Chapter Text
The underbelly is soft, the underbelly is weak;
Target of the hopeless, cowardly and meek.
For the hunter, he strides but the Path that is true;
He faces his prey, and he runs it right through.
– an Animatros nursery rhyme
“Let us pray.”
Predacon watched – carefully – as the congregation took up its positions. In the front row, things transpired as expected. Battle Ravage, Cruel Lock, Bludgeon, Skid-Z and Sideburn bowed their heads and shut down their optics, ready to tread the Path in grace.
Insecticon, predictably, shuffled on the polished steel and lacquered wood of the second pew. Eventually, the ugly little troll genuflected as was required. Next to him, Sharkticon – the coward, the doubter, the wandering fool – struggled with his base instincts and, after a cautious glance toward Battle Ravage, looked at the floor.
Chromia, on Sharkticon’s other side, made a show of closing her optics and smiling; a false portrait of serenity. Predacon was not fooled by her theatrics – one would have to be a far poorer judge of character in order to fall for such a poor deception. Though deadly, the femme’s time would come… the Transmetal Tyrannosaur would see to that.
Wreckloose, Gunbarrel, Terradive and Thunderwing – hunters, one and all – silenced their chatter with embarrassed coughs and joined the silent masses. Predacon had no doubt as to their loyalty. Sky Shadow, who stood a few metres behind, was a different matter. Trickery had been necessary to entice the giant scientist toward the Path, lessening his reliability. Still, Predacon had faith – he always did – that, in time, even the former isolationist would shed his skin and forge ahead.
From a view screen on the cathedral’s back wall, Buzzsaw and Reptilion stilled themselves. Though far away, doing the work of the Path on distant Gigalonia, the missionaries remained devout. Their presence, though impersonal, was greatly appreciated – especially in light of the absence of four members of the faith.
Divebomb, a prisoner of the Autobots, could hardly be blamed for his predicament. Salvation for the avian fighter would come, in due time, when the Path turned toward him once more. As for Wheeljack, Windshear and Crumplezone… well, Predacon knew the struggles that awaited him when he chose to free the serial-killing trio. He opted to forgive them their ignorance, for they knew not what they did.
Yet.
Once understanding had been reached, future apathy would receive the proper response. Of that, Predacon had complete and utter faith.
Nevertheless, Predacon was pleased overall. The turn-out was as strong as the week before, and an improvement on the weeks before that. It was a geometric leap above what the Path had been a decade earlier – when only he and the Terrorcons knew the serene beauty of technorganic existence. All of his recruits… even the most recalcitrant… boosted the cause. The recalcitrant, after all, were merely mechs and femmes in need of enlightenment. Converting them would help convert the rest of the Transformer race.
And once they had turned – once eyes and optics, alike, had been opened – they would be welcome here, in the new heart of the religion. Animatros was no longer the holy land; its place in the faith had been supplanted by Earth. This world, constantly shifting with masses of both animals and machines… secretly alive with plants and micro-organisms; with artificial intelligences in servers world-wide… was the promised land.
One day, his gorgeous cathedral would be too small to hold all of his disciples. The mangrove trees that formed its foundation would strain with the weight; the titanium walls would struggle to handle the girth of the congregation. Mechs and femmes alike would sit in the tiered wood-and-steel pews, row upon row of them, reaching past the bone-and-strut mezzanine and up to the blood-stained crystal ceiling, far above them.
“With grass beneath our claws and flesh betwixt our teeth, we pray,” Predacon boomed.
“We pray,” chorused the congregation.
“As our blood mixes with our oil, our sinew with servomotor and our armour with epidermis, so too do we affirm our resolve.”
“We affirm,” came the echo.
“And by our perfection, our holy transcendence, we vow to eradicate the things we cannot change, alter that which we can, and show the universe our wisdom as to the difference between those dusty roads… we shall lead it down the True Path.”
“The True Path,” the group finished, their voices rising into frenzied howls.
“My brethren,” he said, stepping out from behind the podium, “great news to I bring to you this day. Yes.” He cast his arms wide; the flourish made his crimson-and-gold robes billow with a near-hypnotic effect. The lambskin upon his head wobbled, but remained in place. “Having sought counsel from the winds and the wails; having listened to voices both mechanical and organic; having consumed the wisdom of two worlds, I have today brought you deliverance from our sole remaining ties to the dead world of Cybertron.”
More faithful members of the congregation hissed at the name of the Dead World. Again, Predacon watched carefully – neither Sharkticon nor Sky Shadow joined in, while Chromia’s expression of distaste was typically overwrought and obvious.
He reached beneath his robes and pulled out a fist-sized black cube. Five of its sides were flat and featureless but the sixth… oh, the sixth was perfection itself.
“Though we know we are of the Path, still are we wrongly labelled with the slur ‘Terrorcon’ and burdened with the slave mark of our former allegiance,” he growled. “Our beautiful technorganic forms are blemished with the inferior symbol of a dead army; of a would-be tyrant’s mad plotting!”
“Testify,” Cruel Lock yelled, rising to his feet and clawing the air. “Testify!”
Predacon felt the electricity in the room build. He could taste its ozone tang in the air as it slid down, past his fuel pump, and into his lungs. Soon… soon, it would be time. “I will not stand for it! No! And thus do I bring you, the faithful, the deliverance you have long sought – the release from servitude that marks the Path ever-clearer in the wilderness of warfare, strife and small-minded techno-crats!”
Battle Ravage roared. The loud, shocking sound was not enough to drown out the jittering, babbling mess of words spilling from Skid-Z. The Mini-con was in rapture; frothing at the air vents and jerking spasmodically in place. He spoke no discernable language and, yet, Predacon understood every word – it was the speech of the devout.
Grandly, he raised his arm and held the cube out to the group. On its sixth face was a brand – it glowed purple and red, lit by heat from within the block itself. Its curves and contours formed a stunningly beautiful picture of technorganic perfection. An insect, almost mosquito-like, head was set within sharpened steel edges. Its brow was creased with a circuit board; its segmented eyes were carbon-based and bulbous.
“I give you the symbol of our devotion… the icon to which we rally… a mark that is not ours to own, but shall own all of us! The sigil of the True Path!”
The chaos in the room was near its peak. Battle Ravage was twitching with rapture and blood lust; Wreckloose’s fleshy body rippled with colour and goose-pimples. The Mini-cons pounded on one another, lost in their lust for the hunt; the gnarled, undulating wreck on the floor was barely recognisable as Skid-Z. It was time.
“Sacrament,” Predacon hollered.
He reached back and stabbed a button on the podium; a hatch in the mezzanine swung open. From it tumbled a gaggle of assorted Earth creatures – horses, birds, dogs, cats and random mammals – all screeching and whinnying in terror. They fell, but they never reached the floor. Cruel Lock and the other disciples leaped up, their legs powered by faith, and snatched the blood and body of the Path out of mid-air. Any being that eluded them was impaled, swiftly, on Bludgeon’s bony swords.
Blissful, holy blood splashed across the sacred area; the eldritch gore baptising the space and the beings within it. Born again, the faithful continued to tear gleefully into the symbolic representations of their religion. Those yet to accept salvation drew toward the back of the cathedral and gazed, entranced, at the spectacle of divine fervour.
Predacon had spoken the words, and he knew they were good.
-----
“Mmm… and the zzzervice wazz great, too,” Buzzsaw enthused.
For the 203,458,987th time in the preceding decade, Reptilion checked to see if his garishly-hued colleague was joking. Sadly, for the 203,458,987th time, his suspicions as to Buzzsaw’s utter lack of higher processor function were confirmed.
Science, of course, demanded but three repetitions of a phenomena before it was deemed to be proven. Reptilion’s continued observations of his monolithically-natured companion were, therefore, no more than exercises in shoring up one’s own sense of superiority; of reminding oneself of one’s higher place in the universe.
He stepped away from the viewing platform and transformed. As a Transmetal iguana, Reptilion could cover ground almost as quickly as Buzzsaw – who lacked flesh but, as a helicopter, had at least some uses. Using that speed, the propulsion expert dashed across the tundra to his command chair. He transformed once more and took a seat.
At the touch of a button, much of Gigalonia was revealed to him. Geographic scans, metallurgical read-outs, environmental differentials. Each and every bit of it essential to the plan; to the fulfilment of the True Path’s goals. Though Gigalonia was a hollowed-out husk of a world, lacking even the base organics needed to make it worth Predacon’s notice, it nonetheless contained the piece that made the others move.
Somewhere.
“Little skittling botzz reported anything good yet?” Buzzsaw asked. The hapless fool was hovering directly overhead, oblivious to the dust kicked up by his rotors. “Buzzsaw izz getting zzzick of zzzitting around here all the time, even if it izz better than zzzmelly old cave or great big zzztinky mud pile we have to guard!”
“Normally, I would be among the first seeking to advise you of the benefits, both psychological and personality-wise, of a modicum of patience,” Reptilion sighed, never lifting his eyes from his computer screens. “However, I feel the time I have spent rallying against your boorish buffoonery has inoculated me against your virulent, mono-syllabic incompetence, and thus I see no cause to waste my energy on your continued education.”
The helicopter scratched his cranial casing. “Izz frilly lizard-bot talking to Buzzsaw? Because if he izz, he’zz making no sense to Buzzsaw.”
Reptilion suppressed another sigh and keyed the communication console to life. Within a nanosecond, the angular face of Kremzeek filled his display.
“My greetings to you, valued comrade,” the small, yellow mech bowed. “What services may I provide to the purveyors of our liberty?”
“It is but a small matter,” Reptilion said drolly. “Were you able to properly instruct your underlings to direct their exertions toward a more mutually-beneficent purpose, and exhort them to give their all in consummation of our great tasks, I could be on my way and return to my primary role as opposed to continuing my toil on this geographically insignificant planetoid you pathetically refer to as a home world.”
He watched Kremzeek flinch, knowing the reaction was a combination of factors. For one, the leader of the Flyer race was well aware his continued failures had displeased the True Path. The altered Cybertronians had provided the technology needed to make the Flyers self-sufficient; meaning they could produce war machines and plot the re-taking of Gigalonia from the larger, more apathetic Grounder population. Kremzeek knew he stood on rapidly crumbling ground, and that Predacon’s favour would soon evaporate totally.
The other reason for the smaller mech’s discomfort was Reptilion’s own appearance. Though a mech of science, a technical expert rivalling a more well-known member of their race – the late Autobot known as Perceptor – Reptilion had, to put it bluntly, an horrific appearance. His face, since the Transmetal process, was a toothy mass of fangs, prehensile tongue and mucous. It ill befit a researcher but was essential for a warrior.
“A thousand apologies, my most revered ally,” Kremzeek stuttered, “for our tardiness. However, it is but a matter of time before we meet with the success sought by both our factions. There are a finite number of landforms large enough to accommodate the item you seek. We are mining them one-by-one, using their mud to power our wheels and generate our lovely electricity. Patience, please – I beg of you a little more patience.”
Reptilion felt moved to snarl; to express displeasure violently, as he had seen his fellow Path-walkers do in the past. It felt somehow unbecoming to him. Satisfying in the short term, perhaps, but ultimately unproductive. There were some variables even the most highly-skilled scientist could not control; strings of equation that simply would not resolve satisfactorily. He thought of his silenced admonition to Buzzsaw and opted to heed his own unspoken words. Reptilion would exercise the virtue of patience.
“One more month,” he hissed, mixing his restraint with a dash of feral emphasis. “Without progress, there will be retribution.” He jabbed a button with a long, pointed finger, closing the channel and ending the conversation.
“Oooh,” Buzzsaw minced from above. “Frilly lizard-bot playing hardball. Interezzting timezz are afoot, Buzzsaw thinks. Progrezz come much quicker now.”
It had better, Reptilion thought. The master plan waits for no mech.
-----
“Unbeliever.”
Insecticon shuddered. For ten minutes, he’d been trying unsuccessfully to tear the memory from his processor. The bestial disapproval of his fellow Terrorcon stayed with him, chilling him down to the Spark. Surely the “word” Insecticon had heard was a trick of the audio; some kind of side-effect of the cathedral’s odd acoustics. He knew the story of which so many others remained ignorant – he knew Battle Ravage could no longer speak. Still, being mute made the brute no less dangerous.
The psychological warfare specialist gulped at the lump in his organic throat. Not for the first time, the irony of his military function was plain to see. Though he was deft with a cerebro shell and skilled at pitting friend against friend, Insecticon did not have a handle on triumph through fear. He was a painfully poor intimidator. Battle Ravage was anything but. If the four-legged freak suspected…
“Come forth,” Predacon boomed.
The bug-mech flinched. His master’s voice, he thought dryly. Transforming to beetle mode, Insecticon scuttled toward the self-styled high priest’s personal quarters. Lizard-lips always preferred to see you in your beast mode; it was, he claimed, what separated the Terrorcons from the level of mere Cybertronians.
Cruel Lock passed him in the hallway. The raptor’s optics were swivelling with ecstasy. No surprises there. Though a master tactician, Cruel Lock was so religiously blind that the pain of having his Decepticon symbol burned off, and replaced with a garish pictogram, probably felt like the softest wax-and-shine.
Insecticon had tried to be last in line for the re-branding but, like his efforts in controlling his memories, had met with failure. Sky Shadow had left the cathedral pleading work-related reasons; Sharkticon and Chromia had flat-out refused. Wheeljack’s merry bunch, of course, hadn’t even bothered to show up for the weekly “prayer session”. All that Insecticon had managed to do was end up on the tail of a very small line.
He bustled into Predacon’s chamber. The True Path’s leader had dispensed with his ceremonial robe and head-dress – the lambskin was now atop a mannequin head; the robe hung from a peg on the wall. Predacon, in robot mode, was pacing back and forth along the polished marble floor. Parts of his earth-tone armour were camouflaged against the numerous plant species that filled every corner of the room. The only real open space in the large quarters was inside what humans would have called “the bathroom” – and no one dared venture in there anymore. Gunbarrel had once made a crack about Predacon’s rubber duckie and lived to regret it. He’d been tied up outside and lashed fifty times.
“Not the most popular of your ideas, then?” Insecticon ventured.
Predacon glared at him. One of his teeth was vibrating with the pressure of his grimace. “Your overt familiarity never ceases to irritate, Insecticon. No.”
“It does breed contempt, they say,” the bug-mech cackled, enjoying himself. “I suppose that’s why I stay useful to you, oh great leader… you’re all about breeding loyalty and subservience, so you need someone around to be that pot of ointment’s fly.”
“Your continued use to me,” the Tyrannosaurus muttered, “comes from technical expertise, a unique specialty subject and the strength of numbers. No more than that.”
“And here I thought we were friends, too,” Insecticon giggled. “After all, I’ve lined myself up for this exercise in graffiti despite our numerous… philosophical debates.”
Predacon growled dangerously. Insecticon knew he’d reached the end of his leash. He’d never really understood why he could get away with speaking to Predacon as he did, though he suspected he kept the cultist honest. So many members of the Path were willing to swallow everything the Tyrannosaur said, without question. Others simply refused to cross the Rubicon and used their newfound autonomy to further their own agendas. Insecticon was the doubting Thomas of the group – his defiance, he believed, forced Predacon to think his positions through, and to make them convincing.
“Hold still,” the cultist sneered. His hand came down swiftly, pressing the ebony cube onto Insecticon’s purple symbol. The jagged, jet-like shape melted, warped and re-formed as a purple mosquito’s head. The process was quick but, still, the bug-mech could not suppress a gasp of shock and a grunt of pain.
“That is but the first matter of business between us this day,” Predacon said. “Yes.”
“I’m honoured by your attention, mighty one,” Insecticon deadpanned.
“It has come to my attention,” Predacon continued, ignoring the sarcasm, “that our ranks have been… infiltrated. Subverted. Insidiously.” The words came out as barks of disgust. “One of those among us is a traitor to the cause – worse than that, a heathen who dares sully our holy land with his or her lack of vision.”
He stalked across the room and placed the cube, reverently, in a mahogany box. The thump of the closing lid masked Insecticon’s loud, terrified swallow.
“Though you have your failings – and they are many – I feel the discovery of this traitor is a task best suited to you,” the cultist said, gazing evenly at Insecticon. “Yes. Be it through your guile, your ability to manipulate others into confrontation or your devices of mental control, find this mech… or femme… and report them to me. Go.”
Predacon waved his hand; Insecticon almost fell over himself making for the exit. Breath came ragged to his strange-feeling organic lungs; in his haste, he almost toppled a lounging Chromia with his head-stalk.
Find the traitor? he wailed inwardly. All well and good, normally the sort of task I’d beg for – if only to alleviate the boredom of this Primus-forsaken place. It would be a great job, a fun job, allowing for all sorts of mischief and blackmail.
But it’s very hard to find the traitor… when you are the traitor!