CHAPTER 10: Walk through the valley of Death

SOME WORDS TO KNOW..

Herak -- First generation Prototype ‘seekers’. They are the first of their kind to have alt. modes of flight., Herak from Herakty (Horus of the two horizons)

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Bractos - G9-12; the Eastern fortifications
(What little remains ..)

A beam of red light flickered against Megatron's white cheek. He looked up from where he was crouched in the mess.

The pinpoint of infrared was a line to an optic. The sigh of metal on metal, a blade being removed from plating, made him shiver. A cruel sliver of reality banishing his momentary daze, the sword swung high just as the boy started to move. The force of the first titanic swing knocked the heir to his knees.

Though his mind could not quite grasp the sight he was faced with, Megatron realized his mistake instantly.

His frame, sadly, did not comply as quickly as he needed it to and fear, something he had never really known before, introduced its long sleek digits as it dug into his synapses like the talons of a vector hawk.

The conflicting signals for panic and immediate danger overrode any conscious control Megatron had over himself. Spilt mech fluid made the sea of dead and dying beneath him slick as he scrambled over them. There was little purchase to be had, his hands and feet slipping, causing him to tumble as if he was a bit of synthetic fluff in the wind.

End over end he plunged down the embankment littered with bent and twisted frames. His silver-white paneling shot sparks as it glanced off sharp edges or made contact with what little open current remained in some of the shredded Rougeons or the stalwart members of his father’s defense force who gave their lives to stop them. Death paid little care to whom it came for, casting its gray and rust pallor over ally and enemy alike.

The boy did not have the time to appreciate such grand statements himself.

When his mad plunge finally came to a stop, he tried to ignore his malfunctioning equilibrium sensors. Forcing himself to his unsteady feet, he looked frantically for somewhere to hide. Here there were more clear spots where the metallic pavement was broken or dust had simply lurched through the wall. Amid the piles of bodies, there were niches. Welcoming niches just the right size…

“Hey…” his pursuer buzzed and spat sparks, and giggled uncontrollably in spurts. “W-why-zzzzz… s-stop!? Eh- heh… fun… heh.”

Megatron swung hard about, venting the heat from his taxed systems in a gasp.

The damaged Rougeon was even more horrible than he’d first thought... and how it had followed him down the hill was a mystery. With most of its cranial section blown away, it was little more than a collection of bare processors a single sputtering red optic and a torn mouth. Leaking copious amounts of fluid, it was an image from one of his playmate’s ghost stories. A demon, a thing that should not be, an abomination... just like those monsters with five heads. He’d once put such things off as fantasy… but if this could be real… then those things could be real too…

Terrified far beyond speech or action, Megatron could only stare.

“Pretty, eh… heh…” the thing moved unnaturally, jerkily, like a malfunctioning drone. “…know you…” It laughed, “…should come…you like…”

As the thing tittered to itself but remained still, Megatron found his courage returning. This slight freedom restored his thoughts to him. He was the son of the great Metatisic! A coward he was not! He raised his canon, concentrating and diverting power from his operating defenses to his seldom-used offensive weaponry. His running lights dimmed slightly as the canon charged.

“What you do?” The monster Rougeon was becoming more coherent.

Fear returned with a vengeance when the creature shambled forward. The rattling of its plating mimicked the fluttering of the boy’s fluctuating power cycle. With a shriek, the boy lurched backwards to run, his optics slamming shut as his canon discharged.

The bolt knocked him off his feet, but he heard nothing else. Maybe… maybe he had been lucky. Slowly he opened his eyes to find the Rougeon staring at him.

He’d missed…

He’d missed.

He’d missed!

The mech’s lone optic was no longer flickering.

“W-well… well… what d-do I have… here?” The mech’s self-repair systems were visibly dampening the leak of fluid from his wasted cranial area.

The prince back-pedaled, sliding back, trying to wedge his frame into one of the niches he’d seen earlier and knew was there. Karna willing there was enough space. If he only shoved hard enough he could get so far back that the thing couldn’t reach him. Just a little harder.

The metal won’t give! The metal won’t give!

“The D-dourje-e-r’s b-brat. Y-you will f-fetch a f-fine price.”

The renegade’s blade lifted drawing a bar of shade across the young Decepticon. Megatron huddled up on himself, trying to be a small as possible, trying to press into the tiny unforgiving space. He knew that he was about to die... he threw his arms up over his head, awaiting the final blow of that hideously wet sword.

It never fell ---but someone, or something, transformed.

The boy had never felt a color before, but he seemed to feel one now: Yellow. It was bright and sounded like an explosion, but he was sure that could not be. He was alone with that monster. Alone with that terrible sword. A strange silence drifted over him as his detached thoughts floated in nothingness.

"Megatron!? What are you doing here, MEGATRON!!?”

Footsteps. They sounded heavy, but hollow.

"Megatron?"

Then he was being lifted up. He said his goodbyes in his head...

---

Megatron was operable, and for that there was reason to feel grateful, but the lad was also catatonic. The elder robot who had walked and knelt by his side shifted him to his gun arm and gently tried to pry the child's arms from over his face with his free hand.

“Megatron!? .. Megatron stop! Stop it! You are safe, there's no need to be frightened."

There was a moment before the arms came free from child’s face at last.

"Ah? There you are."

“S-sshockwave?!” Megatron's optics were wide and fluid had gathered at their lower channels.

“Yes, see?” The disappointment at the youngster’s disobedience that he originally came here with dissolved allowing his voice to return almost to its normal timbre. Now Shockwave’s single optic radiated a bright warm gold that seemed to gild the child’s plating.

“Bb-but the ..the ...”

“Him?” Shockwave motioned, “Deactivated.”

Megatron said nothing, but threw his small arms around Shockwave's neck.

“Come on.” The large mech consoled, “Come. Let’s get you back to the Iysurus. .. Come.” .

1

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The darkness was fluid. It had no shape, no form, but it was wet... like oil, or mech fluid... or tears.

At first it was black, almost as if eternal night had fallen... as if even the stars had winked out one by one until the sky stood naked and empty and alone. Then color came, bursting first as if new stars had come to claim the darkness and then spreading until the darkness itself became a kalediscopic sea of light and color.

A phantom play of mauve churns at it’s matrix – the solar flux? Maybe. But he has seen it before and it wasn’t real then. Realism falters and this make-believe is the norm. Nothing seems substantial now and he’s held prisoner by its specter.

Home ... I can’t get back home. Galvatron? .... Galvatron? ..

The fluidity began to bubble, churn, as if suddenly being put in contact with live current. Sounds, distorted at first, seemed to explode within the bubbles. Each had no relation to the first. Then images joined them. Distorted, foggy, as if in the depths of a dust storm... exploding... and then slowly, carefully, drawing back together.

Alone, there is a single shaft of golden light among the rest. It throbs among the others, both a part of them and greater.

The surface breaks.

A storm tossed traveler could be no more greatful than Cyclonus was now. With considerable effort he opens his eyes to find reality solid, even if he is not. Everything aches, damage reports are coming through on channels he didn't even know were functional. Then he dares look over, remembering...something.

Memory falls into place like cue cards: Rougeons, fire, rushing, shot, falling. Did he transform? If he had, he certainly couldn’t remember doing so ... much less the crash. Crash? – yes, that much he WAS sure of. Evidence where his haul had tilled the ground extended out behind him several feet before it eventually petered out. Perhaps he had coasted? Whatever and however, he was functional.

Arms outstretched, his body was crushed into a slope of a dust dune and turned towards the sun. Certainly not the Centauri, it was much too small and far too distant. Red in it’s firmament, perhaps that was the source of the illusive ghost of the flux.

“Meta---” The lids of his optics slam shut involuntary to appease a flare up of his tortured condition. “Metatisic?” He tried again. He couldn’t see him at all and energy needed to lift his body in order to see exhausted him cycles ago.

“I should have let them take me.” Cyclonus rasped, entertaining no one. “Succumb with honor and allow them to strip whatever remains intact ..The damned rebels.” He coughed and retorted the thought quicky to his original concerns: “Metatisic?”

No answer.

You probably dropped him. Cyclonus scolded himself mentally. Killed yourself, killed your leader, abandoned the other leader. Galvatron, you forget about him? What will become of him now that you’re lying here who knows where in who knows what millennia?.

Lazily, his attention left his bruises to the spaces above him and the cliff he expected to find there somewhere. He spotted five and any one of them could be a candidate to where he had fallen from, if any of them at all. They rose up out of their dusty foundations in no perfect ascent. On closer inspection, two of the giants lie stretched in the sun – glory mightily fallen beside their dark pavilions on the bronze and rust dunes in lion-like somnolence.

The bronze is an illusion and not there when the Decepticon lieutenant attempts to stand. It is the pain that is another matter; the rotaries of his right knee was shattered entirely. The joint was knocked off it’s central sprocket and shoved hard to the rear where it had forcefully popped the plate metal of his calf, now it hinged there like a loose door flapping.

“Metatisic?” Cyclonus imagined he picked him out in the haze.

What he thought was a dune to the east was actually the mass exostructure remains of a ruined silo. It hollows the sand where not one, but several huge bodies sprawl, burly, encased in their armor, riveted in sleep to the ground: swords for their pillow, spears by the broad shoulders, energo-arrow shafts at their belts, lances stuck in the shifts of dust. Their heads are prone on the ground, their faces are tough and tanned by rust. Like tarnished copper their eyes, prey to the howling wind, is game for the flame of the mighty Karna.

None of them could possibly be the emperor. They’re much to old. Eternity spans them and their visitor both. He may be their first in centuries.

Anchored gap-mouthed at their frozen expressions, Cyclonus forgot the burn of his wounds. For a moment, the sentinels’ plight --whatever it had been that dealt them such a fate-- is his own. He’s lost here, directionless, forsaken, and much too far from his own time. Nobody knows him here and his life would not be missed. He could fall here, perish here, and be one with them for all wretched eternity.

“Well, brothers.” Cyclonus said sedately, “Who might you all have been?” He paused, slumped against a spire for balance. “Eh?”

He didn’t really expect them to answer him. Their mighty chests thrust forth – iron anvils for time's sledge hammer – as if in eternity forged by immense, unfathomed power now fallen eternally silent. Only the scars on seared faces, the weals on bared servos, the chipping of laser fire and javelin, and the carved hilts of the swords remain — like inscriptions on tombstones, it’s all they have.

For a moment, the blazing stare of the red sun catches their lances' flashes and kindles a thousand glints on their faces' burnished bronze. Exposed to the glare, they are perished in their generations, their vigor sapped by the east wind and dispersed by the northern gales. Sometimes a sudden shadow floats across arid region, hovers, glides and soars in weaving, wheeling flight.

Cyclonus signed, “ah-well..... rest.”

He snapped off his monitory channel irritated by the continuous alert that his fuel was empty and any stored reserves were rapidly depleting. He knew that already and didn’t need the flashing fluorescence to remind him of it. Rest, recharge — it sounded perfect. Collapsing his chin to his chest, a brush stroke of maroon -- unusual amongst the toy of so much gold – seized his attention. One brow gabled, then another.

There is life in this graveyard after all: “Metatisic!”

Slumped on his side, the Dourjer’s forehead was tilt to the ground, the rest of his body disappeared into the wasteland where he landed. Cyclonus picked out his silver canon, white and reflective, when he shifted to see. He must have lost his hold on the monarch before he hit.

Soon too, this sun will sets and whirl in its jubilees; another will rise to take it’s place. The desert subsides and stirs, the silence returns as before. Cliffs lift their heads in wonder at the dark abyss of time, arrogant in their silent splendor, proud, eternally alone. For league upon league, no voice, no syllable breaks the stillness. A whirl of current rises and piles Ta’nak’s metallic grit around the thighs and waist of the king. It’s no wonder how the dead, keeping their company around the two of them, are all but lost in the endless cycle.

A particular hot wind drowns out Cyclonus’ call. Parched, emaciated, and completely sapped, he can’t walk to the Decepticon leader, but crawling fairs no better and takes even more time.

“Mighty one?” He coughed.

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2

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Bractos - G9-12; Battlefield
(Once the retainer span)

He many have lost his blaster in the tide, but Coronach remembered having drawn his gladius and murdering the warrior who had charged him with a roar right up to the moment when Coronach chopped the weapon into the savage’s throat. There was no triumphed death sequence, no last spasmodic twitch of synapsis or stations – only a plain grunt and the renegade had toppled backwards to the greet of fellow sentries.

Pycon and Chamfer --At last, true to his general’s speculation, the infantry, originally directed to the Nin’gur pass, had arrived. They brought with them the turning point. The brilliant portrait of victory Shard had painted for himself gloating back there in the temple, crumbed away and now Coronach looked round for the remnants of his unit and was relieved to see faces he knew well dotting the destruction. They were panting and splashed with the fluid of other mechs, but alive.

Pycon mounted the head of one slain Rougeon upon his lance to a volley of cheers from comrades stood nearby. Should Coronach dare to feel sympathy for the mechanoid then? These were Decepticons after all. Traitors, yes, but still fellow Decepticons. Some of them he even known once --much like Pycon’s little trophy. What a waste of mech! Robotic wreckages were flung into the carts with the ruins of all the others.

Sorry? No. There were much greater emotions to feed: Guilt.

Metatisic stood as firm as his Bractos to the traitors’ furtherance, but now he was gone. It wasn’t the young robot’s fault. Their strength was always in their corps and in the zenith of battle that wasn’t always possible. It was every Decepticon for himself and he had little chance to link shields with anyone else.

Coronach saddled part of a fallen retainer and climbed the bent rise of another. He halted his four vehicle convoy several yards from the two burning pyres that were visible from the peak. Those would be the east gate’s former silos; flaming beacons now to the missing.

“Keep looking!” Sarterius’ repetitive order resounded above it all.

Coronach joined three others there and crept forward to observe the over-turned steeples. They could see the bodies of the dead strewn across the litter. Another single form – not the one he was searching for – was separate from the others and hunkered down by visible wounds. The soldier stood up, cursed his handicaps, and dropped. Coronach lead his Decepticons forward with a silent hand signal and the broken mech’s optics fluttered open to take in the visitors. Two of them kept to shadows, guns ready, but Coronach approached and squatted beside the soldier once he realized the robot was no rebel.

“Who? Who are you?” The ‘con couldn’t keep his head aloft any longer and it was clear his concerns were elsewhere.

“Does it matter?” Coronach asked, bringing a small cube of energon to the mech’s lips. “Servants to the Dourjer. We trust in him and--” He thumped the legionnaire nearest to him “--in our weaponry.”

Coronach sat back on his heels and studying the damaged militant saying nothing further right away as he watched him thirst after every last drop of the offered energon cube.

“Your damage is great.” Coronach began again, “You’ll need to get to the medi-driods straight away.”

“C-can’t. I’m looking for my comrade.” A clue to the robot’s distraction. “He may be destroyed.”

“What is your name, soldier? I’m so sure I know you.”

“S-scourge.” Came the reply.

“He’s one of those Decepticons we brought in from the border.” Pycon topped the crest just now cleaving the conversation. “There were three of them.” He said.

“Yes.” Scourge acknowledged, “Cyclonus, Rumble, and myself.”

“Your friends are dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Dourjer is equally missing, Coronach.” Pycon tossed the better of his precedence from the youth and back to the areas below them. His regard shifted to the sweep leader at the same instant. “Sarterius is spewing fire down there.” He said, “I don’t think he’ll take to kindly to us milling around — ‘cuse my not being sympathetic, Scourge. Come with us if you insist and perhaps we’ll find the both of them.”

“I was nearest to him.” Guilt cradled Coronach’s voice just then, “When Sarterius is not present, the emperor’s safety was my responsibility.”

“And just as much as it is mine, Coronach.” Pycon reminded, his well-slabbed shoulders looked so heavy when he leaned. “It’s mine, too. His, his, and also his.”

Below, Sarterius began setting the guards again and called a trooper nearest to him for a quick report of current situations. Neither one of them from the eastern mound could hear what was spoken, but the general’s frustration was rich and clear. There was a wounded P.O.W that Chamfer had discovered earlier and had taken into custody. He planned to deliver the rebel to the jails after the search, but when the Rougeon sneered at their concerns and began to chuckle, Sarterius stopped mid-turn.

“Laugh? Laugh will ya ---?!”

The commander kicked the captive once viciously. It was hardly enough to dent his rage. Yanking his rifle from his shoulder, he suddenly blasted the damned scum to smithereens! Metal flinted, transistors and rods curbed away, and still the general fired volley after volley. Pure driven rage arrested his expression and severed any sense or reason he had left to his chagrin. How dare the Rougeon chuckle! How DARE he!

“Laugh, eh?!” Nothing came out of the artillery now, but Sarterius held it’s trigger a moment more before he chucked the gun to the right, “Laugh now.” He snorted.

The general seemed surprised that any witness should be gapping. He was sound in all of his convictions with regret for nothing. Slag ‘em --it was a simple and logical principal of commitment: If it isn’t a Decepticon or loyal to their causes, slag it! No use for it, destroy it. Sarterius rancorous optics flashed the lot. “Haven’t seen a dead renegade before?!” He snarled at one ‘con specifically. Any one would do for his vent, he just happened to be the closest.

“Y-yes, lord.”

“Then why--” He whipped a twist of iron at him, “--are you STARING!!!”

“Sorry, lord. Yes.”

“Back to your duties!” He barked at everyone else, “Search! None will decree the Dourjer’s destruction until I have seen proof of his battered haul at my feet! Spread out and search! Chamfer?!”

“Yes, general?”

“Call in Dirtmouth. Get them here now.”

“Yes, general.”

---

Shockwave stared down at the collar in his hand. It was indeed the Dourjer's menat, the cowl that symbolized his authority. Torn and dirty, covered in mech fluid that might or might not be his, it had become a blasphemous object. He was eternally grateful that his back had been to the room when the seeker had arrived with it.

Megatron .. No. Absolutely not! The boy could not be allowed to see such a thing. Not until its hateful suggestion was proven as true. To do otherwise would just affright him unnecessarily.

Quodlibet looked uneasy, shifting from foot to foot, his normally cheerful manner banished under the piercing gaze of the security chief. "I'm sorry that this lowly messenger could not bring you better news."

Shockwave half turned, hiding the collar in the shadow of his own body. Megatron sat on Eleven's knees. She was rocking the prince and murmuring nothings to him.

"Eleven, keep watch on him." He ordered, brusquely.

He did not pause as he pushed the herak from the room, ignoring the confused look that the femme wore. Nor did he see the worried glance that the prince himself gave his broad back.

Once out in the hall, the winged mech had to jog to keep pace with Shockwave's mighty strides. He did not pause or slow. The herak was trained for speed, he should exhibit it, and so the elder robot did not bother to even acknowledge his distress.

"And you are completely sure that there was no trace of any frame sections or paneling?"

Quodlibet nodded. "Nothing at all, sir. Lord Sarterius has Dirtmouth and his engineers working even as we speak... looking for anything."

"Then this could be nothing more than a trick to fool us. Until there is a body, there will be no panic."

The seeker nodded again.

"Go to your commander. Tell Coronach to get the other herak in the air and start a perimeter scan. Anything suspicious, and I do mean anything, should be immediately reported to him or I."

"It will be done." The messenger's face took on a fierce look at odds with his normally placid expression.

Shockwave paused, bringing the dusky yellow mech up short with an arm across his chest. He scanned among the pillars. The herak too turned his piercing gaze on the shadows.

---

Soundwave crouched behind a pillar. He did not even dare to allow his intermix filters to open for fear of Shockwave hearing the noise. He waited a long moment... and then another... until footsteps assured him he was safe. Blowing out his pent up stress in a long sigh, he backed up... and heard a clank as his foot impacted with someone else's.

"Explanation forthcoming," he began. "Possible infiltration prompted..." The small blue robot turned to see another almost his size in a softer violet tone. His optic band dimmed in suspicion as the other mech gaped at him in open shock.

"No way..." Rumble's voice was thick with disbelief. First there’s was mini-Megs... and now a pint-sized Soundwave. It was strange to see his creator as a boy. There was something, deep about it-- more deep than the cassette was used to or comfortable with. "Well, my world has been completely rocked. Waiter, check please," he muttered to himself.

Soundwave frowned at the strange mech's words. "House-servant designate, Rumble?"

Rumble nodded. Hey, he didn't like it, but it was the truth.

"Specified defense area abandoned. Query: Why?" The boy's tone was sharp. Rumble knew that is was far sharper than he would ever dare use on anyone who he thought was his superior.

"I got separated from my unit, that's why," Rumble insisted. "'Sides, the battle's over anyway... and I was looking for my partners."

The lavender Decepticon’s focus coasted over to Shockwave sharing the in giant guardian’s concerns supervising snowy reports over the monitory bands: “Acknowledge, Shockwave.”

“Shockwave. Go ahead, Sarterius.”

“Nothing yet. Will report in the next breem.”

“It doesn’t sound good.” Rumble muttered. “Damn.”

Soundwave looked down just a fraction, before making optic contact with Rumble again. It would have been an innocent gesture to anyone else, but Rumble felt a stab of pain. His guilt was not hard to notice.

The cassette's voice was softer this time as he reached out to the floundering boy. "Are you look’in for someone, too?"

"Following orders imperative to servant function..." Soundwave began in a haughty tone, jerking away. His control, formidible even --it seemed-- in boyhood, slammed tightly over his emotions.

The time-lost Decepticon sighed internally, he couldn't just let that slide. It hurt him in places he didn't even want to think about to see Soundwave so totally... bummed.

"Well, don't just stand there. Give me one. Command me." Rumble grinned, hands on his hips.

Soundwave stood stock still for a moment. Then, unbelievably, he started to make a sound Rumble had not heard in a long time. He was laughing. As ever, it was like jewels being chimed. Rumble basked in the beautiful noise for a moment, savoring it.

His optic band brightening, the boy mimicked his posture. "House-servant designate, Rumble- Mission: Aid search for Megatron."

"You got it, boss. Lead on." Rumble bowed as he'd seen the other slaves do. Perhaps, in the search, he might hear something about Cyclonus or Scourge. That IS what Soundwave had trained him to do-- he was a spy. All this confusion and worry needed to get lost, 'cause it was high time he started acting the part.

.

3

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"Mighty one? ... Mighty one.”

The rouge windows of the monarch’s eyes flickered acknowledging the call. Pearled in luster for a moment, they dimmed out.

“Mighty one?”

The filum winkled again, quivering like they did before, only this time the glow was brighter. Metatisic shifted and Cyclonus followed his lift.

“Ss..arterius?”

No. Not Sarterius. It was the prisoner from the border. What was ‘he’ doing here?

Taking in his immediate surroundings did very little to answer that puzzle and his bewilderment was evident – clearly he no longer in Bractos, or anywhere at all near it. Unconnected and almost combative as his defrag engages, Metatisic's gaze fastened to the hand still gripping his right shoulder just before he riveted the Decepticon jet with the question:

"What am I doing here? .. Where have you taken me?"

"You were injured, Great master." Cyclonus calmly explained, his fingers never loosening. "A Rougeon warhead struck your position and destroyed the tower."

Metatisic looked at the hand daring to touch him. No one was ever so bold as to presume to touch the Dourjer without his permission. He contemplated the discomfort in silence and then narrowed his stare at the strange slave. "And?"

"I witnessed the attack and then I saw you. Rougeons were beginning to advance the area." He paused coughing, bowing his head almost in shame. "I feared your safety."

"And you brought me here?" The leader was still cued with unresolve.

"Actually, I coasted here. When I fell, I couldn't transform..." Cyclonus mumbled to himself. His hand slowly slipped from Metatisic's shoulder. It seemed as if all the weight of the universe was spread upon his back, and he was just microns from cracking under the strain.

"What? You transformed?!" Metatisic's voice vibrated with suspicion.

Cyclonus cringed visibly at his slip. "No, no... I told you, I can't."

"But you do have an alt. mode?"

Nodding wearily, the bluish jet responded in a soft tone. "Yes."

Metatisic watched Cyclonus. The jet seemed to be drawing inward on himself, as if he were somewhere else in his mind and longed to stay there. His expression was haunted.

"Are you from them, then?"

Cyclonus looked puzzled, but his reverie was broken. "Them?"

"Those that dwell far beyond the wastes."

The jet paused and regarded the monarch with a wary glance before looking away to the endless dust that surrounded them. "I do come from far beyond the wastes. Much farther than even you could imagine."

"I can imagine quite a bit," Metatisic scoffed.

Cyclonus did not rise to the barb, only hung his head tiredly. Some part of him seemed to have almost given up.

"You come from this strange place but wear the sign of the chosen of Karna. You are loyal, more loyal – it seems sadly – than some of my own noblemen. What do you expect from this?"

"Nothing, Master. .. Great one, it isn't a matter of repayment. As I was pulling you out I came under fire. If I deserted you there they would have killed you... I could not let them do that..."

"You, one of the condemned! ..bah! Expect me to believe such sentimental nonsense?"

The lieutenant closed his eyes. "I expect nothing."

"You're a sentenced prisoner." The monarch added thoughtfully, "And yet you could have destroyed me yourself and earned your freedom. You're here alone... Why didn't you?"

"Is it not my duty to protect the empire?" Opening his optics, he continued to speak, "You are the empire." Cyclonus' dared to glance directly at the king for a split second before looking away. "What must I do to prove my intentions to you are geniune?"

Metatisic again contemplated the situation. A settlement far beyond the Dead Zone did make a certain amount of sense... as did the slave's tales of being explorers. An altmode capable of flight could have easily...

"How did you conquer it?"

"Pardon?"

Gesturing to the dust around them, Metatisic continued, "The Zone. How did you manage to overcome it? No mech has ever survived such peril."

A long pause followed. Finally, in an almost wistful tone, Cyclonus answered, "...I flew."

The sovereign did little to acknowledge the answer — at least not just yet. He’d left Cyclonus’ side to one of the taller of the dunes nearby to retrieve his canon, inspecting one of the fallen cybernetics strewn there. Nonchalantly, Metatisic footed the remains and gestured the brunt of his attention up the neighboring rock face. Emblazoned by the cherry light of the setting star, it soared above the canopy of the heat and haze, the liter of corrugated aluminum and brickle iron.

“Destron.” Metatisic nodded at where the stretch split into two arms, both of which climbed sharply towards the rolling plateaus above. “We are near the Destron exodus point .. Just lean of the Nin’gur passage. Not far, but we are in danger if we stay here long.”

“Master?”

“Of them.” The Decepticon leader elected one of the dead robots for his point. “Rougeons.” He said.

“I was wondering what they were.” Cyclonus said sluggishly.

“Yes. Quite some time ago these were.”

“Mighty one – if I may ask – about the Rougeons, what happened?”

There was just the tug of a chuckle in the king’s voice just then, “You’ve been an adventurer much too long, Cyclonus.”

“Yes, I supposed I have.”

“Disobedience. Why should I explain it? You witnessed Shard’s display back at the Iysurus. .. Him and all the others like him that follow his example. Besides, we no time for this — here.”

Metatisic, opening one of his body panels, removed out one of his own reserve fuel rations. With an air of grave importance, he held it out to Cyclonus. “Concentrated energon,” He disclosed. “And you look as though you need it right now more than me.”

The jet snatched it, desperately, without much decorum. Shortly, emaciated circuits surged the length of his construction finding its zenith in the tell-all panes of his eyes; their own muted brilliance spidered with resurrection again and, more importantly, the leak in Cyclonus' shattered knee began to stifle as his self-repair systems came back on-line. In the midst of consuming the last of the fuel, he paused and lowered the container.

"I am sorry for my lack of manners, Master. I am honored that you would share your energon with me."

Metatisic snorted, a trace of humor flashing briefly on his features. "A rare privilege. However, were our positions reversed, I can't say that my conduct would be much better given our circumstances."

Cyclonus gave the monarch a grateful nod before finishing the container.

The Dourjer looked about him again. Pressing his communications panel, he spoke, "Sarterius, acknowledge. What is your location?"

Static was the only response. Then, inexplicably, there was some sort of communications echo. The blip registered and then was silent.

"Sarterius? SARTERIUS!?" Metatisic pressed the panel several times in rapid succession, trying to boost the signal. It did nothing but frustrate him. Silently cursing the metallic content of the dust that jammed most transmissions, the king scanned the horizon, looking for any sort of movement. “Strange,” He said.

“Mighty one?”

“There’s something out there.”

Cyclonus rose, scanning the horizon and then turning to take in the rest of the landscape. The communications warble unnerved him more than he cared admit. All that was needed were a few hundred Rougeons coming over the next rise in the dust to slaughter them both. He was acutely aware of the leader’s curiosity as he engaged his long-range sensors.

Skimming over the wasteland, two flattened triangular shapes made a huge cloud rise, alerting anyone within long-range optic scan to their presence before shooting up higher, into the blowing storm they’d caused. Show offs, the futuristic jet thought bitterly. Some things never seem to change.

“What is it, Cyclonus?” Metatisic had risen too and was trying to see whatever held his attention.

The time-lost Decepticon, not for the first time, realized how much superior some of his own systems were to even the most advanced found now. “Two flyers, Master.”

“What emblems do they bear? Are they Rougeon?” Metatisic’s offensive systems began to whine as his power flow diverted.

Cyclonus frowned briefly and glanced at the monarch. “How can I tell, my Lord?”

“The traitors like to cleave the sacred marks of the rays from their bodies as if in shame. Some paint over them or profane them with gouges. You will know.” Metatisic still scanned the roiling cloud the two flyers brought on with them.

With some relief, the bluish jet found that both Decepticon symbols on the two were untouched. “Their marks are whole.”

Metatisic did not relax, but he nodded. Touching his communications panel, he hailed the flyers he could not see. “Loyal herak .. Could it be me you seek?”

“Beloved Lord!” “Dourjer!” The answering shouts were simultaneous and joyous, making Metatisic’s speakers crackle.

Cyclonus watched as the two homed in on the frequency and increased pace to the point that he could hear the strain in their engines. The two came up at what must be an astonishing speed for the period. They transformed even before they’d come full stop, running up the dune like two unruly children.

They ignored Cyclonus, but as the two Heraks beheld Metatisic, they cried out rather witlessly in sheer delight. It was the last outburst they made. With the smiles still on their faces, the two folded their arms, tucking their fingers inside their elbow joints, and curled down into a grand bow to their Dourjer.

“Rise, most loyal Herak.” Metatisic smiled, his offensive systems finally powering down. “Approach.”

Rising as one, their smiles still lingering, they did as they were bidden. The red flyer, his wings edged in a fiery orange, came before the other -less grandly decorated- flyer.

“We believed the worst, Great One. Until we heard the signals echoing from this abandoned place, we had almost given up all hope.” The red herak spoke, “General Sarterius is beside himself. Commander Shockwave is driving us all to madness… Coronach is grief stricken…”

The monarch interrupted the sudden outflow from the talkative herak with a laugh. “I am glad to say that the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, Canticle.”

“To our most eternal joy, Master.” Canticle beamed. His fellow seeker’s smile was as great, as if not greater.

“Now, what did you say of signals?” Metatisic asked.

Canticle deferred to the pale blue herak at his elbow. The other bowed his head slightly as he began to speak, “Master, at first we thought signal was coming from the wastes, and then it was here, and then it was from the Zone again. We were not sure what could cause such a reflection, so we wished to start from here, and perhaps search outward if necessary.”

A thoughtful expression crossed Metatisic’s face. “I had a similar experience... mmmmm .. It bears looking into, but for now we must return to Bractos with haste.” He looked to Cyclonus, “My arms bearer is wounded, and I have taken some damage myself.”

“At once, Most Mighty.” The two herak chorused. It was the blue herak who took to the sky to relay the message, however. Canticle remained. He gave Cyclonus a few curious looks that he tried to hide, but failed miserably at. The lieutenant., for his part, ignored the seeker.

“Master, forgive my curiosity, I know field commissions are quite common in times of war, but to promote a house-slave to Arms Bearer?” Canticle’s voice was soft.

“I have not taken leave of my senses, Canticle. The Bearer of the Lord’s Armaments is yet a slave, but he has proven to be a loyal slave. And such devotion should be rewarded.” Metatisic reasoned as if Cyclonus were not even there.

“I defer to your most wise judgments, Master. I thank you for indulging my inquisitiveness.” The red herak bobbed his head.

.

4

.

Dust.

Everywhere.

It crunched in her body seams and threatened to clog her servomotors. She hadn't actually asked herself if she was crazy yet. The terrain had only been annoying at first but, now she was starting to wonder. It had been like this for astrocycles. Too many, in her estimation. If not for the stellar compass in the main vardo, there would be no hope of ever being able to cross it-- let alone turn around if they had too.

Of course, it's not like she was leading the expedition. She was just a guard. It was her job to trudge along next to the communications vardo -watch the repulsors and make sure they didn't clog with dust- and glare fiercely at the rest of the dust around them... as if there were really anything that could live in that mess.

Admittedly, this was better than sitting in an office somewhere filing someone else's datapads, but...

The large red female paused as a crackle came over the transmitter. It wasn't exactly words, but it was definantly more than just background static.

"Hey! Hey ya'll, hold up!" She shouted to the rest of the caravan. "We got someth’in here!"

Opening the main interface and tuning in on the ping manually, she managed to clear up the signal slightly as the others started rushing back.

"Sarterius!..." the rest of the message was either garbled or spoken in some language the motley band could not identify.

"Step away from there, gaurd. You aren't the communications specialist!" A tall whip-thin mech spat, thrusting himself between the femme and the control panel. He continued to work the dials- trying to home in and communicate with whomever was transmitting. “Hello? ... respond!”

*crackle-pop-crackle*

“Second base alpha-1 .. acknowledge response! Hello?”

"Ironhide?” The crimson fembot leaned to the console, “Ironhide, if'n that's you... and this is supposed to be funny. Ah'm going to kick your bumper into outer space!”

.

6

.

Bractos - G9-12; The Iysurus Temple: terrace mount
(In waiting..)

Waiting was always hard for Coronach. He hated to be in the dark about anything, but then again, he was Herak, and with that came certain duties... particularly to swiftness of response. He scanned the skies, looking... searching, for his soldiers.

Shockwave stood silently, like some sort of monument to patience. A monolith made living metal, he was a portrait in that particular virtue. Nothing betrayed his turmoil.

Coronach himself could barely stop himself from shifting foot to foot in nervous energy. His guilt weighed heavy on him, worse than if he had been bound in chains and buried in the dust... but then he had such hope. Terrible, burning hope, that threatened to burst from him if he didn't maintain his unnatural stillness. It was torture.

There, a spot of blue in the sky, moving quickly.

"It is one of mine," he offered to the still silent Shockwave.

Focusing in, he realized whom it was... and that there was no red flyer in tow. Panic gripped him. Canticle was missing.

The pale blue seeker came in. He hovered above the launch platform briefly before transforming.

Coronach advanced on the strangely smiling herak. "Wipe that idiotic smile off your face. Where is Canticle?!"

Blinking and resolving his expression into a serious one, the Herak responded, "He is coming, Commander. I was sent on ahead to bring the good news."

Coronach trembled. He dared not even desire that he would be spared this agony of guilt.

Shockwave strode forward, "And what is this news, Herak?"

"Our Dourjer lives!" The pale blue robot almost crowed.

Shockwave was in motion at once. "Canticle carries him?"

"Yes, Guardian. He and a foreign slave." The pale winged robot nodded.

Shockwave shouted something to the guards, but the Herak commander did not listen. There, even as Coronach watched in amazement, the red and orange blaze of Canticle adorned the sky. Never had he been so grateful to see one of his wingmates. He followed the arc of the red seeker's flight as if he were entranced.

When Canticle descended, hovering, and then his cockpit opened and the Dourjer alighted ... he could no longer restrain himself. Coronach rushed forward, taking on the position for the great bow but falling on his knees. He bent so low that his forehead touched the bare ground at Metatisic's feet.

“Great master.” He sputtered gasps of relief, “Master, master, master...”

“No.” Metatisic started to shake his head stooping to touch his shoulder, “nono,”

“Punished .. Master. I should be puni— ”

Metatisic shook his head again, “No, no ...rise. Rise.”

"He, like all of us, feared the worse, almighty Dourjer." Shockwave answered for the alleviated mech's behavior, "Sarterius had been combing the grounds since the first report went out of your absence."

Inspirited as the empurpled Decepticon was, the salute he appended did little to conceal the catch of his own vocals just then — though he tried.

"He's on his way now." The Guardian added after a stalled moment. "And in the Commander's defense, Mighty Metatisic... I must say that it is better to experience relief than to require solace."

Metatisic’s smile was subdued; with half a nod, his rubicund optics skirted the growing assemblages of guardsmen and servants prompted by his arrival. The need to serve was foreseen, but not necessary, Bractos concerned the monarch more than his dings. How had his capital endured the siege?

“And the battle?” Metatisic necessitated, “The citadels?” His attention wandered passed the teams of house servants scrutinizing certain familiar landmarks in no direct order. Cyclonus had only now just disembarked the red herak behind him.

The ruddy light of the early evening stars threaded themselves like needles of fire throughout the Iysurus sublimities, and Cyclonus’ eye was caught by the splotches of crimson that fired their peaks at just the right angle coordinating the burn from within the colonnades. Void of the Karna’s apogee, the vast stretch of the mount became the product of new scintillescent of color; fulgent pin-lights refracted by neighboring apex.

On the far side of it’s ridge, the platform fell away rather steeply. The only noticeable appendage to the other side was a artery of Byrite and chromium-plate mix. The ancient grand palace had survived the melee that he could tell. Coronach clarified it: “Intact, m’lord.” He said, “But the eastern fortifications sustained heavy damage.”

“I want Dirtmouth and his engineers on the damage immediately!” Metatisic designated his first order hotly towards the young seeker. “All available surplus at once!”

He picked out Sarterius immediately and a grin broke out across his face, but the general made no movement towards his old friend. Instead, he used hand signals to indicate that the Dourjer should walk down the terminal to his right. The monarch immediately saw why. Several teams of militants crowded the thoroughfare near the transport dock at the central arcade. He was almost at the awning when he saw two more guardsman, machine pistols slung across their chest plates, they were carefully watching everyone who ventured in or out. They all parted at his advance.

“Yes, master.” Coronach remedied, traipsing the ruler’s momentum towards the central rostrum, “They already are, master.”

“Good. We won’t be able to sustain another ambush and I don’t want the rebellion believing they can!”

“Of course, master. Straight away.”

“Mighty Metatisic!” Sarterius hailed.

“Metatisic!” Rose a unison cry; fist drummed against armor in choreographed perfection.

“At ease.”

Cyclonus had followed behind Metatisic as any good retainer would his Lord. He had thought nothing of it until Sarterius looked down at him with a scowl.

“This discussion has nothing to do with you, slag. Soldier, return this Decepticon to holding unti---”

Just as one of the General’s massive hands came up to catch the jet by the throat, someone’s vocalizer oscillated. Sarterius paused for just a fraction of an instant.

After the cough Metatisic spoke, “How absent-minded of me, Sarterius. Thank you for calling him to my attention. I had quite forgotten the mech who enabled my safe escape and to return to Bractos intact and unharmed. He is to be privileged. ... Sarterius, do ensure that this Decepticon is sent to the repair bay with your own men.” His tone indicated that he had not forgotten, but that he intended to spare the jet the consequences of being an underling with wings.

Though his expression was scrawled in the customary, ever-present suspect, Sarterius’ fingers left Cyclonus, although his optics did not, doubled up into a fist, and slide to the left of his breastplate.

“As you command, M’lord.” A rich, new, florid tone found its way into the general’s harmonics just then. “Your gratitude is my own. .. Sire, there is no need to consider the Renegades would mount a new attack.” He shifted the subject, “At least not so soon. Our legions arrived from Nin’gur. Any retreating rebels were slaughtered at the pass and any who managed to escape my mechs are weeding them out at this instant.”

“Excellent.”

“I felt you would be please.” The commander flushed with pride.

Directing the monarch’s attention, a luminescence suddenly began to speed across the length of the central table of the colonnade painting everything and everyone within standing distance in the super-charged net of it’s neon.

“Pycon!” Sarterius commanded, “Run program!”

The grid flocked together at once scrolling a digital relief the pass, it’s peaks and valleys in position to the Decepticon army. Each cerise pip on the hologram registered yet another robot and his location.

“Now,” Sarterius began; his eyes filtering back and forth from his leader to his centurions, “The line I have marked here is how much territory Shard has under his command. His followers fight on an expanding line and is vulnerable to a attack at almost any part of it. At your grant, O’ Mighty Metatisic, I suggest we move in here.”

“General,” Chamfer seemed to part the grid with his energo-saber pointing, “Forgive my interruption, but the fourth unit is moving. That means this area here is secure. We should slow the advance at that cluster and strangle them there at the Nin’gur thoroughfare.”

Metatisic stared at them both. “I chafe at the pace we are setting.” He grimaced, “Had this obstacle been dealt with promptly when it was first discovered we would never have exposed our flank to leave the capital exposed!”

“Agreed, sire.”

“They have no more than twenty to forty mechs at any given point on the line. If we break through quickly, with two legions at each position, we should be able to cut them to pieces.” Sarterius strolled around the holo-grid pointing and picking out placements and added: “– and their reinforcements wouldn’t dare.”

“No offence, General.” Shockwave motioned towards him, “But their reinforcement certainly dared today.”

Such a fact left the veteran warrior mute and dissolved his constant ridged stature. Sarterius hated to be wrong, “The Decepticons won’t be pleased.” He gnarled, “This is not a crushing victory and --”

Shockwave snapped back is ire. “Your battalions are servants to the finest regiment in all of Ta’nak. They will do as they’re ordered! This is a game of numbers .. If it is a game at all. They have more. The empire controls similar ground with less.”

“Stop, stop.” The Dourjer pressed between them. Sarterius opened his mouth to cant the defense of his progress, but Metatisic raised his palm before he could begin, “Enough.” He ordered, “Enough, enough. Listen ---you and Shard both had your errors. You should have destroyed them. They failed to destroy us. The renegades still have the same problem of defending a lengthening line.”

“We have the same problem, to some extent.”

“Not half as badly, If they break through, it is into the Destron exodus point, where they can be cut off with ease. Their control is the illusion.” Metatisic’s interest spread across the grid map matching the smile stretching his lips. Super-imposed red florets twinkling there grouped and combined while others snapped out of view.

“As you can clearly see.” Metatisic declared. “They control nothing. When the legions break their line, it will be straight into my domain as it was from the beginning.”

The Dourjer skirted the map again, flicked a moment of consideration to his general, and then glanced at the youthful flyer at his shoulder. "Coronach."

The winged commander looked up at him. "Lord?"

"There's a peculiar nest of infra-red showing up here. It's separate from the rebel position. Look at the distance." The Decepticon monarch drew a line with his index to provide his reason as one of his studious crimson lenses wrinkled with suspect to match the anomalous curiosity "When I was near the exodus point something pipped on my transmissions console. A sub-echo. I attempted to radio it .. unsuccessfully however.”

Coronach nodded solemnly. "Canticle reported it to me, Majesty. He noticed the strange refraction as he searched in the northern ruins for you."

One of the sentries became uneasy and whispered to his partner. "Think they're Rougeon?"

"If they are, they've ventured further than usual." His fellow guard shrugged.

The young commander looked away almost embarrassedly, and then back at his sovereign. "Sir, they are coming from the Dead Zone. It would take a truly crazed commander to force his mechs to do such a thing. Not to mention his forces would be quartered by the time he reached the quartz flats. The dust is murderous..."

"I too have my doubts," the General huffed, interrupting Coronach. "It is unlike those scum to have such small operations. They've always enjoyed the advantage of numbers-- it seems there are no end to the traitors willing to fight under their banner."

"It matters not. It's suspicious and I want it investigated immediately.” Metatisic gestured with finality, "Order your heraks to the air, Coronach. .. take a survey."

“But, my league,” Bristling, the Sarterius retorted, "Pycon and Chamfer are more familiar with the area."

"Yes but I need visuals and the Heraks can get there faster," the Decepticon leader soothed.

"The Heraks do not have the offensive capabilities that ground troops do! If it is indeed a threat..." Sarterius began hotly.

"I don't want to attack whatever it is, I only want it investigated." Metatisic said calmly, "If it is hostile, we will send in the ground units to destroy it."

Somewhat pacified, Sarterius looked away. He noticed Coronach glancing at him worriedly --as if he was afraid that the General would think less of him for having his command favored over Sarterius' own. The Herak commander need not worry overmuch. He was the only one of those winged show-offs that the General could stand to be in the presence of on anything more than official terms.

Motioning to his Herak to prepare for departure, Coronach bowed to the mighty monarch before carrying out his orders. Quodlibet and Canticle, his wingmates, followed his example and mimicked him.

Shockwave cautioned the young commander still bowing to Metatisic, "Maintain radio contact with central command at all times. If this is some sort of new Rougeon ploy, we need not be taken unawares."

"It will be as you command, Shockwave." Coronach assured as he rose and was dismissed with a hand sign by the King.

The three winged mechs turned silently and Shockwave's optic brightened for a split-second... as if he had just remembered something. In the hustle and pause of opening the doors for the departing Herak, the Security Chief leaned down; his voice dropped a little, as if he were imparting a secret, “Metatisic.”

The monarch leaned close and the security chief gestured, indicating something small. The Decepticon leader's eyes widened as he continued to listen to whatever this confidential report entailed. First in horror. Then his expression became one of amazement... then it softened to something akin to disappointment.

"Where is he now?" Metatisic uttered.

"Safe, Lord. He’s with Eleven." Shockwave replied. "Soundwave confessed that he helped him to escape through the driod tunnels. I didn't punish the boy though. You know how instigative Megatron can be with him. Soundwave does anything he ask.”

The Dourjer nodded. His gaze focused away.

.

6

.

Cybertron - Midlands; The counsil of the Elders
(Far, far away ..)

“I say these are nothing more than rumors,” Alpha Duon insisted, his clawed hand motioning dismissively as he paced on the speaking floor of the Assembly chamber. “Fantasies precipitated by the common people who are looking for some sort of super-powered heroes to help us finish expelling the Quintessons from Cybertron.”

Delusion rose to speak his black and blue plating almost shadowy even in the stark overhead lighting. He looked down on Alpha Duon in more ways than one.“You dismiss rumors too easily, Duon.” The chief-of-spies’ voice was sibilantly soft as he chastened the Elder, “Remember rumors always have a grain of truth somewhere in them… and they, coupled with deniability and misinformation, have proven to be some of our most effective weapons…”

“If one wishes to creep around in the shadows instead of fighting like a mech!” Duon snapped angrily.

“Standing foolishly before an oncoming shockwave and expecting it to back down does no more than get one killed, Elder. Deception and cunning allowed us to win our major victories. We lost almost all our announced formation battles against the Quintessons and their monsters.” Delusion fingered the ruby brand of Primus on his own chest thoughtfully, “Unless, of course, you like sending your troops off to die needlessly.”

Duon snarled, “You upstarts are all alike!”

“You are, at times, completely and totally inflexible to the point of utter ludicrousness,” Delusion responded in his same mild eerily quiet tone.

Alpha Duon stomped one of his massive bronze-colored feet, “Come down here and say that, you little…”

“Enough!” The voice was stern and did not seem it could come out of a robot so short. All optics centered on the small yellow robot who stood from his high seat with an air of command. Emirate Xaaron’s blue optics flashed fire at Duon, who lowered his head, and then at Delusion, who looked away in an unconcerned manner. “This petty bickering is over. Delusion, if you have something to present, I would suggest that you do it now. Duon, your time on the floor is now up. Return to your seat.”

Alpha Duon looked as if he’d swallowed something foul. “Yes, Speaker.” He ascended the steps to his seat.

With a smug smile and an air of superiority, the darker robot passed him on the stairs. Delusion obviously had a plan. He kept his back to the Assembly a moment, composing himself, before turning and gesturing outward. “What I have to say is based on legend, so many of you will discount it outright… but at least listen with half an audio to what I have to report.”

Xaaron nodded. “We are listening, Delusion. Continue.”

“Ages ago, when this hall was still an Arena, there was another revolution of sorts against the Quintessons. It is said that a third of the slave population, all of those in the Pens beneath the Arena and some of the others, was able to escape under command of one of the high-ranking gladiators. These robots traveled far from the known areas of Cybertron and settled…”

“Get to the point, Delusion.” Xaaron said, tiredly, noticing the unease traveling through the assembly members.

The Eldest of the Elders, Five, had already dropped off into recharge again and was leaning against Beta’s shoulder, mumbling to himself. She didn’t seem to mind and Alpha Prime smirked.

Delusion sniffed haughtily at Xaaron. “If you insist, though the explanation makes it far more interesting… Past the Dead Zone, there are coming rumors of a mechanoid people very much like us. A people with red optics… just as the ancient gladiators were said to have. Now, I’m not sure I attribute all the fantastic things they are supposed to be capable of to truth… but if they are indeed descendents of the war machines and frightened the Quintessons enough to erect the Dead Zone to keep them away, then they are most certainly allies worth having.”

After Delusion’s last statement rang in the empty air, the Assembly was silent for a long moment.

“If they even exist, and are so dangerous,” Duon began in a snappish tone, “Why would we trust them? Of course, I’m not sure why we even trust you…”

“Hold, Duon,” Beta interrupted, not bothering to stand up and careful not to dislodge Five. “They would hate the Quintessons as much as we. There is enough unity in that, I think, to forge an alliance until proper negotiations are worked out.”

Alpha Duon was on the verge of saying something nasty to Beta, when Delusion pressed on. “I believe that as well, my fellow Assembly members,” Delusion said. “If a small fraction of the fantastic things said about them are true… then the Quintessons will have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. We may exterminate their stain from our world once and for all.”

There was another pause and then frantic whispering among the council.

“We should investigate this,” Beta insisted, folding her pale lime colored hands thoughtfully.

Alpha Duon rose out of his seat. “Always poking your pretty nose where it doesn’t belong will end up in it getting chopped off one of these astrocycles, Beta One.”

“Duon, your constant empty threats are tiresome,” she replied, acidly.

Five snorted in his recharge.

“Delusion’s is an idea of merit,” the titanic proto-Sentinel Omega Blue insisted in a slow voice, frowning down at Alpha Duon before he could do anything rash. Though normally silent, unless voting, apparently the spymaster’s plan had touched a note even in him.

Finally, Alpha Prime rose and a hush fell over the Assembly. “As holder of the Matrix, I am privy to certain... otherwise unavailable information. I believe that contacting these robots, if they do indeed exist, would be the wisest course of action.”

“Trion, no matter how much you cling to your hoary glowing rock and seek to garner respect by changing your name, it does not make you the voice of Primus himself. It does not make you any more than what you are, a paltry militia commander. ” Duon glared at the younger robot. “You would do well to remember that and not taunt your betters with your quasi-mystical pronouncements.”

Alpha Prime narrowed his optics at his forebear. It was no secret to him as to why the Matrix had passed that particular mech over. Duon was an absolute slag-gasket.

“You could do with a lesson in humility yourself, Elder, or do you forget that Xaaron is Speaker?” Delusion smiled nastily, though his voice was still soft.

“You wretched little…” Alpha Duon began to descend the steps. With a triumphant look, Delusion disappeared before he could reach him.

The small yellow Speaker rose with a roar. “Duon, in your seat or so help me I will have you punished! Delusion, re-appear this instant or I will flood this hall until I find you!”

Alpha Duon stopped his search and, with a terribly contrite look, ascended- retaking his place.

Delusion flickered back into existence leaning casually near Beta. He waved at her and smiled at the sleeping Five before standing, his emotions becoming completely unreadable as he did so. He spoke in a chill, serious tone. “I call a vote, Emirate Xaaron. My spies have reported that several bands of independents have already started the trek across the Dead Zone. I say we prepare a welcome for these mysterious robots that dwell on the other side, should they be found, and name an emissary to make official contact with them.”

“Fair enough. All in favor?” Xaaron called.