the Path strongly disagreed with the tactical suggestion.
“No,” Predacon said simply. “We stand and fight, form a solid beach-head. Magnus will expect the same hit-and-run tactics, relying on his newfound ‘experience’ to catch us unawares. With one of his own so horribly injured, he will be loathe to ask his mechs to fight us one-on-one, in close quarters. And so we shall force just such a confrontation.” He leered horribly. “Let’s see how flexible the Autobots’ greatest warrior really is. Yes.”
Skid-Z leaped into the air and transformed. A bolt of energy sizzled from his Powerlinx port and tethered itself to Predacon. Seconds later the two mechs fused together, their powers greatly amplified. The True Path leader flexed his legs and bared his teeth, ready for the onslaught. Wreckloose and Sky Shadow remained in robot mode, aiming their weapons down the tunnel. Battle Ravage readied his back-mounted canons while Insecticon, now in beast mode, trained his quad-barrelled mini-gun on the sound of approaching engines.
A sound which, all of a sudden, stopped… then resumed, softer than before.
“Analysis?” Predacon asked.
Wreckloose scrunched up his face. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Hmmph.” Predacon turned his attention back down the tunnel. He savoured the feel of the Powerlink with Skid-Z, drawing on chaos-birthed energy. It was not as reliable as that given by a Force Chip, but it would have to do. He’d discarded his personal totem on Animatros in exchange for the Green Planet Key. Now he no longer possessed the primal artifact, he’d realised what a poor decision that had been.
The engine noise grew closer and louder. As one, the followers of the True Path peered into the gloom. The only illumination came from the colourful walls, however, and it was not enough to reveal what came for them. Louder and louder grew the sound until they had to shout to one another just to be audible.
“I can’t see anything,” Insecticon cried.
“My sensor package might...” Sky Shadow began.
It was too late. A massive white shape cleaved the darkness, like a knife, and was upon them.
Finally, Predacon understood what had happened. The Autobots had boarded Ultra Magnus’ vehicle mode and ridden him into the thick of the fray. Rodimus and the other fools were clutching onto the struts of the carrier trailer, or surfing on the top of its upper ramps, as they took aim at the Terrorcons with unfamiliar weapons. And yet they still did not fire. Predacon activated his roller skates and slipped backward, clearing a path from Magnus’ battering ram approach. He saw his mechs follow suit, darting to either side of the colossal truck.
That was the moment the Autobots chose to strike. “Light ‘em up,” Magnus roared, and the odd-looking guns erupted. From some came long, thin Energon tendrils; others fired thick, viscous bubbles made from an unfamiliar orange substance. Armourhide had his weapon trained on Predacon, and the tyrannosaur could feel it pulling at him like the vacuum of space.
Coughing and spluttering, he glanced at his troops. Battle Ravage was clawing at a glowing noose that had ensnared his neck. But his every motion served only to pull it tighter. Four or five of the bubbles had burst on Insecticon’s elongated snout – the bug was sluggish and fighting to stay upright. Sky Shadow was darting through another cloud of orange mush, shooting bubbles out of the air as soon as he saw them. Wreckloose had managed to tangle another noose around his wrist, rather than his neck, but inertia was pulling him toward that same blasted load of airborne muck.
He gasped, tiny arms reaching for his throat. Realisation ran through him, sending bile up his throat and souring his stomach.
“Air,” Predacon choked. So elegantly simple, and yet so alien to a Transformer. The very breath of life that sustained the beings of Animatros was being turned against the True Path by filthy, flawed, imperfect ruffians! They didn’t understand the perfection of the True Path; saw weakness to be exploited where there was only beauty to be admired. He wasn’t just outraged, he was insulted.
A huge mech loomed over him, its vacuum-weapon at the ready. “You’ve made your big push, Predacon,” Ultra Magnus growled at the suffocating saurian. “I’m here to inform you that it’s our turn to push back.”