CHAPTER 9: Renegade Decepticons!

SOME WORDS TO KNOW..

Megadyne --(Mega-dy-n) The legendary, supreme, honored first ruler of Ta’nak. He led his people to freedom in the plight to escape Quintesson suppression. His followers founded “Destron”; the exodus point to become the first settlement in Ta’nak. Today he is worshiped as the first of three in the crown rays of Karna that all Decepticon monarchs to come afterwards owe their ‘birth right’ too.
Kraku! --(c-rah-ku) A Delepic phrase for, ‘Enemy sighted!”
Mafaari-Pipa --(Ma-fa-ri pi-pa) Soundwave’s creator; his name is a combination of two Zarma/Zulu tribe words that translate as, “sensory pipe; he who sounds the alarm”
Inpentshisi –-(In-pent-she-she) His name is Zulu tribe for, “sensation”
Adrams –-(Ad-roms) So many yards away

.

Handing it out butt first, Sarterius watched through narrowed, conservative optics as Rumble reached out to take his weapon back. Nothing new to read in the general’s stone face as he did the same for Scourge nearing Cyclonus. Obedient to his emperor’s order, but clearly opposing his desire; he feinted with the sudden shift of his shoulder half way between allowing the lavender mech to completely take back his property.

Sarterius grinned then and it was like seeing the teeth of a sharkticon, lips sliding back over a cruel expression.

“You may have found the king’s momentary favor,” He gnarled low and tight so as not to alert Metatisic’s attention, “But you’ll have a lot more of a challenge if you are to persuade me.”

The ridges of general’s lenses tensed with his scowl as Cyclonus maintained his calm in the smolder of his hate. Positive and solid all the while.

“You’re hiding something.” Sarterius coasted from Cyclonus’ jaw to his eyes trying to read the twin scarlet vats, “I don’t know what.” He said coolly, “But I know that you are hiding something. And I’ll find it – I will find it, fellow Decepticon.”

“But, father! I can fight!”

Megatron’s tantrum from behind distracted Sarterius. Reluctantly, he snapped free his grip on Cyclonus’ rifle, held the ‘con in his eyes for a moment longer, then turned away to spot the young prince in the bravest, most confident pose he could muster. Smiling, the child aimed his black canon and even saluted. Held it a little too long, however. Sarterius
groaned at the sloppy manners.

Pampered, cosseted boy! Mimicking a lot more than they could ever imagine. The general dealt with waves of just such upstarts dozens of times before - and also busted a few of their mouths for their insolence and the stupid confidence of youth. He’d learn soon enough what killing was really like.

“You are to remain here with Shockwave as I have requested.” Metatisic dashed his son’s hopes. The smile and battle pose disintegrated.

“Awww!”

“No, Megatron!”

“But I don’t need a sitter.” The vornling pouted, “I’m brave enough.”

Even though a spell of pity coated the mirrors of his visuals, Metatisic shook his head. To the scum outside, the boy would be little more than a easy target rather than a threat to their well being. They would demolish him for no other purpose but to delight themselves in his grief.

“Bravery has even less to do with it, Megatron.” The Dourjer spoke firmly, “Not unless you have the firepower and the wisdom that is clearly required to back it. I’m sorry. You’re just not strong enough yet.”

Numerous shouts sailed in from outside the Iysurus precinct. “Rougeons!” One of the imperial guards pointed and implored the Dourjer’s attention over to the precipice looking out over the stretch of the capital. A new darkness was creeping every rise of horizon beyond the gates of Bractos; a mobile mass of conflicting shades and pinpoint pricks of light, meeting and multiplying on the southern most ridge.

“So our late friend, Shard has not come alone.” Sarterius announced the obvious.

Directly below in the metropolis, troopers, with their calls, rushed the streets grouping in the square surrounding the temple mount. The clatter of their plate armor bled into the startled cries of suddenly frightened civilians. Haphazardly, they ducked and darted for cover wherever it could be found.

“What are they doing down there?!” Metatisic muttered in frustration. “Legate!” He hollered into his chest console, “Legate! Acknowledge!”

“Legate... Go ahead, highness.”

The leader squint inspecting the full scope of his cannon barrel as he cinched his mantle tighter to his neck, “I will not stand for this pestilent, banter fodder to be allowed to take the city, Legate.” He fumed locking the cuff, “But I will certainly even less have the soldiers to be allowed to incite panic within the streets! I want order! Professional, maintained order!”

“Yes, sire, of course.”

“Right now, Legate! And you!,” The Dourjer stabbed a sharp finger at one of three guardsmen standing fixed at the head entrance of the dome, who had begun to grin, “Decepticons are you?!” Metatisic spat. “My circuitry seizes at the thought of constructs like you carrying on my heritage, my land, my people! — ”

“Master.” In unison, they snapped off a crisp salutes.

“The rest of you!,” Metatisic continued, “There are droids, and there are Decepticons! To allow the capital to be breeched in any way is not only unforgivable, but it is unthinkable! Bractos is the Vector Sigma of our race!”

He strode before them as he preached. The ruler’s voice was harsh, but it was necessary that every single one of them comprehend the desperation of the situation.

“If it should perish, so too will the millions of years spent, the travail of your antecedents, who’s eternal sparks watch your actions now. Your children, your brothers, and your fathers will ask, Decepticons, how well was your pride .... be sure you can look them all in the eye.”

“Master.” More salutes. Heads bowed.

Sarterius and a soldier near him lowered their brows and Metatisic whirled in their direction. His center of attention filtered from his son to the commander. “Sarterius! You stated you had four units?”

“Yes, M’lord.”

“What is their proximity within the city?” Metatisic marched the full length of the viaduct towards the transit with only a few strides; confident measures that were as crystal clear as his desire to finalize this whole matter once and for all.

“Stationed at the northern gate, sire.”

“Order that one unit be moved to the south and another on reserve to the west borders.” The emperor tapped a sentry on the shoulder passing the robot by, “Follow me.”

“But, my master, the Rougeons are at the south. Shouldn’t we station more than one century?”

“On the contrary, Sarterius, the resistance tends to remind me a lot of retro-rats. They like to sneak in through the tiniest of gaps in the wall. It would be just their benefit to have us move the lot of our warriors to their front leaving our backs exposed to their fire . . . You!,” Metatisic hastily elected another trooper. Then Scourge, and then Cyclonus, “You and you, come now!”

The emperor leapt from the three of them back to his charge in an instant, “You can be quite certain,” He said, “That the rebels are trusting that we will fall for such a folly.”

Sarterius nodded.

“You there!” The leader picked another sentinel, “Follow me! And Shockwave?”

The gold orb of the transformer’s lens strobed with his acknowledgment.

“Shockwave, you have your first command. Keep the others here with you and divided them between Legate and yourself! Any trustworthy slave who can fight, arm them and have them take up defense measures within the Iysurus, and for all the rest, order a lock down. I won’t have this nuisance stirring up a possible revolt.”

“Of course, Metatisic.”

Satisfied and assured that no possible harm would befall the Iysurus, a faint stroke of a smile tugged at the corners of the dictator’s lips. With half a nod, he scanned his chosen ones beside him, took note of their number, and paraded toward the transporter.

.

1

.

More than experienced infantry dotted the avenues of the metropolis. A simple medi-droid, though not experienced in the art of warfare, unwrapped a bandage to spread vicious-looking tools upon one of the empty merchant booths in the market terrace. He did not have half the knowledge nor function of a sentry, but he certainly had every ounce of their pride.

“You two stay with me.” He collared two of his fellow attendants as they were grabbing cleavers to help in the battle.

“You’ll get your fill of spilt energon right here if the riff-raff is foolish enough to enter into the city.”

The first of the associates had just bobbed his head in compliance, when a soldier neighboring his flank stretched his right hand to the sky. The signal was relayed with great horns suddenly blaring throughout the district that set off responses all the way down great snakes of soldiers. Hundreds of fighting robots and half as many again in support, the noise was rhythmic as it was deafening.

The medi-droid spotted the reason - toward the fortification of the temple foundation, through the nooks and crannies of chrome and steel, the jaws of the transit jimmied wide exposing their god.

Metatisic paused three-fourths of the way across the adjoining bridge that anchored the plaza to inspect the gathered pockets of troops. It was clear that civilians and slaves alike were in their number – Good. He knew he was going to need the extra hardware.

“Those of you who are not enlisted Decepticons,” Sarterius announced panning the crowd, “Step forward now!”

A few dozen looked at each other before they took a step and Metatisic tallied the number with studious optics. Fifty-nine men in this lot and several fem-cons.

“How many of you have been in the army?” Sarterius requested.

Eleven or thirteen hands rose — Pitiful.

“You Decepticons have priority for firearms. The rest of you go and find anything that will cut or crush. Run!”

The last word shocked the frightened men and women out of their lethargy and they scattered. Those who already found weapons remained. Most of them robbed the merchants no doubt. Metatisic walked up to one of them, a stone faced lad with slab-muscled shoulders potted with dings and dents. He was armed with a large wrench and stank of petroleum and old grease.

“What is your name?”

“I don’t have one, master,” Came the reply. “I am a slave.”

It was difficult for the Dourjer not to crack a smile at the bizarre answer, but it was also very apparent the mech was being honest. “Very well,” Metatisic accepted, “Nameless slave. Where do you labor?”

“Cargo, Lord. I work the B dock repairing ships and subways.”

“I see. Have you ever taken a life?”

The youth appeared a little worried, “N-no.” He replied, “But I would be willing if the need presented itself.”

“It has presented itself now. Don’t hesitate with the choice like you did your answer. Throat and cerebrum. Find something to block a blow – some sort of shield.”

“Yes, master, directly.”

“All of you listen up!” Metatisic broke away from the slave to the masses surrounding him, “Rougeons are opportunist at best so they will be on the lookout for easy target to plunder! The numbers of our legions within Bractos are minimal!” He revealed, “If our enemy becomes aware of this, they will no doubt attempt to use every ounce of that fact to their advantage in order to seize the city and destroy your way of life!”

A stunned gasp exhaled from those gathered.

“I want every battalion to fan out across the capital. Make the sound a hundred mechs each! One strong Decepticon, whether he is programmed for conflict or not, with a good sword arm and a ruthless temperament can handle hostilities as well as any other.”

A luster of neon cued within the emperor’s crimson eyes just then. It arced there, speeding the diamonds of each panel until they shone like flashlights. A witness to his urgency, Cyclonus’ shoulders lifted a little straighter.

A genius --that is what Rumble told him and Scourge. The smaller ‘con was left behind to Shockwave’s wishes now somewhere still within the Iysurus Temple, but the cassette left ‘grandeur’ out of his description menu. Galvatron’s parent was heavily laden with pride as though it had been hot-wired directly into his central processing unit. Nothing he transmitted was by force. As respect trigger a grin from the lieutenant, it was clearly apparent to him that Metatisic was not a ‘god’ because he, or national law, said so. He was a god because his Decepticons willingly believed it.

While heads in the audience bowed with reverence, Metatisic lifted his to the brass disk far above the estate. The zenith of the Alpha-Centauri had succumbed more than a half-hour ago, but its presence still reigned with fading thoroughfares catapulted across the Ta’nakian sky.

“Exceptional engender,” The tone of the Decepticon leader was discretional in his esteem. The lids of his optics closed as he prayed, “Be with your offspring. Powerful and mighty, Megadyne, hail to you firstborn ray of Karna.”

“Hail, Megadyne!” Some voices who heard him reiterated. “We will not forget!”

“Illuminate within me your wisdom as I am your seed of your sons.” Metatisic requested, “To be your resurrection! Allow the greatness that was your armies to be with my own now on this day ... Become as one within me, great, eternal Dourjer of the horizon.”

As he solicited the favor of his god, Scourge’s eyes flicked back and forth conjecturally between his comrade and a warrior he didn’t know at his side. He did not know this prayer (neither did Cyclonus by the looks of his mute face) but shouldn’t they answer like the others around them? Wouldn’t it be a sacrilege if they did not? After all, Sarterius was already looking for any right or reason to rip their throat rods out!

“Steady, Scourge.” Cyclonus must have sensed his worry. He didn’t say anything else, only jutted his chin while the last words roll off the monarch’s lips like the oily mech fluid sliding down his left cheek just then. It was final. From here on, only time would tell if his deities heard him at all.

“You, there ... You, over there. You’re in that group.” Cyclonus recognized the voice as belonging to one of the soldier from back at the Ohiiden camp. He was the one that had given him and his fellows energon, and now he was deciding their fates. Cyclonus knew exactly what “that group” meant; could tell by the wash of fear in the optics of the chosen. “that group” would the first to be sent out - the first in line.

“Sacrifice.” He muttered out the corner of mouth at the sweep leader.

“You, over there! In that line! In that line! Order! Order!”

“For the better good of the Decepticon empire.” Scourge replied.

“Yes. Not much has changed.”

The foraging continued. Cyclonus allowed his focus to skirt to the right over to where Megatron’s father had been in prayer. He was gone. Suffocated in the dividing pillars of the spendable stock, sentries, and civilians. It was easy to tell who was who with each call and point of a sword or finger: “You’re in that group.”

.

2

.

The noise of the men was like a flock of geese cackling in excited nervousness. Cyclonus had been chosen for what they billed the 4th unit – Incredible! He could see the chief-general, Sarterius patrolling the infantry and spreading the count to different sectors of the city’s retainer walls. With such a Decepticon in charge, it was clearly a wonder, Cyclonus thought, how he managed not to be part of the first.

Sarterius - his Lord’s steward and almighty co-commander - What was it about him really? Was the taunting just his fuel in the face of his enormous responsibility? High treason was serious. It had always been serious to Decepticons. For someone of Sarterius’ rank, his suspicion was actually, despite its vicious, rabid flare, every bit justified. Cyclonus knew full well that if it had been him instead, he wouldn’t act much different. He would not think twice about deactivating Scourge if he thought he was a traitor.

Scourge. Cyclonus’ attention strolled the collection of soldiers around him and didn’t see him anywhere.

“Silence!” Sarterius snapped, “The next Decepticon to speak will get back down here and face me!”

In the sudden absence of chatter, they could again hear the screams and yells of the Rougeon horde rushing the metallic fields, taking their positions much faster than the Dourjer’s police, and saturating ever closer towards the capital sprawl. They were ready and most likely had been. Knowing it worried the general.

“We need to listen to what is going on! Keep silent and keep a distance from the next mech along, so you can swing without cutting off his head.”

The robots shuffled apart from the little knots that had formed out of the need for contact. Still, Sarterius cursed himself. The best of his outfit were astro-miles away coming down from the Nin’ger passage where he had first dispatched them too back when he still believed that the renegades wouldn’t dare oppose Bractos. He entertained the positive view that at least he had this mass of corruption choked – if they retreated, his legions there would be waiting to sever the remains of their number.

But until then?

Twenty good sentries from his battalions and he could hold this wall until the next dawn. These were infants, 60% inexperienced, and armed with little more than sticks and socket wrenches! Sarian slaves and several women. How could he teach them the finer points of full scale war in only moments?

“There is nowhere to run to.” Sarterius tried to find some words to encourage them, “If the mob breaks past you, everyone in the capital will die. Your families! That is your responsibility. You must not leave your position — we are stretched thinly as it is. The retention walls of the city is 8 feet wide —one pace. Learn it quick or you will fall.”

He watched as the ‘cons shuffled around on the wall, checking the width for themselves. His expression tightened.

“Do not look down, even if you see your friends being killed before you. Take honor in their sacrifice and fight on!”

Fight on! They were the memorialized words of all Decepticons. Springing forth from this past, they latched hold onto its future. The “future” that existed in Cyclonus. There was a flighted moment where jet embraced that pride while he hunkered down checking the charge gauge of his weapon. Realization came to him like a flood that although the date on the calendar may have changed, the principal of Decepticon function had not --Fight on!

Sarterius had offered the best advice he could. The endless chains of runners were still. There was no more water to be carried, and the stockpiles of energo-arrows and artillery shot were all in position. Only the breathless footsteps of a messenger from another part of the wall broke the tension now.

Irritation spidered the general’s face. It had grown quiet - much too quiet. He gripped the lip of the wall looking for any sign of a change.

He found only one. A lone renegade steamed up towards the retainer. “He’s mad!” Sarterius favored a instant speculation, “Every one of them! They’ve all lost their logistics!”

He considered dropping the idiot where he stood. One single pitch could put a dol-laser spear straight through the fool’s neck.

His thoughts were interrupted as a cloaked messenger jostled by him. In that moment, the scene completely shifted. Sarterius watched in dawning horror as the robots on the closest section of the wall were suddenly overwhelmed from behind by their own companions! So rigorous were they on the swarm clamoring beyond the gates that scores feel in seconds. What they thought were “Gunners” dropped the shells they held and sank sabers into the soldiers nearest them, murdering sentinels before they even realized they were already under attack.

“No!” Cyclonus spat. He didn’t tap the militant next to him - he smacked him hard for his attention, “They’re already inside!!”

Even as he lifted his pistol and felt rather than saw the Decepticon do the same, he caught sight of a flare launching up into the air. As it exploded into a brilliance of gold and fire, outside the retainer wall, the Rougeon horde roared as if hell had broken open. Cyclonus was sure he had heard this sound once before — when the chaos-bringer, Unicron drove his fist into the crust of Cybertron like a blacksmith stamping sheet metal.

“Attack!” He commanded hardly giving thought that the order was not his to ordain. What did it matter in the delirium? The inexperience of most of his comrades was immediately apparent. Beside him, a civilian was holding a sword out in front of him, but trembling so badly, he wasn’t swinging at all. Cyclonus snapped his attention to the left pumping a rebel with five rounds just as the renegade was about to pull his weapon.

“Do you want to die? I said attack!!!”

Through his field glasses, the Dourjer Metatisic could already make out the desperation mounting from the reserve post. He saw the teams dressed as runners were all armed and converging on where Sarterius stood. His hull was already speckled with the fushia and violet glow of his enemies’ energon. Watching with alarm rich eyes, the general buried his gladius into another renegade while spinning to take off the head of another.

A fool! ...Dammit! They had played him for a fool! Gnashing back boiling rage, it was perfectly clear now that the enemy was not only already within the capital, but it was equally apparent that it also meant the rebels were alert to the fact that most of his legions were not with him. The dictator’s fleet had been hastily crafted of townspeople and slaves.

“Coronach!” Metatisic let the binoculars fall mid-chest, “Get every mech up to the barricades! Move! Triple the fleet on the line!”

The youth nodded and signaled to the messengers to carry the news to the outpost of the line as urgently as possible.

More flares popped overhead and suddenly the sky turned black with energo-arrow shafts, a stinging, humming swarm of death companioning a rainbow of photon and laser fire that pennant towards Bractos. Metatisic watched the hostility fall. He clenched his fist and tightened his jaw as they whirred towards his direction. Soldiers around him threw themselves down, but he stood straight and unblinking with his optics mirroring the fire like glitter.

“Great master!!”

The shafts rained and firecrackered around him. He turned and chuckled at his scrambling advisers and officers. Coronach was on his knees. Two others stared glassily at the sky, unmoving.

“A good omen, don’t you think?” Metatisic said, still smiling. “Aaaaaaattack!!!!!!!” He demanded.

Through the glare of return fire, Rougeons stormed the retainer. Metatisic’s first blow took one of the runners as they slowed to negotiate scrambling groups of fighters. More of the sentries seemed to have woken up to the fact that the enemy was disguised and in the flashing colors and blows of combat, no Decepticon knew quite exactly which of the groups were friends and which were foes. It was a devastating ploy, and inside the walls everything was chaos.

.

3

.

Few had sabers. Most were armed, like the defenders, with whatever they could find (or had confiscated from the caravan trails) Some had no weapons except their frenzied rage, and Cyclonus dispatched the first of these with a slick shot to the neck, ignoring the quivering fingers that scrabbled at his breastplate. All along the line, screams rose above the crush of metal on metal and the droning hum of electric bullets and swinging energo-swords that met their armored targets with florets of white current. Cyclonus caught a glimpse of Scourge just then — or so it resembled at least within the rush dizziness of hot pain.

The Saboteur hissed. His injury from the solar flux danced a twinkle of sparks upon his right knee joint although its blistering pain was thudding in his audios. He saw Sarterius to his left — and for a moment, on his right. The general had plugged the muzzle of his rifle deep into the gullet of a Rougeon rebel and pulled the trigger. Yellow colored slivers of iron plate and oil wet throat rods sprayed the ground and coated the shells of others. He let the body fall back on it’s fellows and stamped on fingers that gained easier and easier holds on the retention wall as the bodies of the dead served as props for new attackers.

Cyclonus swore over the agony in his leg and clenched his jaw when he slammed his fist into a renegade’s stomach, almost losing his footing when the Rougeon caught his wing tip when he toppled backwards. Another took his place and another, Cyclonus couldn’t see a end to them.

He took a blow from a rod of steel that left him dazed for a second. He staggered back, reeling, trying to find the power to raise his blaster to meet the next one.

>>>Energon intact: 0030.04% 0000:0005000 >>>

Just perfect! “I’m to old for this,” He told noone in particular and shoulder-barged a rebel mech as he fought to strengthen. The robot fell badly, toppling backward onto his head with a yell. The cargo slave from the temple mount was there to greet him with his socket wrench he was batting for all it was worth.

More flares arched the battlefield. Catapults of fire detonated to hurl twisted forms up into the air.

“Fire!” Cyclonus heard a guardsman far to the right order, “Fire!” More white-gold and scarlet sizzled across the sky. Within seconds, the explosions were raging into nets of flames and thick smoke.

Two more rebels breasted the wall at once, leaping from the pile of bodies that were now half as high as the top. The first swung a sword at Sarterius, who let his own slid into the mech’s chest from the side, letting the wild lunge carry the destroyed sentry onto the collapse of others below. The second one however, Cyclonus pegged off quick with a shot that caught the soldier eye level just before he could reach the general.

“Are you hurt?” Cyclonus asked, without taking his eyes off the retainer. His chest pulsed with pain and he cringed fighting hard not to let it show. Sarterius, on the contrary, looked somewhat surprised.

“No. Stand in your post, Decepticon Cyclonus.”

Cyclonus looked at him for a long moment. “I think I’ll stay here awhile longer, with all apologies, commander,” He said softly.

“Oh?”

“Yes. To help you with --them!” Cyclonus just pointed with his gun. More rebels surged over the wall and Sarterius flicked left just in time to dance his energo-saber from one throat and cranium to the next unstoppably.

Galvatron’s lieutenant barely noticed those who fell beneath his rounds. Their antique weaponry was no match against 21st century technology. He fought as he had been trained: thrust, fire, guard, reverse. The hulls mostly thickened at the lean of the gate and had become like stairs to both their comrades and Metatisic’s army. The straight lines were long gone. Soldiers rushed everywhere in every direction.

It seemed as if they threw themselves into his range of fire. Shot after shot drenching the wall with the gush of fluids, saturating him at the same time. Why wouldn’t they just quit? Draw back? Was it blind faith ---Blind faith did have the habit of possessing souls into believing they could do anything in the face of impossible odds. These renegades were Decepticons after all, the principal of “fight on!” was certainly no less valuable to any of them. But they couldn’t possibly win this. How could they think too?

One Rougeon clearly didn’t realize he was dying. His energon poured from his chest with thick bleeds of black oil. One of his arms was already blown clean, but he still kept hacking away with a broken dol-spear, his face maniac. Infantry poured down the corpse built steps charging onto the field. Several swings from a dozen fresh sentries of the 9th unit butchered the robot to pieces.

Thrust, fire, guard, and reverse, Cyclonus was locked in the soldier’s rhythm of destruction as he zig-zagged out onto the field. Sarterius, who had been beside him, welded in the flood, lost from his sight. On the battle stretch, Cyclonus could finally take notice that the eastern most walls had faired a lot worse, in fact he couldn’t make it out at all. The gate was alive with fire that was climbing as high as the silos they were meant to protect. Through the blankets of smoke, few figures were still moving.

Spears of gold shot out of the ash plumes pecking off Rougeon soldiers nearest the torched retainer. The all too familiar crick-crack sound alerted Cyclonus’ attention to a form distorted for a moment in the ebony puffs; Metatisic transformed back into his robot mode and crashed his boot into the crown of one of the mechanisms as it collapsed. It touched off a demonic grin from the Dourjer feeling satisfaction at the linkages popping under his weight. He spun and shot another.

That’s when it happened – Whatever remained of the east gate was gone in one instantaneous concussion that palpitated the entire length of the battlefield. Flames and heat had caught up to the pyramids of artillery shells and they detonated into a thunderous, far-flung copper-tinted hell mushrooming high above the site of the outpost. Knocked to all fours by the shockwave, Cyclonus instinctively brought his arms up to shield his face as foundation, metal, and chunks of fire rained down all around him. It pelted his back with chorus of dings. His thoughts wandered away and back, fogged by the impact. He lost consciousness, he thought only for a few seconds.

There was nothing to be seen, only heard. The sounds of battle cradling him swelled with screams and ripe torment. For a while, it appeared, either he was oblivious to the enemy, or they were just as oblivious to him wanting only to escape the carnage. Survivors ran past him while others only managed a few more steps before they dropped. Cyclonus blinked away the fuzz momentarily infecting his vision allowing the realization to dawn that some of still falling rubble was not the gate’s substructure, but the wreckage of shattered robot bodies.

Cyclonus gagged on the smoke. One frame slumped near what used to be the post was just too familiar. At the sight of it, horror crested in the Decepticon’s widening optics. He jerked: “Metatisic!!”

He struggled to try to walk.

No ... No! It’s not him! Not him! His visuals toyed with double vision – sometimes triple. He cursed and wrestled with his weakness towards the direction again. Maybe it wasn’t anything. With all the litter and deformed ruin and his optics betraying him with phantoms, there was a likely opportunity that it was. Pain buckled his right leg from under him. Primus dammit! He would drag the limb if he had too.

A Rougeon tank shell soared overhead and collided with the already ravaged east retainer. Shards of its dilapidated husk avalanched in defeat setting free what he hope up till then was just a knot of steel beams --it wasn’t. The body shifted and flip-flopped down the slope of debris to collect with other casualties at the base.

It was Metatisic! His once polished wine construction was painted with thick unartistic smears of creosote, crude oil, and smudging drools of other robots’ drainage. Ironically, the Dourjer came to rest against the lifeless wreck of a rebel militant he had destroyed moments before the blast.

Another plosion as Cyclonus limbered towards the monarch. This time it came from a flame-gutted silo overhead the carnage. Its iron frame groaned in protest as it came crashing down.

“Metatisic?” Cyclonus pawed at his leg clamoring for a hold.

He’s dead ... Great god and Cybertron he’s dead!

“Meta – eh! –isic?” The second-in-command slammed his eyes shut hissing over a volley of anguish. Metatisic was wedged tight in a crush of body shells and jagged ruins. With his diagnostics pealing stressfully about his systematics forlorn condition, Cyclonus feared he might not be able to pull him free from the death. He absolutely had to refuel.

“Metatisic?!” He straddled one corpse, then another, kicking a stubborn jag of crumpled plate armor out of the way in order to grasp the emperor’s hand at last.

He’s dead already, you fool! He’s dead! And you’re dying too ..

But I got ... I must!

Cyclonus yanked hard and finally Metatisic slide lifelessly from the tangled mutilation. Puffing what he was sure was the last ounce of energy he had left, the lieutenant dropped across him searching for a motor purr, the tick of a gear shift, a spark ... anything at all that would hint some presence of life.

“Metatisic?”

Illuminance flickered from the twin rouge windows of his optics like a faulty bulb and when Metatisic gurgled suddenly trying to cough, Cyclonus’ weathered expression brightened. He was functional, scarcely, but it was the indication the futuristic jet fighter wanted. Where was Scourge? Sarterius? Were they even alive? Screening his immediate surroundings, everything that looked like a robot was dead. He picked out forms in the calamity ---Rougeon forms!

There would be no question at all that if the rebellion found them now he might have the glimmer of a chance, but Metatisic would be murdered immediately. He was their enemies’ king, and their leader. His death would be a satisfying moment of triumph. Cyclonus had to get him out of here!

Against the nauseating ping of physical drain, Cyclonus hissed tugging a dead Decepticon over top of Metatisic to camouflage him briefly from view then spun, crouching to engage the Rougeons. They spotted him before he could locate them again in the scrolls of smoke and flame and shouted out orders in Delepic that Cyclonus did not need Rumble’s help in order to translate.

“Kraku! Ver si!”

He threw him down into the tangles as the renegades riddled the area around him with heavy fire. Bullets clipped off pieces of debris sending pockets of dust floating up into the air.

The wreckage of the east retainer gave him the cover he wanted to crawl left undetected. While the Rougeon sentries inched close to inspect their damage from one direction, Cyclonus came up on one knee from the other and fired full force into the network of soldiers. Three of them took hits grunting as they dropped. A fourth held his volley a moment longer, his optics shifting suddenly from Cyclonus to a second floor tower mount behind him. He saw his cranium shake and bounce back, a thin line of energon trickled from the Rougeon’s forehead sending him face up to his death. Puzzled, Cyclonus flashed a quick glance towards the spaces above him, but saw nothing directly to indicate were the blast had come from...

.

4

.

A young mech had one optic squinted shut and focused his other down the trigger line of his ebony cannon. Steady, steady --just like he had been taught. Just like he had observed hundreds of times. Only those targets weren’t moving. These ones were and they also had weapons of their own to return fire. Using the whips of flame and ash for cover, the vornling stiffened his upper body, pressed his lips tight and squeezed down on the trigger, the recoil jerked his shoulder back.

He killed him. He killed that Rougeon soldier.

A slender bar of shade criss-crossed the adolescent.

“Revenge.” He said, “Just like I swore I would.”

A breeze of smoke still fanning from his shank, the youth reckoned back on his friend. What he spoke. What he promised:

.

5

.

A Prince's recollection...

“Not that way, this way.”

“You said that five turns ago.” The Decepticon youngster reprimanded with a breathy whisper as they gingerly approached another intersection. Inching up to the back of his navy plated partner, the boy cautiously scanned the corridor behind him seeing nothing in the glaring long laps of gilded filament. At least they weren’t being followed and that at least meant that Shockwave was fawning over the security of the Iysurus Temple; much too indulged to realize he was missing.

“Where are we anyways?”

“This is the tunnel networks the droids always take. Nobody else comes through here and there’s no need to worry if we run into any of them.” He watched the ivory Decepticon prince peeked down the new hallway before he slipped passed him.

“Megatron?”

“I say we go this way. Look! There’s the escape hatch you mentioned, Soundwave! The one that leads outside! We found it!”

“Megatron?”

“What?”

“Do you think this is wise?”

His hands on the ladder rail and one foot up on the first step, Megatron frowned at his dark blue friend, “There was a renegade who broke into the palace today!” He scolded.

“I know, you told me.”

“Then you know he tried to kill my father too?”

“Yes.” Soundwave’s harmonics sounded as weary as he looked.

“Then that should be reason enough.” The prince took another step up, “For yours and mine.”

That particular remark was not one that Soundwave wanted to recollect at all. The child shrank away against the corridor wall.

...

...Mafaari-Pipa --communications expert in the 2nd. Rank. He was often enlisted for reconnaissance duty to report on rebel movements along the traveler routes between Destron far to the south and the Ohiiden road. Some time ago on a specific misson he and his squadron ran into resistance. Surviving infantry relayed the full report:

“You see anything?” Mafaari-Pipa shouted out, blaster at ready, as he braced himself against the shoulder of a boulder sized jut of silver plate. A shot had rung out missing his fellow’s leg by nano-inches. Another one had clipped the plate he was now huddled behind.

“In the thick.” Inpentshisi replied, “Eight adrams west.”

A fellow scout, Inpentshisi was quite the rough-hued Decepticon that only persistence bred. A constant determination for personal value against odds. The master had found him working as a inspections officer and took kindly to his track record of being able to sniff out heisted equipment. It was a rare privilege that graced very few 3rd class mechaniods. He took every job to build upon that honor and had trained with Mafaari-Pipa. Of all his troups, Mafaari-Pipa appreciated his presence the most.

“How many you figure?” A sentry asked. He was laying flat down with only a rise of ground for his cover.

Inpentshisi ran from the edge of the bluff and threw himself to the ground, seeking cover behind a small structure of chrome. Two phasers rounds rang out, each nicking off a piece from the glyph. “So far, I figure it’s just one,” he said. “But there could be others waiting for us to make a move.”

Mafaari-Pipa raised his rifle above the outcrop and fired off two quick rounds. “Save your charge,” Inpentshisi said. “Count on seeing him, not on luck.”

“If he’s in there, I’ll bring him out,” Mafaari said readying his blaster again trying to pick out the sonar ping off the enemy. “When I do, you recondition his data track assembly.”

Inpentshisi nodded. His gaze floated to the other Decepticon still sprawled on the ground, “Bander, you good with a gun?” he asked the medic.

“I’m better with wounds.”

Mafaari looked over his shoulder and then waved across to Inpentshisi. “The medi-con covers me,” he said. “And you take out the slag.”

“He’s got the Centauri to his back,” Inpentshisi exclaimed. “You’re going to be shooting into glare. He’s have a clear sight on you. None of us will have it on him.”

“We can’t procrastinate,” Mafaari-Pipa said. “There might be more than one or there might be more coming. Or he can radio back for help. I’m moving and I’m moving now. Back me!”

Inpentshisi nodded, “Go,” He replied.

Bander and Inpentshisi fired into the crops of steel and rock as Mafaari-Pipa made his way up the bluff, panthering from spear to silo looking to gain leverage on the hidden renegrade. “Hiding won’t save you.” He was jollying and activated his infra-red scope.

“I’m shoot blind rounds here,” The medi-con cursed, “I’m going to move to that glyph to the right to the right.”

“Stay put,” Inpentshisi ordered, “Let Mafaari get to the top of the --Bander! Don’t!!”

The explosion sent the medi-con flying back, his chest and face blown away. Several torn fuel lines rivered from his shell like a torrent. He lay there, still and dead, a youthful apprentice who had just begun his service to his Dourjer only two cycles ago.

“Dammit! Dammit, fool!”

Inpentshisi looked back and saw that Mafaari-Pipa was now directly across from the renegade’s position. Mafaari was well-hidden in his cover and took careful aim with his phaser, looking to shoot low and hit at the ground cover. He fired off four quick blast and popped out the used charge reaching to his shoulder for a crisp load. The smoke from his rifle drifting into the air was giving away his position.

Inpentshisi saw the Rougeon move away from his coverage and raise his weapon. He had him in his scope lines when he saw Mafaari-Pipa move towards the soldier, blasting off a steady stream of fluorescents. Inpentshisi held his aim until he had a sure shot then both he and the rebel squeezed their triggers at the same time. They both hit their target.

It took Mafaari-Pipa the rest of the day to die.

Inpentshisi sat there on his knees with him. It was all that was left for him to do. He couldn’t radio back to headquarters for help, not that it would have been able to preserve Mafaari’s function. The only working transmitter had been blown to bits with the medi-con, but even if he still had it, he wouldn’t risk giving away his quarters to any other rebel scouts in the area. So, instead, Inpentshisi just sat and listened to a soldier he called, ‘brother’ gasp and to engage his words and tell as many stories about his life that he could process.

“You shouldn’t have moved,” Inpentshisi said, “I had him. All you had to do was hold your position.”

“Can’t let you be the hero every time,” Mafaari-Pipa managed a snicker.

“It wouldn’t have destroyed you.”

“Thanks for staying with me, ‘Pentshi.”

“You’d have done the same,” Inpentshisi swallowed through his smile.

“Don’t bet your cogs on it,” Mafaari coughed when he laughed, seized in a moment of twitches plaguing his systems as the defrags fought to activate with a series of unsuccessful click-click-clicks. Scarlet windows flickered to black.

...

...Since that day, his young son, Soundwave had been left to Inpentshisi’s fostering who relocated his position to heading up securities at the Iysurus along side Legate under Shockwave’s steady command. One day, the violet guardian swore, with discipline and intense training, Soundwave would secure the mantle of his creator in the fields of communication while Soundwave just promised retaliation.

Being about the only other vornling within the combs of the palace complex, Megatron was glad for the lad’s company. He was about the only mechanism that didn’t badger him over the do’s and don’ts of being a future heir to Megadyne’s crown. Still, Soundwave was reluctant to come with him out to the battlefield. Especially when his father strictly commanded, “No.”

“You are aware that you’re going to get in trouble.” The navy Decepticon insisted watching Megatron push open the hatch.

“I just want to check it out. Shockwave’s so busy I doubt he’ll realize I’m gone. Are you gonna come or not?”

“Negative.”

“Fine. Stay here. But you better not squeal on me.”

“Megatron.” Soundwave held the prince in his sight a moment more until he dropped the concoct behind him. Surveying the tunnel to the left, he darted for cover in its shade hearing disturbance coming from behind him.

.

6

.

“What can we do?” asked a slave girl. Her name was simply ‘Eleven’; like most the Sarians here --nameless. (Not officially anyways) While others shrank from his gaze, as befitted the rank of scum of the house, she held his eye and waited for a answer.

“Take this energo-sword. I’m positive they won’t, but in the event that any of the rebellion get past securities you must kill them immediately.” The demand spurred a gasp from a couple of the elder fem-con servants.

“Do you want to be violated and killed? Gods, woman, I’m not asking that you stand on the walls, just that you be of some value!” He had no patience with such softness. Good for the chamber, but when you had to depend on one ...Megadyne, master! Save Ta’nak!

“Inpentshisi!”

“I’m on it!”

“And where have you been?!” Shockwave rounded to Soundwave part of the way ducking out of the command center door.

“Mm..master Shockwave.” Soundwave quivered. “I --He told me not to tell but he’s been gone a long time now.”

“What is it, boy?”

Soundwave didn’t answer directly and somehow the giant guardian read his databanks for the answer: “Soundwave. Where is Megatron?”

“He ..” The child’s voice shriveled to a squeak. “He went outside.”

Squeezing the adolescent’s shoulders tight, Shockwave’s attention and instant concern snapped to the window looking at the rage outside. “No,” He gasped.

.

7

.

Cyclonus sled Metatisic’s frame across the foliage of pits, twist iron, and demolished mechanisms. Fighting against his failing systems and the burn of the ash clouds, there was a stretch of a clearing up ahead.

>>>Energon intact: 0011.09% 0000:0002000 WARNING: SYSTEM STATIS LOCK IMPENDING 0000>>>

“No, no... hold on! Err!” Cyclonus pulled harder huffing each step forward. The clearance was fizzling in and out of sight.

“Dammit! ErrrrAGAH!!! Meh– tisic? Eh!” He hoisted him up to shoulder, dropped once, then strained to lift him again.

“Kraku! Kraku! Ver si!!!”

More Renegades! No! He didn’t have the strength left to fight. The charge of his weapon was nearly as worthless as he was and now color flashed like strobe lighting in his visuals. What he figured was a clearing was actually the bank of a canyon stretched as far as it looked deep. Cyclonus skid inches from its ledge gripping Metatisic in front of him panting feverishly. It was too late to calculate a new direction.

“Kraku!”

Cyclonus’ mouth sprang up with a audible less cry .

And I died .... I think .... maybe? Everything is spinning. ..revolving around me like the helix of the solar flux that brought me here. Perhaps I’m returning? Am I going back home?

New fresh numbness stacked itself on top of his already devastated construction. No — he was spinning! He and Metatisic both. Cyclonus had taken a energo-arrow directly between the wingspan of his back. The force of it, in his wretched state drove him over the pinnacle’s edge. He was free falling and so was Metatisic still locked in his vise grip. The jet grunted a attempt to transform only to have his sapped cogs whine in defiance. His world went white, then black.