Chapter Text
“I am Alpha and Omega; the beginning and the end.”
Battle Ravage drove his paw through a tour bus. The fragile vehicle exploded and incinerated all aboard. Cruel Lock, not to be outdone, brought down three buildings with swipes of his long Energon sword. The metallic jaguar rumbled his approval.
“I am that which is…”
Crumplezone and Wind Shear had massacred those on the freeway; Wheeljack and Wreckloose had slaughtered most of the humans in the shopping district. The moose lizard had taken to consuming his victims; ragged chunks of flesh hung from his jaws, serving to further terrifying the natives.
“… which was…”
The Air Assault Mini-cons were bombarding the city from above. Chromia was hugging the coastline, using torpedos to take out boats and her deck cannon to lob missiles at high-rise apartment blocks.
“… and is yet to come.”
Snarl and Side Burn were nowhere to be seen but were, certainly, wreaking havoc upon the weakling humans. Beings as pathetic, as insignificant, as those in the portable cell atop the geodesic dome. The male and female… old allies of the Autobots… were stunned by the violence all around them. Fortunately, the Energon walls of the mini-prison were soundproof; muffling their putrid despair.
“And you will know my name is Predaking when I lay my vengeance upon you!”
The high priest of the True Path turned, grinning, to Sky Shadow and Insecticon. His jubilation, his enthusiasm, was met with blank looks.
The gruesome little dwarf coughed uncomfortably. “Isn’t it ‘you will know my name is Megatron’?” he asked.
“Like the Transformer race,” Predaking said, waving a clawed hand dismissively, “the Covenant of Primus is overdue for an upgrade.” His raised an optic ridge as a sudden thought struck him. “Perhaps, once our agenda is complete,” he said slowly, warming to his idea, “I’ll take the time to sit down and re-write its data tracks to better reflect the True Path we walk this day. Yes.”
“Not too heretical, then,” Insecticon muttered, glancing briefly at Kicker and Misha’s cell.
“You would do well to silence your prattling synthesiser,” Predaking snapped, bearing his fangs, “especially when you are so clearly wrong. It should be evident to even the most dull-witted mech that the Covenant is a flawed document. Like those who encoded it, the text does not go far enough. It hints at the grand destiny of the Cybertronian race, hiding it in rhetoric for fear of panicking the ignorant masses.”
“How do you figure?” Insecticon challenged. The bug showed considerably more backbone than Predaking felt appropriate, given the circumstances.
“Even the Covenant mentions the Great Dragon,” he hissed proudly.
Terror echoed around them. Predaking closed his optics and breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of horror. “Such bliss,” he said, letting the fear-tinged air flow back out his lungs and mouth. “It has been many, many vorns since I allowed myself to enjoy the fruits of a hunt so fully. The trap has been sprung; fresh bait has been laid out…” he kicked the cell, “…and, soon, the prey will arrive. All is as it should be. Yes.”
“Except,” Sky Shadow called, “for this device. We need to talk, Predaking.”
The dragon rankled. “Do we, now?”
Sky Shadow’s complaints washed over him. The former neutralist wanted to know what alterations had been made to the device – specifically, why it had sent radiation shooting not only into the Global Space Bridge, but into the geodesic dome that formed the humans’ science centre. He wanted to know why the skies had turned white.
And so Predaking told him.
The dawning realisation, on the faces of both his mechs, was delicious. Predaking’s good mood returned as, with enthusiasm, he took both Insecticon and Sky Shadow through his master plan. Like Side Burn before them, the duo seemed almost sick with adulation, nauseous with anticipation.
“Thanks to Armourhide’s arm, the device and the reflective surfaces of this human building,” Predaking finished, flaring his new wings for emphasis, “the Earth is now out of synch with the rest of the universe! We occupy a different stream in time, a different plane of existence, from all those who would seek to interfere!
“And here we shall remain, safe and cocooned, until Cybertron arrives. Then, once our home world occupies Earth’s place in this solar system, we shall deactivate the device and merge the planets together – a metamorphosis that will transform Primus itself into the biggest, greatest Transmetal of all!”
He waited for applause. He received only stunned silence.
“You’re insane,” Insecticon breathed. “I’ve suspected it, all these vorns, and now it’s been confirmed. You’re totally, utterly mad.” He shuddered. “Worse than Megatron, than Flame Convoy, because you actually believe this lunacy will work.”
The bug activated his weapons systems. His beast mode legs flipped up and transformed into machine guns, each one trained on the Transmetal’s red hide. Insecticon’s optics were colder – darker – than ever before.
“I’m glad I’ve been here, watching you, all this time,” he cackled. There was a small object in his left hand – a communications transmitter. “If not for me ‘bugging’ your precious cathedral, there’d be no way for us to stop you.”
Predaking’s whole body tensed with animalistic fury. “You,” he thundered. “You are the traitor! It wasn’t Skid-Z after all… you foul, wretched unbeliever!”
Insecticon shook his head and laughed. “Oh no, Predaking,” he corrected. “I believe. I believe in what’s really right in this universe – what is true, and permanent, and forever. I believe in a cause and a way of life you’ll never understand… in a leader you could never emulate. My faith is in someone far higher than garbage like you.”
He raised his podgy right arm to the sky. “You should’ve read the Covenant properly,” he quipped. “And as it were a great mountain, raging with fire, arose from the sea.”
Hovering above them all was a flying island – a mass of metal and steel that filled the entire area above the city. It wasn’t just an island, Predaking realised – it was a grotesque, unnatural head, a Grand Mal of destruction that, as he watched, grew jaws and terrible teeth.
From out the abomination’s mouth poured a vast phalanx of soldiers. In both robot and jet modes they came, clad in armour of purple and blue. Predaking felt the vibrations of their engines cleave through his armour; his newly organic stomach twisted with anxiety and tension. Warriors more familiar followed the fifty-strong armada of drones… legendary names like Soundwave, Obsidian and Tankor.
Above them all – foot thrusters lowering him at a regal pace, the white light of the skies glinting off his gold-and-ruby crown – was Starscream.
“And a mighty warrior came down from the sky,” the aerial warrior crowed, “And a rainbow was on his head, and his feet were as pillars of fire.”
With obvious relish, Starscream activated his Force Chip. Crackling, purple blades of null-ray energy sprang forth from his arms.
“And the Great Dragon was cast out upon the Earth,” he said, grinning malevolently, “and his followers were cast out with him.”
Predaking took to the air, meeting his foe halfway. The powerful beings collided with calamitous force – but Starscream’s expression remained unchanged. The zealot roared furiously, slashing and tearing with his animalistic weaponry, but the smirking killer evaded every blow.
“How dare you?” Predaking boomed. “You have no place in this universe anymore, Starscream! You and your metallic kin are an anachronism – failed life forms fit only to fertilise the plants that bloom on the edges of the True Path!”
The Decepticon’s façade did not shift as he raised his left hand and brandished a small remote control. Casually, he thumbed the single red button, set in its centre.
The change was instant. Predaking’s enhanced senses picked up a new panic in the air… the panic of his own disciples. Cruel Lock’s Energon sword had flickered out, while Battle Ravage’s guns had jammed. Chromia had been forced to throw her multi-missile launcher away for fear it would explode in her hand – two of its munitions had jammed in their silos. Wheeljack, Wreckloose, even the Mini-cons… they’d all been disarmed.
“Swindle,” Predaking raged.
“Those who live and war as beasts,” Starscream hissed, “face their final cycle.”
-----
Didn’t she know the whole world had gone mad? It seemed as if the entire global population had spontaneously rioted, the moment the skies went white. Governments would have declared a state of emergency, had anyone remained at their post. Presidents and Prime Ministers had gone into hiding. The streets of every city were over-run with looters and violent freaks looking to vent their anguish at someone – anyone.
Unlike the Cold War, or the War on Terror, this crisis was immediate. The skies were white. The moon and sun and stars had all disappeared. No one knew if the atmosphere was next, or how long there would be breathable air. And still, the self-important snobs had demanded to know the rationale behind her “hubris”.
Then the hangar doors had opened. Sideways had stepped out. The true founder of the agency – the real G.B. Blackrock – was revealed to all and sundry… and, finally, heads were removed from asses so people could mobilise.
For the short time she’d held supreme power within the agency, Junko had acted in secret. Now, the blue-haired woman revelled in her moment. She would have felt complete satisfaction it not for the look on Franklin’s face.
In a strange way, the smouldering, betrayed look suited him. “You should have told me,” he growled. “We’re partners, damn it.”
“There’s no rule that says you have to know everything about me,” she replied, reaching into her desk drawer for her sabot pistol. It felt reassuring in her hand.
“That’s not the point,” Franklin spat forcefully. “You played us… you played me. You knew the robot we captured was the real Blackrock – and you used that information to take over.” He glared at her. “What else have you done that we don’t know about?”
The room was dark, lit only by the green glow of the life support machines. Junko measured them up, trying to discern which wires she’d need to cut. Killing the man, outright, would leave forensic evidence. Disabling the life-support machines would sound an alarm and bring doctors running – not to mention the police officer right outside. Some sort of drug would be best, but she didn’t know where to…
A shiver ran through her body. “Nothing at all,” she croaked.
“Right,” Franklin snapped. “Sure.”
“I don’t need you to believe me,” she sighed, walking away. “There are robots to kill.”
Her plan was simple. The Transformers were undoubtedly responsible for the chaos. They would, therefore, be able to reverse the process. And they would be forced to do so by a horde of agents, clad in giant exo-skeletons - the robotic suits of armour she had commissioned, via “Blackrock”, weeks before. No one had questioned the instruction – that wasn’t how the agency worked – even if they’d wondered, sometimes aloud, why the group’s mission seemed to be changing from debunking wild theories to warmongering. And if the head engineer, McFly, could quickly kit out a large group of agents they’d have a fighting chance of taking down the mechs before more people died.
A loud cough made her flinch. No human had a voice that loud.
“Is this the part where we charge into battle?” Sideways asked. The oily con-mech was propped against a wall, flexing his right arm. “I always had trouble with that. Whether it was Optimus Prime leading from the front, or Starscream pushing from the rear, that gung-ho willingness to throw oneself headlong at the enemy always eluded me.
“It’s kind of nonsensical. On one side you’ve got the Decepticons: ‘evil’ power-hungry psychopaths determined to rule the universe. They don’t care who or what they step on, as they trudge the road to conquest. On the other, you’ve got ‘good’ Autobots, each one ready to fight to their last microchip, all to defend innocent life.”
He shrugged. “Kind of wasteful, no? Engines of destruction versus self-sacrificing shields of liberty, with millions of lives in the middle.” He sighed. “If only there were some other group – non-aligned, independent, free – to sweep the poor, weak and defenceless out of the way. Before the shooting starts, not after.”
Junko bristled.
“Wouldn’t that just be amazing?” Sideways continued. “A group – a team, even – capable of putting aside petty considerations like vengeance, or settling the score, or even their own personal crusades, for the sake of everyone around them! Gosh, maybe I ought to write this down. It’s an idea that mind find application, sometime soon…”
“Why do you care?” she snapped.
Again, he shrugged. “Truthfully, I don’t. I mean, I’d hate to see a planet full of potential customers – all that access – get slagged. Aside from that, I’m frightfully unconcerned. You know, apart from my own pet theory on how lovely it is to be able to make up one’s own mind, unaffected by programmed sub-routines.”
He looked, meaningfully, at her – but she couldn’t see him. Her vision was clouded by memories. A three-headed dragon scorching the earth around her; a robotic scorpion madly lashing out. Metal titans leaping across freeways; a technorganic lizard glowing brighter than the sun. A group of cats reassembling a mighty warrior; a tender, simian face saying goodbye. A rip in space robbing her of something special; a burning hatred filling the gap in her heart… poisoning her with the lust for revenge.
Murashita Murakami enjoyed questioning the nature of existence; the need for war, the motivation for murder. His playgrounds were morality and ethics – the same sort of ground trod by those whose thoughts were Machiavellian.
Junko had been prepared to sacrifice her ethics to safeguard the world. That end would justify her means – the annihilation of every Transformer on Earth. Or so she’d believed. Once again, she’d become a puzzle for her father… and an embarrassment to herself.
“How many politicians are in your pocket?” she asked.
“I doubt there’s one that doesn’t owe me a favour,” he replied. “Why?”
“Call them in,” she said, holstering the weapon, “all of them. No bureaucrat, no military leader on the face of this planet, knows what’s going on. Neither do we, granted, but we’re equipped to handle robots and their schemes. This agency is going to co-opt every duly-appointed authority in the world and ensure the human race lives to see tomorrow.”
-----
Rodimus caught a fist to the jaw and grunted. He recovered quickly, wrestling the objecting hand and its flailing limb to the ground. “You make it sound like it should be easy,” he growled.
Help finally came. Jazz took the patient’s other arm while Smokescreen grabbed his other leg. Scattorshot and Zapmaster dog-piled their diminutive frames onto the mech’s chest. Nightbeat was at the tortured robot’s head, talking softly and trying to sooth him. It wasn’t working. Checkpoint had gone right off the deep end.
Not that it was his fault. The Autobots were almost at the city when the sky went white. While they hadn’t noticed a change in environmental conditions, Checkpoint most certainly had. His senses, keener than those of any living being, went haywire – an overload of changed stimuli and data now threatened to crash his processor, without urgent medical assistance.
His frightening appearance wasn’t helping matters any. The terrified humans that streamed past, already running for their lives, were even more distressed by the sight of giant robots holding down one of their own, like he was some kind of mad dog.
“Armourhide,” Downshift barked, “take the anaesthetic out of my leg pouch and dose Checkpoint up, will you?”
The commando had his back to them, and was trying to stop the humans trampling one another. “Sorry ta say,” he groused, “I’m more concerned wit’ da’ fate a da locals, who’re getting’ slaughtered by da stinking Terrorcons, dan I am with listenin’ t’ da orders of a freaking whack-job!”
Scattorshot was thrown off Checkpoint’s frame and clanged, unglamorously, on the ground. “Then how ‘bout ya listen t’ me, ya whiney protoform,” he snapped, “an’ do what the damn doctor tells ya to?”
Fuming, Armourhide ran across and snatched up the drill-tipped injector. As one, the RIDs and SWAT Autobots wrestled Checkpoint over onto his front. Nightbeat held his best friend’s head down, against the blacktop, as Armourhide drove the needle into the base of the security specialist’s neck. The viral program worked almost instantly; Checkpoint’s entire frame relaxed and he moaned softly.
“How much did you give him?” Rodimus asked, stretching a sore arm.
“Enough to deactivate his sensor net,” Downshift said, rubbing his wrists, “but not enough to knock him out. I figure we’ll need every mech on deck because, unless I miss my guess, Predacon’s managed to duplicate my time-shift effect on a global scale.”
“Gee,” Armourhide sneered. “I wonder how dat happened.”
Downshift ignored him. “That means we’re cut off from the rest of the universe,” he gulped, “including potential reinforcements from Cybertron.”
Checkpoint struggled to his feet, helped by the twins. “Sorry, everyone,” he rasped.
“S’okay, man,” Jazz chuckled. “I figure we drop you into the middle o’ a bunch o’ Terrorcons, then get the doc over there t’ deactivate the anaesthetic. That funky break-dancing o’ yours’ll take down a beastie or three in no time flat.”
They all laughed nervously – a brief respite from the grisly tableau ahead of them. Internally, Rodimus pushed down on the sense of unease claiming his Spark. It was a sensation he’d not felt since Unicron’s defeat, when his Matrix-enhanced sensors were at their peak. Back then, he’d detected the presence of some ominous but hidden threat… a malevolent force lurking behind the scenes… and been unable to identify it.
Had it been Predacon? He could see the zealot – at least, he assumed it was the zealot – looping through the air in a new, crimson body. Somehow he’d upgraded from a dinosaur into a dragon and was, now, dog-fighting with Starscream.
The Autobots had not failed to notice the arrival of the Decepticons. For a decade, their eternal enemies had been missing in action… now, at the worst of all possible times, they’d returned. And in a whanging great star ship, to boot.
“We’re slagged,” Smokescreen whispered, first to acknowledge the threat.
“Totally,” Jazz agreed. “Ain’t no way th’ nine o’ us can handle Decepticons as well as Terrorcons. We all gonna be crispy, ice cold slag by th’ end o’ this.”
Smokescreen grinned wryly. “Hell of a way to go out,” he nodded.
Jazz smiled at his doppelganger. “Ain’t no thing,” he agreed. “Th’ Well o’ All Sparks is a cool place to hang, no doubt. Hope it’s got some good music t’ dance to.”
Downshift clapped them on their backs. “That’s if we can hear the music,” he said, “over the top of all our friends, shouting because they’re happy to see us.”
Armourhide spat on the ground. “Yer a bunch a’ morons,” he said, hefting his assault rifle in both hands. “Let’s go kill some freaking ‘cons already, all right?”
“I ain’t gonna lie t’ you boys,” Scattorshot drawled, “I ain’t seen odds this bad since th’ Battle o’ Iacon. We lived through that, but th’ chances o’ living through this one stink. Still, we gotta try. Ten years back, most o’ us promised we’d give our lives fer this planet, if need be. And the SWATs, well, they vowed t’ do everythin’ in their power ta rid th’ universe o’ the Decepticons forever. Seems like our missions just collided, eh?”
Everyone rumbled agreement.
Rodimus stood at Scattorshot’s side and took a deep breath. “This is the point where we’d look to Optimus,” he admitted. “But he’s not here, right now. That means we’ve got to look to each other instead – we need to look to our team. We haven’t done so well at that, lately, so we’ll have to mend our ways. And we’ll have to do it under fire.”
He stepped forward, fixing his friends – his brothers in arms – with a strong, confident stare. “But live or die,” he said, his voice rising, “lose or win, we make our stand here. I don’t care if I go down, so long as my death saves human lives.” He was yelling now. “Who’s with me?”
The Autobots cheered. The young cavalier felt the tension in his Spark ease. Maybe destiny was wrong. Perhaps he’d die today, long before he took command of the Autobots. So what? You couldn’t live for prophecy; you couldn’t allow a supposed destiny to control your present. Rodimus, at long last, understood. He had to live… and, maybe, die… in the now, and let the consequences fall where they may.
“This a boy’s only thing,” came a voice over the inter-Autobot radio, “or are girls allowed to play, too?”
Rodimus’ Spark sang as Arcee came over the rise. The valkyrie transformed and ran across to them, her longbow drawn and ready.
“Thought I’d even the odds a bit,” she said, then smiled at Rodimus. “Or at the very least, make sure I go down with my friends.”
The cavalier returned the smile. Now he was ready to die. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, lady femme,” he said.
-----
Magnus glared at the cyclops. “What a wonderful group we make,” he deadpanned. “A one-armed-one-eyed Decepticon; a captive Autobot; a bunch of humans and a murderous turncoat.” He jerked a thumb at Thundercracker. “Aren’t you surprised to see him?”
Shockblast scoffed, his antennae twitching. “Little done by your inefficient faction surprises me, Ultra Magnus. Logically, you would seek to free your comrades at the first available opportunity – incapacitating our new Mini-cons in the process. However, even your vaunted improvisational skills could not account for the speed with which we have arrived at the battlefield, thereby removing your opportunity to escape.
“The only course left to you, now, is to fulfil your original bargain and assist in the Decepticon reclamation of our… rogue element. Otherwise, I will employ this vessel against your comrades and your base, both of which I have finally managed to locate.”
“The only logical course,” Magnus said.
“But of course,” Shockblast said, a trace of self-importance creeping into his notoriously-monotone voice.
“A logical course of action that relies, totally, on your ability to use the ship’s weapons before Thundercracker or I break you into tiny pieces,” Magnus growled.
Again, the scientist scoffed. “What you say is asinine. My level of interface with this vessel is at a near-psychic level. It was designed thusly. Neither you nor your ally are any more well equipped than I for combat, and neither of you can move quicker than the speed of thought.”
“We don’t have to,” Magnus rasped. “You’re already beaten, Shockblast. Look at who you’re facing: the military mind that drove the Decepticons from Cybertron and the remorseless fighter who took your arm and kept it as a trophy. The mech who broke your brain and the mech who broke your body; all alone, with you, in this cavernous fortress. A place so big, so empty, that no one will be able to hear you scream.”
Shockblast, for the first time in millions of years, blinked.
“And I swear to you,” Magnus said, his voice thick with malevolence, “that if you manage to loose so much as one missile, Thundercracker and I will systematically short-out every last diode in your chassis until all that’s left of you is a processor roasting, slowly, over the flaming shards of your ruined carcass.”
The Decepticon did not react… at first. As Magnus watched, the scientist’s single optic grew dimmer… fainter… and then went out.
Thundercracker waved an obsidian hand in front of the comatose Decepticon. “What the frell did you do to him?” he asked, his trademark apathy replaced by awe.
“Broke his brain… again,” Magnus said. “Though he didn’t know it, Shockblast – and every other Decepticon – has been soaking up the ‘Dirge song’ for a decade. Their self-confidence is in shambles, their insecurities are at fever pitch and their mental defences are almost non-existent. Shockblast has been living in mortal fear – of you, especially – all that time. His processor simply couldn’t cope with such a direct threat, such inescapable danger and so shorted out… dropped him into protective stasis.”
Koji whistled. “You lobotomised him.”
Magnus nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s not going to work on every Decepticon down there.” He concentrated for a moment, summoning the blue Planet Key from subspace. It hovered in the air and flared momentarily – seconds later Magnus’ weapon, Blue Bolts, flew into the room, buoyed on an aura of cobalt energy. He snatched it up.
“Follow the energy trail back to where it started,” Magnus said to Thundercracker, “and you’ll find the armoury. Load up. Get Koji and the other humans to ground level, then rendezvous with Arcee. She’ll have met up with the other Autobots. Get Scattorshot to organise the counter-attack.”
“Scattorshot?” Thundercracker sneered. “Where are you going?”
Magnus didn’t answer. He transformed, folding his body up into a massive blue-and-white car carrier. Powerful engines fired; the truck left thick swathes of black rubber in its wake. The Earthforce commander paid no heed to the yawning chasm in front of him, driving unswervingly out the ship’s jaws and into mid-air.
He transformed, again, as he fell, activating his rocket pack. As he accelerated, he thrust Blue Bolts out in front of him like a bayonet. When he pulled the trigger, the assault rifle’s barrel crackled with azure lightning… an electrical discharge that Magnus thrust into the small space between his struggling targets: Predaking and Starscream.
Decepticon and Terrorcon howled in pain. Starscream let go of his opponent and tumbled away. Magnus gripped Predaking tightly, ignoring the burn of the lightning, and fired his boosters again. As one, they plummeted into the top of the geodesic dome. They crashed through, impacting thunderously in the centre of the main conference room.
Magnus picked himself up and brushed plaster from his chassis. Nearby, Predaking rolled over, flexing wings and claws, and roared angrily.
“For this infamy,” he snarled, optics ablaze with hatred, “you will die a thousand deaths!”
“Spare me,” Magnus spat derisively. “This is where your little guerrilla war started, zealot, and this is where it’s going to end!”