CHAPTER 19: Freight 30-oh hundred

SOME WORDS TO KNOW..

Dourjer --(Doe-ger) The title of a Decepticon monarch/king
Rougeon --(Roo-jin) A sect group of transformers branched off the Decepticon race; renegade Decepticons
Delepic --(Dee-lep-ick) An ancient Cybertronian language once spoken by the Decepticon race.
[ ] –-Words between brackets [ ] indicate that another language (such as Delepic) is being spoken.

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Bractos - G2-98; Slave Quarters
(Holdings and Brigs)

This place in the bowels of the Iysurus was like some sort of old industrial unit. Here and there a glimmer of photons marked a security lamp affixed on the wall, or lantern overhead. Tile work, on the walls and the floors, showed that this had once been something else-- not a factory. Now the tiles were badly degraded and had been patched haphazardly. It was obvious this was a prison now, whatever it had been. Not even the true colors of the walls or floor were apparent anymore.

Gridlock had seen only one thing that even approximated the hues around him; the heart of a crucible in a smelting station. It wasn’t even the pure golden white of the annealers-- no. This was the deep red and orange glowing in the smoky darkness of the smelting furnace. It reminded him of the great vats of kelvinotar and grease, the sulphurous stink of the other road repair mechs… and his closet.

It wasn’t even a rest station. He remembered being unable to sit or lay down there. Shifting into alt-mode and parking wasn’t even an outside possibility. He barely fit in the narrow crevice, and even then sometimes his graders scraped the walls. When the door slid shut and he was left in the dark, sometimes without fuel, for astro-cycles; there had been very little to do but think. Think and nurse his fear of the masters.

He didn’t know where the rest of the party had been taken. Voyager had been abducted first, too terrified to say a word. Steelheart was next; she’d offered less of a fight than he’d thought she might. The others had been spirited away afterward and he’d stood alone in the hall for a long time. He’d been too scared to even ask the soldiers what was going on and he had no idea where the other Autobots had gone. Then these battlemechs, the General’s officers, had come for him: Pycon and Chamfer.

The officers said nothing, but marched him down the corridor. Each junction offered views of what looked like security droids and small groups of abnormally identical looking soldiers. While the droids almost looked utilitarian, the soldiers were armored heavily with huge spiked shoulder guards. Ropes of chains and falls of mail rattled against their black plating. Probably overseers, Gridlock realized, because they had volt whips at their sides. Each coil of electro-cable gave off a faint ominous lavender glow. He remembered the burn of the lash against the less protected areas of his frame-- and the Masters always knew where to hit.

Would Primus even help? Was he really that king so many levels above? Was he with the Prime back home? Gridlock didn’t know anymore and a sense of desolation descended on him. Gridlock screwed up his face and tried not to sob. Not this again. Please, Primus! Not this again!

The soldiers had arrived at a massive control station at the end of the hall. Pycon, at least the constructibot thought that’s who he was, looked over his shoulder to make sure Gridlock was still coming. Perhaps he was a coward, but the big mech obeyed. He’d rather be a coward than howling in pain any day. Besides, even if he got away he didn’t have much place to go. He stood timidly behind them, looking over their heads, hands folded and head down, waiting.

“I’d ask you what your business was, but I think that’s obvious. You’re here for delivery. What’s this one?” asked the warden mech behind the control window. “A, B or C.”

Chamfer spoke. “Are there any large cells in A block yet available?”

“There weren’t a megacycle ago.” The robot mumbled to himself, fingers flying over the keys at his station. “Let me see…” A passing droid caught the Decepticon’s attention and he called out to it. “Drone, do we have any open space in A block? My computer hasn’t been updated for the new shift count.”

The security droid stopped and turned. Mechanically, it answered. “A block at full capacity.”

“Hmph.” The warden clicked over his keys again. The droid turned back, and continued on its way.

“We are under authorization to place him in B block as a last resort, but he is to have all consideration given to one in A block,” Chamfer said. “The Dourjer’s orders.”

The warden nodded tightly. “As I am commanded.” While typing out the order, he looked over to the right. “You two, key the access.” The command was to two of those dark soldiers, the overseers, in their spiked black plate armor. While he pressed and held a large yellow button, they activated the control pads beside them. The huge door hummed and then rose. Gridlock fought the intense desire to close his eyes. He was trembling. Surely there’d be Quints beyond THAT door.

Instead there was a bridge. It wasn’t beautiful like the falls near Beryl’s Dome. That, even with the dark water below, had been an absolute marvel. The falls had been artistically arranged with a keen optic for the movements and motions of liquid… to spectacular effect. This was ugly. Unlike the shields Quodlibet had shown them over the upper bridge, here there were four forcebeams that pulsated in the visible range on either side of the walkway. Crackling loudly, there was no doubt they had never been intended to be handrails. No, these were designed to be lethal. Gridlock tried to make himself extremely small as Pycon and Chamfer walked him across.

Here and there, more of those security droids were stationed on the platforms that broke up the length of the bridge. They watched without really seeing and their empty optics made Gridlock even more nervous than he’d been before. They were all staring at him. By the time he’d reached the other side his knees had become like rubber. In a moment, or a moment more, he’d faint. He knew it.

"Report name?" the watch-droid pipped in a rasp.

"Pycon, Master-Sergeant of Sarterius of the R-unit of the Master’s army."

His partner added. “Chamfer, Major of Sarterius of the R-Unit of the Master’s army.”

It inclined its head automatically. "Business?"

“Drone, use your optics, we have a delivery,” Pycon barked.

“What block? Labor or Prison?” The thing rasped.

With a glance at Gridlock, the officer replied. “Neither. This bot was meant for A-station but there were no suitable cells.”

“Unusual: must verify with warden.” The droid went slack a moment, contacting the switchboard directly.

Chamfer looked at Pycon and rolled his optics upward. The other battlemech just shook his head faintly. They didn’t have any patience for the droids.

“Acknowledged; Pycon, Master-Sergeant of Sarterius and Chamfer, Major of Sarterius. Cell in B-Station prepared. Jailer summoned.” The droid came back to itself.

And no sooner had that been said than this big door opened too. One of the overseers stood there, in that acanthoid black armor, waiting.

“Get out of the way, slave.” Pycon growled, shoving past Gridlock. Chamfer followed without a word. They started back across the bridge without pause.

Gridlock stood there for a long moment. They’d heard what had been said to the Dourjer… and now… He looked after them and then back at the jailer. “Come here, boy. I can’t stand around in the hall all night.” The jailer spoke gruffly.

The Autobot nodded slowly and went through the door to him. Without further acknowledgment, the door ground shut. The jailer gestured, “Follow me.”

And he did.

They bypassed a side corridor that was strangely quiet except for the mild, almost friendly, hum of the scintillating security field. The hall seemed to be built at an angle, slowly rising and curving around. A little further in – past the field – the curve was strangely dignified by another one of those potted crystals. This living rock wasn’t as big as the one at the station, but it was a vibrant orange-- maybe Wulfenite? He didn’t know. That was a question for Steelheart. He grimaced. Gridlock wondered why he’d even noticed-- except that it was an incongruous thing. Who allowed prisoners objects of beauty? Living, growing things to remind them of what it was like to be free?

After a short walk, they crossed another bridge with the same security system on it as before. Below there were shrieks and horrible screams. The hiss of the electro-whips was erratic and high above the crackle of the bridge guardrails. The sound of machinery chugging away in the dark drowned out anything else. From what Gridlock could see, it looked like those in the shadows below had been sent alive to a salvage station.

On either side of the huge divided hall there were steps. Several staircases went down… down into that nightmarish darkness he’d seen from the bridge. Gridlock could still hear a scream or two, now and then, and someone barking orders. At the moment he was just glad it wasn’t him down there. There were also stairs going up. These actually had traction pads on the steps-- worn, but serviceable. The rails were painted a smooth brass, instead of the flaking black and steel everything else had been treated in. That must be where the guard station was. Yes, he saw the windowed promenade above where they could look down on everything.

He noticed, as the jailers and droids went about their work, a huge security field here. Its spiracle towers and other relays studded into the ceiling and walls. From above, where the promenade was, it was probably ineffective. The system was a testament to control-- not even the Quintessons had one this fancy. It actually bent the light until areas of field were turned off, making entire sections of the cell-block seem to disappear until they needed to be inspected.

The jailer did so and suddenly the adjoining hall was clogged with robots and femmes, busy every one, running here and there-- or at least walking briskly. They didn’t really notice him. Along the wall closest to him there were benches fitted with loops and locks. Just right for chains, Gridlock realized. He rubbed his own wrists in memory. Another jailer came through, with a mech hobbled in ankle and wrist restraints. They shot static every time he moved.

Gridlock’s jailer called out to the other, even as he kept walking. “Where’s he going?”

“C-Station, Sentry.”

“Rougeon scum.”

The other keeper nodded and quickly added before he and his prisoner were completely out of sight – something that came and detonated right there in the blue tint panes of the constructibot’s optics: “Oh! .. And yeah .. the Foreman says he is in need of 8 fresh slaves to complete the cargo transfer arriving in from Hi’kasia.”

Slaves?

Sentry nodded. He griped to himself, “Do this. Do that. Next thing I know he’ll be calling me boy and commanding me to fetch him high grade.” He glanced at Gridlock when he didn’t at least chuckle. There wasn’t much the Autobot could tell about the jailer’s expression from behind his battlemask, though his optics weren’t threatening. Sentry meant him no harm so long as he obeyed. For that the huge mech was thankful.

He walked Gridlock down a block to a cell with electrified bars. It was clean, fairly large, and had two long planks-- one on either side of the walls. “This one’s yours.”

With his head bent, Gridlock mumbled. “Thank you.” He walked into the cell and sat down on one of the suspended boards.

Sentry paused only a quartex, long enough for another hard look, and then he keyed the door. Bars slid into place and sputtered to life. He was gone almost before Gridlock realized it. He stared out between the glowing grid and listened to the screams of those below-- filtering up.

“Primus… th-this can’t be real…” He wasn’t sure if he’d actually spoken or not. Putting his hands over his audios, Gridlock watched the door. He watched it until the very idea of it opening was printed on his processors.

When the door did slide up again the big mech was completely startled.

One of the droids passed. “Freight 30-oh hundred.” It spoke, “Bunker 6. Rest.”

Freight 300100 entered, tossing his toolbox on the floor and sliding it under the opposite bunk with his foot. The bars snapped back into place, but it didn’t seem to bother him. In fact he yawned. Then he stretched, his cables sighing from the movement, and glanced around. As big as he was, 300100 somehow missed Gridlock's presence. "Oh... I didn't realize there was another mech in here. You the 3rd shift?"

Gridlock, mute, shook his head.

“Oh? My shift then? I don’t remember anyone quite as large as you in the yard.” 300100 settled down on his plank. He sighed when he was able to relax his peds, wiggling them from the ankles and leaning back against the wall.

“Are you ..” Gridlock dared to venture. “Are you a .. A slave?”

“Me?” 300100 almost hooted. “HA! What the hell kind of question is that? Aren’t we all?”

“But you ARE a slave, right?”

Chuckling more than a little nervously, the mech eyed Gridlock as though he couldn’t figure out if the question was just bizarre or something else. Either way, he didn’t appear to have a clue why it had been asked. “Of course I am.” He replied after a short silence, stretching again. “Forgive my lack of manners, buddy. I’m tired. Really tired.”

That buried it! What he caught of Sentry’s conversation with the other jailer WAS true and he actually HAD heard it. Slaves .... Dear, Primus alive! The Decepticons kept slaves! There was no denying it. How could Servo have been so very wrong?!

“What did they do?” Gridlock asked, motioning out in the direction of the bridge where even now a scream or two filtered up.

“Who?” 300100 asked, his brow furrowing.

“Those-- them… the robots below the bridge.”

“Oh,” the slave-mech said in sudden understanding. The hoot of a laugh came again. “C-Station you mean.”

Gridlock didn’t understand why it was funny. “I guess so.”

“Whatever they did, they deserve what they get.” 300100’s voice was hard.

He was flabbergasted. How could one slave endorse the beating and the torture of another? Confused, more questions started welling up. He had to be quick if he wanted to ask them. 300100… Freight… looked like he was about to drop off into recharge.

“Who’s down there, Freight?”

Optics blinking blearily, the other mech sighed. “Well, renegades mostly .. Rougeons. Those bastard traitors,” he spat the words, even as tired as he was. “That and the usual criminal types ..thieves, murderers, transgressors and violators.” Freight fixed him with a look. “– But mostly Rougeon ‘cons.”

“Oh.” Gridlock nodded. That was at least more indulgent than the measures the Assembly had enacted. Cybertron couldn’t afford to fight its people and the Quintessons too, after all. “I think I understand.”

Freight 300100 stretched out on his bunk, relaxing. “Listen, Big guy. There’s nothing to understand at all. You rest, get up, clean your plating, eat and go to work-- then you repeat all that junk in reverse order.” The Cybertronian must have looked as confused as he felt because Freight added, “You must be new here. Hey, I’ll give you some friendly advice, alright? Do your job. Don’t complain. Mind the overseer. That’s all there is to it-- then you get your break.”

“You get breaks? Regularly?” Such a thing was unheard of under Quintesson rule-- a slave worked until he was finished, regardless of his state. Gridlock had watched mechs drop from fuel deprivation or lack of recharge --or both-- and be carted away. Some he’d never seen again.

“Yeah, well the Dourjer he likes a good fit crew, know? Keep in line and you stay healthy--” Freight gestured to the direction of the C-station. “--and outta that slag heap.”

None of this was registering correctly. This slave mech actually seemed to enjoy his lot in life. “And you aren’t squeezed up in a storage locker?”

Freight 300100 narrowed his optics. “Who did that to you?”

Gridlock didn’t answer. Instead he asked. “None of this bothers you at all. Does it, Freight?”

“Oh, hey now. Nobody enjoys being a slave, Big Mech. But I’ve never been wronged either. Just do what I told you. Stick to the program. Show up. Do your job. Mind the overseer. Do all that and you won’t be any the worse for wear.” He smirked.

300100 obviously figured that being here the Autobot was new property, another drudge in this thralldom. At the stray sound of a lash cracking, that identity hit Gridlock now with harsh new reality. Maybe ..Maybe he was! Metatisic hadn't believed their pleas and now he had made the Quintessons’ lost possessions his own to keep. Just more bond-servants in a long line of them.

“And hey, who knows? You might get sold outta here. Get yourself a good master outside the capital, in one of the provincials. Hi’kasia… or Abdo… or Inpent-Railon…” 300100 sounded like he’d suddenly been given a beautiful vision, or enchanted by a golden dream “… oh yeah, that’s what I want. I want a good master. Someone who’ll use me on construction, maybe-- I might even get to write orders instead of swinging a hammer.” Yawning he added, wistfully, “Maybe… maybe even instructing others.”

“Wouldn’t ya rather just give yourself the orders? You know… work?” He thought about Servo. “I guess I can’t say that. Even if you’re free, you’re still work’in for somebody.”

Freight cackled. “What’s the difference? Master or Boss?” He hooted again, suddenly, reaching over and swatting Gridlock’s arm. “Same old lugnut, eh?”

Another mech came rushing by the bars, “Hey. Hey! Hey, Freight! FREIGHT!”

“I’m awake, idiot.”

The other Transformer bubbled. “They’re serving Energon Ambrosia in the Mess!”

Gridlock could almost hear Freight’s fuel tank gurgle in anticipation, but the slave-mech sighed and slapped his plank. “I’m too slaggin’ tired, Number 9.” 300100 yawned again. “You just-- hmm, you just go get me some.”

Nine beamed. “Right!”

“Hurry up, slave boy!” Freight laughed and clapped his hands together, mimicking the overseers. “Move! Move!”

Number 9 sketched a bow, grinning all the way. “I’m going, I’m going!”

Freight chuckled, turning his head to look at Gridlock as soon as his friend was out of sight. “That’s Number 9. He’s a good friend of mine-- he’s on my shift but you’d never know it to watch him. Only Great Megadyne himself knows where he gets all that energy.”

The big Autobot could make no reply. He was a step past confusion and into the realm of disbelief.

Nine came back some moments later. "They only had enough for one more. If you aren't first in the line…" The lad stopped. "Here, Freight. You can share in mine." The younger mech’s arm grazed one of the bars as he passed the dish in giving him a tiny jolt. He seemed to think it was funny rather than painful, though Freight groaned in annoyance, even when a small alarm went off.

Sentry came around the corner, Gridlock knew it was the same mech by the sound of his voice. The identical armor revealed nothing else. He rapidly tapped some controls on a keypad attached to his belt as he spoke. “Nine! For the light of Megadyne himself, boy, you trying to summon all those damned drones down on your head?”

“Sorry, Sentry-master.” Number 9 backed up slightly and bowed.

“What are you doing anyway? What did you pass through?” The dark mech demanded.

Nine replied, “Just food, Sentry-master.”

Sentry groaned as if he’d done this before. “Running errands for that one is only going to make him lazy, boy. Ask for the grid to be open next time. I don’t like having to keycommand those idiot droids to stand down because of someone’s snack.”

“Yes, Sentry. Of course, Sentry.” Nine bowed both times he invoked the jailer’s name.

“Don’t ‘Yes, Sentry’ me. Get your aft in gear and get back to your dorm, boy. You have 15 breems until lockdown.”

“Yes, Sentry-master. I’m going.” Number 9 bowed again. He glanced at Freight as he turned, “Bye Freight.” And he was gone in a clatter of foot falls.

Sentry himself strolled up to the bars. He spared a glance for Gridlock. Strangely enough it didn’t evoke the kind of panic the dead gazes of the droids did. Sentry… could think. He could reason. He could even be lenient. Hadn’t he done so a moment ago? Tensing, the Cybertronian didn’t dare even think of venting when the jailer rounded his attention on Freight. “See to it you return that dish the next Mess.”

“I will, Sentry.”

The dark mech grumbled, “You canoids swipe enough of them. You’ll be eating out of your helms next…” His attention was taken by the sound of footsteps. Drones, with glowing volt whips swinging at the ready, came around the corner the way he had. With singular purpose, they marched down the cellblock. Gridlock tensed. He would be dragged out… he and Freight both… and beaten. He knew it. He knew…

“Who programmed you rejects? You can’t even take orders corr…” His fiery optics narrowing over the impassive battlemask, Sentry shouted down the cellblock at another jailer. “Turnkey! You moron! Stop screwing with the override switch.” The mech’s hand was on his own belt pad.

He walked away, cursing the incompetence of the other jailer and kicking the droids back down the run. Gridlock blinked. Sentry had just walked away never once reaching for the lash at his side. Thank you, Primus. The big mech vented out, feeling a great deal of tension evaporate as he did so.

Freight didn’t seem to care as he was eating with great gusto. He noticed the constructibot’s focus and turned away, a little protective of the bowl and its glowing contents. Not that Gridlock blamed him really. He’d eaten the same thing at lunch in the Officer’s Mess-- these must be the leftovers. He could still taste the antimony paste that had been blended in. “So,” 300100 said around a mouthful. “What’s your designation?”

“Gridlock.”

“That’s some name.” Freight actually whistled. “How did you end up here? Did you just get sold…?” He became concerned. “Nah. I bet I know. Your Master died, huh? Tough break, buddy. Sounds like he cared for you, with a name like that.”

How could Gridlock tell 300100 that one of the militia had named him? She’d found him locked in that tomb his Quintesson masters had put him in. He’d been too terrified to move, just staring at her and the openness beyond her half expecting one of the 5-faces to come behind the fembot and shove her in too-- or see her explode in a shower of sparks. She had joked kindly about his cell being so narrow that he was literally bumper to bumper – gridlocked – and wouldn’t he like to come out? With some coaxing, he had taken her hand and she’d led him outside. He never even learned her name. She just disappeared when he was swallowed up in a throng of other mechs who were walking around in disbelief. They hadn’t known what to do once the militia had released them. Gridlock remembered standing outside, staring at the sky, for a very long while. He’d never had the time to before and had never realized how big it actually was. It had swallowed every inch of his processes.

“I-I’m not from around here.” Gridlock finally gestured to his optics.

“Yeah. I noticed those. I figured you for a custom, especially with all that snazzy built in equipment you’re toting.” Freight belched. “Ahhhh… that was good.”

“Sounds like it.” Gridlock gave a small smile. Over the com system came a series of chimes, then an announcement for all slaves to return to their quarters for count and nightly lockdown. Feet rushed everywhere, the falls sounding like a race or scramble, but only one pair of robots actually passed their cell.

Freight slid the bowl underneath his plank. He yawned again. “Bedtime, Big guy.” He stretched out on the board.

Gridlock laid down as well. He tried very hard to imagine that big sky on the ceiling of the cell. All the stars of Cybertron flickered in his memory. He didn’t even know if they had names… His mind interjected that Veeg would know and he fought a wave of sadness. He wanted to see them again. Not just the stars. Please Primus, let them all be alright. Voyager, Steelheart and the others. Servo and his crew back home. Everybody. Even that red winger who had stood up to the General Sarterius… he and his yellow friend who talked as much as Voyager. And their Commander too, he was a good mech.

“Night, Gridlock.”

A particularly loud scream from C-station split the air like a vibro-blade, humming in the Autobot’s audios longer than the sound actually lasted.

“Yeah… You too, Freight.”

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CHAPTER 20: Are you there, Cybertron? Acknowledge!

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Bractos - T2-17; soldier barracks - The Iysurus

Music had been a part of Rumble’s life even before the moment he’d become aware of himself as a distinct entity. It had qualities of color and tangible being to the Cassetticon, something he’d quickly found out was unique to he and his siblings. Like Soundwave they didn’t simply hear a sound, they experienced it. The one washing over him now in soft waves… it spoke of the safe place in his maker’s chest, with the undercurrent of one his lullabies gently luring him into deeper sleep. Rumble was only too happy to comply.

--Except for that fraggin’ annoying light!

He sent out a signal to turn it off, but didn’t receive a response. Instead it seemed to get brighter. In Soundwave’s chest, there was rarely light. More often than not it was the comforting darkness of being completely embraced. If there was light, it was usually someone else’s fault. Rumble twitched.

“Turn the light off, Frenzy.” He mumbled, half-coherent.

He felt a shake. Big Daddy must be really busy if his chest compartment was rattling like this. The voilet cassette snuggled down to avoid bouncing.

“Rumble?”

“Faagoo frinbee… I’m mmm ..telling.”

The voice was louder this time, deeper. “Rumble?”

“FrenuuMmm…Ssoownndwha… What?! WHAT!”

Poof! Every bit of safety and security vanished in the wink of an optic-- or blink rather. Rumble was blinking almost spastically. The damn glare remained. Strong and unforgiving, it burned down through his processors like someone had blasted him in the face with a photon cannon. The Decepticon winced at the light. When a mote of shade crossed him, he looked up to find Scourge there. He realized it must have been the Sweep leader who awakened him.

“Hey, what’s the big idea? I’m sleepin’ here! I didn’t get much of that last night.”

The singing remained. Obviously, by now, it was a daily ritual-- the euphony of the Alpha-Centauri's conflagratory culmination. The sound bounded and rebounded off the halls, the arteries of the grand Iysurus, through its thousands of partitions. This was the song the floor was keyed to play in the Long Hall. And sure, it was beautiful, but it was no longer as awe-inspiring as it had been the first day in the capital. Rumble could sing the words himself forwards, backwards and sideways by now. However, he was nowhere near in the mood.

And how long had that been? Two days? Three? A week? He wasn’t sure. It had felt like forever ago.

While Scourge seemed to be listening with a furrowed brow and that creepy confused expression on his face, Rumble was used to the canticle and, dammit, this morning he just felt like sleeping in! “I’m tired. Go away,” he snorted and rolled over. Not to be sacrilegious, but really he could have cared less. He put his arms over his head.

“Rumble!” The Sweep’s voice was a groan.

“What?!” He peaked out from his arms and saw nothing had changed. “Yeah yeah, sun’s up. Hail Karna. G’night, Scourge.”

“You have to get up.”

Rumble flipped over faster than the Sweep leader could react. He pegged him with a hard glare, his cerise optic band twinkling with near-madness brought on by recharge deprivation. “What the frag for?!”

Scourge took it in stride. “Cause Cyclonus sent me to get you. We’ve been summoned to the Great Hall. Metatisic wants to see us, as in now.”

“…HIS whole damn family is impatient…” Rumble muttered to himself, sliding off his cot and stretching. That thing was way uncomfortable, but it had been better than sleeping on the floor in one of the hallways.

The Dourjer obviously (and without any wonder) did not realize that the three Decepticons had no place to go the evening before when he took his leave of them. Naturally Metatisic must have figured they all had quarters of their own, and Cyclonus said nothing at all to make him know otherwise. The ‘con leader was already not in the best of moods at the time. Nah, King M had been too preoccupied with that mess with the Autobots. Then that Seeker dude, Coronach, had just about gotten himself killed. (His name should be Coro-nut, because he was obviously missing a relay or two.) Nope. It wouldn’t have been too bright and, of all the things you could accuse Cyclonus of, not being bright wasn’t one of them. You could accuse him of being proud. Way too proud for his own good-- too proud to even ask about a room. Rumble hadn’t asked because, well, how would that look? Nobody was going to listen to what they figured was a vornling; they’d pat him on the head or something and tell him to run along. Rumble frowned. Yeah, like that was gonna happen. Nobody patted him on the head but Soundwave.

Thankfully Scourge was not too embarrassed to ask a passing servant girl where there might be a good place to bunker down for the night. He had fewer inhibitions, after all. Rumble also thought he’d gotten tired of toting around one seriously exhausted Cassetticon. He hadn’t even asked. In his growing tiredness Rumble had tripped over his feet a bit and, when he’d thrown out his hands, he’d simply found himself lifted and leaning on Scourge’s shoulder. Cyclonus had halfway made a joke about it, as close as Cyke got to that anyway, but the cassette couldn’t remember what he’d said exactly. He was too tired.

He did remember that the maid was in a big hurry and paused only a quartex before rushing along again. "The soldier's barracks." the femme spouted over a narrow shoulder. Her arms burdened with several large, dirty bronze platters, she pushed a door key with her elbow. "Um ... follow the route to your left." She finished, "You'll see the sign."

Those directions were the directions to heaven. Oh, sure, the beds were hardly the greatest of quality. They were obviously meant for warriors on momentary leave, but after all the running for Foreman up and down the Iysurus' incredible height, to Rumble they were paradise. He didn't even remember slipping into recharge.

After a quick spot cleaning and a swig of something that tasted like ped treads but that a slave assured was necessary for a ‘healthy vornling’-- Scourge had ushered him out of the barracks. Finally on their way, nothing much was said between them. The Cassetticon was starting to grow used to the architecture. He didn’t know his way around the palace yet… no… but he could feel the knowledge starting to sink in. It was a frightening prospect.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, Cyclonus was already anchored to the Dourjer’s side, beating the Sweep and Rumble there by hours. Alert as ever. Rumble had to fight a wave of disgust. If there was anything he hated, it was a morning person. Sure, Soundwave got up with the vibro-hens but that was different. At least HE didn’t give off obnoxious vibrations about it.

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1

.

The arrival of Cyclonus’ colleagues satisfied the ruler. It had not been as quickly as he might have wanted, but it was timely, orderly and respectful. Those qualities he did appreciate and had rather come to expect in these three.

Metatisic glanced at Cyclonus. Even he showed the briefest note of excitement. Today his Dourjer would cut through all the petty conversation the Cybertronians seemed to bog themselves down with and stab straight at the core of the matter. His goal was to speak with the Emirate directly. With the aide of Legate and the powerful broadcasting system of the Iysurus itself, the Heraks’ transmitters would no longer be necessary. It was truly a momentous occasion.

“Legate is prepared, master.” Shockwave came through, sketching a bow.

“Very well.” Metatisic acknowledged, uprighting himself in his grand chair. The femme servant, Number 11 was there. She rushed forward for a moment, soundlessly fixing a fold in the heavy mantle he wore. Brushing it over with light fingers once it was placed correctly, she stepped away. It took less than an astro-second to check her handiwork and then she was quietly pretending she was invisible again. Metatisic almost smiled. Blind or stupid would a mech have to be not to notice her.

“You may transform when ready, Voyager.” He gestured to the small Autobot who found himself dwarfed by Shockwave’s close presence.

The post looked puzzled. He glanced behind him. “Sire… Lord…Sir-- What of the others? Shouldn’t they be here?”

Metatisic nodded with some indulgence. “They will be, but only after I’ve spoken with your Emirate.”

“You--“ if the needlebot was confused before, he was stunned now. “You’re going to radio them alone?”

“Yes, of course.” Metatisic’s voice was flat. For the foreign mech to be so incredibly bright at times, there were others when his processing capabilities matched his looks. Dull and post-like.

To the right hand side of the hall, a screen was slowly dropping. Its surface was static now, but the moment another Decepticon anchored Voyager’s extension cables to it, the display snapped to navy blue. White Cybertronian script flashed across the screen. Then the same was repeated automatically in Delepic with a white flashing cursor at the end: Ready.

Ready. It was a wonderful word.

“Ready for broadcast, Lord.” The Transformer bowed.

Voyager dared not ask any more questions. He had – they all had – tested the Dourjer’s patience far beyond its limits. Hadn’t yesterday evening been proof enough of that?

“Fine.” He heard Metatisic say. Those rubicund windows rounded on him now, with humorless purpose. “You may transform now, Autobot Voyager.” His voice lingered on the word ‘now’ with a great degree of sharpness.

“I-immediately, Sire-Primus-Sir.” He bowed, transforming.

It was unusual not to have to order the initial alignment of his own dishes. The Decepticon Legate had sent was more than capable. Voyager only had to manage the fine adjustments himself and send out the initial pings. Once he’d located a wavelength in Iacon that bore the Assembly’s encryption, he made sure there was an operative receiver attached to it by running a quick diagnostic. The echo assured him that all was well. There were even some outside cameras hooked in. At least someone was there and kind enough to give an outside view of the Hall. At least… at least it was still standing.

With a moment of flagging hope, Voyager wished with all his being that a Quintesson wouldn’t be on the other end. If there was… Cybertron was doomed. They all were.

He opened a channel.

.

2

.

Rumble was SURE he felt something tighten in his works in that instant. It had the gravity of pulling a gun trigger. In the portentous pause he noted the same emotions stirring in Scourge’s expression. This was it. This was IT. This was everything! Their world as they knew it in 2008 was a direct result of this one single instant in time.

.

3

.

“Planet of Cybertron.” Metatisic’s deep voice resonated through the cassette. It truly sounded like he was addressing the whole damn planet. “This is Bractos of Ta’nak… Are you there, Cybertron? Acknowledge.”

The static may have been a sub-echo, an overflow of the Karna's incredible power, cosmic white noise, or all three. But on the blue screen there was a slowly sharpening picture of a building structure with golden spires. It was round and had colonnades circuiting it. Rumble knew it instantly. That, that still stood in Iacon. Part of it did, anyway. It was the Assembly Hall. The Cassetticon was floored. He was going to have to pick up his optic lenses and put them back in his head if he stared any harder.

"Look at that." General Sarterius marveled. Then he frowned. Pycon had pointed to pitted and darkened scorch marks on the building, glancing at his commander as if in question. Several rising columns of smoke in the immediate distance were added to the weight of the General’s frown until it became a scowl. Sarterius looked at Metatisic, asking the same wordless question.

The mighty monarch’s brow furrowed. “Hmm…”

"Planet of Cybertron." He attempted the call again, "This is the Decepticon capital, Bractos of Ta'nak... Are you there, Cybertron?" The urgency in his tone was very real.

.

4

.

Cybertron - Midlands; The council of the Elders

(In Iacon…)

Wordplay wished she could plug her audios and drown out the grousing of the Assembly, or just turn them off entirely. She’d taken up to making one hand Xaaron and the other one Prime at the moment. Every now and then she’d add the growling and barking noises that should have accompanied the argument, snapping one hand at the other. The Assembly were really impossible constructs. No sooner was the Quintesson threat held at bay were the mechs all back at the chief order of the day --bickering. Some had stayed here all evening long, recharging right in the bleachers themselves with weapons at the ready.

She hadn’t gotten any sleep at all herself. Giving up her pantomime, her head drooped exhausted. Her cheek ground into her fist as she leaned, but a snapping noise made her bleary lenses focus. The view screen, the one that Emirate Xaaron insist be left on for emergency distress patches about Quintesson activity outside of the Iacon district, was flickering.

Great. Another damn Quint attack.

She put on her headset, clipping the audiopiece down. "Phone call, Delu ---"

"Planet of Cyber --- buzzzt --- cepticon capital, Bractos of Ta'nak. ... Are you there, Cybertron? -- buzzzzt"

The fembot didn't just lift herself off her fist and nor did she finish what she had just been starting to say either. She sprang from the bench and practically ripped the microphone from its plug when she snagged it.

"Screen!" Wordplay's fingers danced all over the keys. "Screen. Screen. Screen? THERE!" The screen stayed dark, but the main receivers locked onto the signal boosting the volume.

"This is the Decepticon capital, Bractos of Ta'nak." The transmission was at it again. It clearly was not the femme called Steelheart, but Wordplay couldn’t tell if it was a recording or not. " ... Are you there, Cybertron?"

"Hello?! Hello?!" She didn't realize her voice was so frantic with excitement, but it must have been because Delusion was suddenly at her back.

"What is it?" He frowned, looking at the codes that flashed across the signal integrity display. It was Voyager... but something else was boosting his signal by leaps and bounds.

"A Transmission!" She glanced over her shoulder at him. "It's a transmission from the other side! It's coming over the emergency distress patch!" Wordplay frowned. ”... it ..Delusion! Where the Pit is the visual link button?!"

The council-mech had the second microphone. "This is Iacon," he was saying. "We read you, Voyager. We're bringing up the screen now."

"It really doesn’t sound like Steelheart… I think it might be one of the tinkers." Wordplay was still looking for the button. Many of them were unmarked and she couldn’t afford to cut the transmission by accident if she punched the wrong one.

"Do you copy? This is Iacon. We are receiving you ---" Delusion pulled the mouthpiece away and murmured, "That button, Wordplay."

She pressed it.

The image twisted for only a moment. It wasn't a tinker... much less even a Cybertronian. On the screen in crystal clarity sat a large wine color mech with ebony and silver toned accents. His heavy slab shoulders were curtained by falling crisp folds of deep violet. It was the helm he was wearing that stole the brunt of the breathtaking view though ---for a moment the robot looked adorned by light itself. It stole cognizant thought and speech both from the council-bot.

The being from the other side didn't seem to be effected by the same shock and surprise Delusion was wearing clearly. The dark brow lines were actually calm over the scarlet panels of his eyes as he gave the Autobot and his attaché an appraising stare.

“I assume you are the Emirate, Xaaron.” The figure spoke.

The crown. Just like on the ancient recordings… g-grand…champion… Delusion wanted to cry in relief. “I ...”

“Are you? Or are you not?”

This was not the small palm-size screen of a transmitter with all the members of the council packed around it. The image was engulfing their very presence. Stunned as he was, Delusion attempted a manner of professionalism. "I am not." He spoke clearly, "I am a member of the Assembly here in Iacon. I am called Delusion and serve the council as Minister of Information." The spymaster had used his tamer title on purpose. He bowed his head momentarily in a gesture of respect and Wordplay copied the motion.

“Ahh...” The figure smiled. “So you are the infamous Delusion I have heard so very much of.”

Wordplay grabbed Delusion’s hand beneath the console. She was squeezing so hard his fingers ached. Delusion found himself unable to speak. What had the tinkers said? Worse than that-- WHAT HAD VOYAGER SAID?!? “You have me at a disadvantage Greatest Among Warriors, Grand Champion… may I have the privilege of your name?”

"Yes." The warmech caroled off his name and titles, "I am Metatisic. Metatisic, son of Rom, First born of the sacred light of Megadyne." He added in a even more serious tone, "I am the Dourjer here in Ta’nak, and likewise all of its provinces."

Delusion smiled. It was a beautiful smile of relief without shadow or ulterior motive. His promise to the council was fulfilled. There, in the metal, sat their greatest hope. Primus be thanked!

Metatisic continued, "I desire to speak with your Emirate. It concerns the purpose of your envoy." He paused, looking at the tiny annex with the barest gesture of a frown. "... Is your leader with you?"

“The council is in session, yes, Great One.” Delusion’s fingers were already flying over the keys to make the transfer to the main viewer. He glanced at Wordplay as he held the mute button. “My dear, please notify Alpha Trion and Xaaron that they need to drop whatever they’re arguing about and take this call-- And make sure the main viewscreen is working. It is imperative that it’s working. Hook Blue into the damn thing if you have to... Go!” He let his finger up as she ran to do so. “I apologize, the Emirate is being informed as we speak. I will transfer you to him directly in a few moments.”

.

5

.

The Assembly of Cybertron was silent for a few precious seconds after the viewscreen flickered to life. Xaaron and Alpha Prime stood at the newly twin high seats, looking upwards in something akin to disbelief. Beta had A-3’s hand. Wonder painted her face. A-2, missing his normal obnoxious skepticism, was gap-faced and staring. Zero-Zero clung to him like the old woman she was, half in fear and half in confusion. Delusion himself wore a smile-- one shared by Wordplay even as she monitored the sometimes finicky screen from the control panel. The council-bots closest to Omega Blue stared from positions on his shoulders and arms, having jockeyed for good places before the call was transferred. Those who were not friendly with the proto-sentinel had remained before their seats and were probably cursing themselves now. Five alone missed it all, for he was asleep, yet again.

“My business is with your Emirate Xaaron. Which among you is he?” The mighty monarch’s optics fell on the highly placed Beta who still held Prime’s hand. “ — Or she?” His face was a mask.

The small yellow Cybertronian nodded respectfully as he stepped forward. “I am Emirate Xaaron.”

The viewer started to slip a bit, the old joints having long since become loose. It drooped over her station and Wordplay swore. Struggling with the controls, she could not seem to make it rise again. A moment of panic flitted across Delusion’s processors. If the viewscreen fell… he didn’t even want to think about it. If Primus truly lived, then the screen would stay still and Wordplay’s life and the connection with Ta’nak would remain.

Metatisic glowered, but not at Xaaron. “I seem to suddenly be having difficulties seeing all of you. Could your screen be moved?”

It was when the Emirate, with a gesture, summoned the electromagnetic forces that were uniquely his to command that the Decepticon leader showed any significant reaction. The heavy main viewer pivoted and leaned up. The joints twisted on themselves to lock it into position and the ruler’s brows twitched up.

“Is that better, Dourjer Metatisic?” Xaaron asked calmly as the incandescence that crackled around his hand paled into nothingness. Delusion could have kicked him. Displays like that could ensure political messes not even HE could clean up for the Emirate.

The great mech on the other end of the transmission nodded gravely. “My view has been much improved.” He did not mince words. "I dare not wonder how you choose to manage your people, Emirate of Cybertron," Metatisic stated, not to be rude, but entirely honest about the situation. "But here in Ta’nak, as ruler, I must use every precaution necessary to protect my people as much as you seek to protect the well being of yours. You're band came into my land without much explanation for their doing so. We Decepticons have been engaged in our own bout of civil disobedience, so I feel you can understand." The Dourjer paused, but only for a moment, "...Enemies come in many shapes and sizes, Emirate, and I am unaccustomed to a mech leader who would order his people, in the midst of war, out into the wilderness without reason unless they might be scouts for some..." He let the pronunciation slide, "...unsaaaaavory conduct. Especially with the one called Voyager recording large amounts of data. I had reservations, nay suspicions, about them for these reasons."

“Our situation is desperate, Dourjer.” Delusion smiled imperceptibly at Xaaron’s response. He’d taken his suggestions to heart. This should go smoothly from here on out if the Emirate continued in this vein.

The sovereign nodded. "When I presented these implications, your Autobots informed me then that they were former slaves sent to seek out possible aid to overthrow who once were their masters."

At the word “Autobot” Zero-Zero straightened, but the rest of the Assembly looked at each other in confusion-- except for Five. The only thing he was looking at were the backs of his optic covers. Even Delusion quirked a brow. Though Five had shown him some of the old cases, where would those factory workers and tinkers have come up with a word like that? Even Voyager… it wasn’t a word he would use.

Delusion spoke, “I am the one who suggested the idea of an envoy to the council and the Emirate and so I feel the unintended stress was my fault."

A look of new curiosity touched the Decepticon leader's expression at that moment, "You will pardon my inquisitiveness… what prompted you to do so? How did you know what lay beyond the Dead Zone?"

"There are legends, Great Dourjer," Delusion replied.

"Yes. I have heard several members of your envoy speak of such things. How did you know of them?" Metatisic stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Delusion looked at the Emirate and Alpha Prime first as though seeking permission to respond. At their nods, he continued. "In addition to the stories most of us have heard since we were vornlings… we have certain Ancient recordings in our possession, Dourjer Metatisic..." He gestured. “On some of these recordings there are great warriors-- warriors with the ruby optics that your people bear-- and they too fought the plague that we now fight. They fought the Quintessons.” He shook his head. “No. No, I err. They did not fight them. They slaughtered them at every turn, at every opportunity! Nowhere did the beasts stand a chance against those brave gladiators!”

Metatisic held up a hand. His expression was tightly controlled. "Where did you get such recordings?" The question carried more degrees of surprise rather than wonder.

"One of our council elders..." The dark mech pointed his direction even though the old timer was sleeping again. "Number 5."

Five snored blissfully in recharge, his vents clogged with something that made the atmospheric filters whistle. The Dourjer said nothing for a long moment. "I see." Metatisic nodded.

Alpha Trion spoke then, "Forgive me, Lord Metatisic for saying so, but if I may be allowed to point out, we felt strongly that since these ancient gladiators had also made war against the Quintessons that there was enough to be shared between us in the current cause of my own people."

Metatisic either looked annoyed, confused, or perhaps both. "You are?"

"I am A-3, the Prime of Cybertron and Keeper of the Matrix."

If the Dourjer was puzzled before, he looked worse off now. “I thought..." His pause midway revealed his cognitive disarray. "But I was told that the Emirate was the ruler of your people."

"We have no rulers as such, Dourjer." Xaaron answer was prompt and he panned the assemblage around the high dais. "Alpha Trion, A-3, is the Keeper of the sacred Matrix and our chosen Prime. The woman at his side is Beta, his chosen One. I am the Speaker -the Emirate- of the Assembly… a judge of sorts. Delusion and the others here are all representatives and the legislative body that strives for the betterment of our people." He spared a kind smile at Five, but his voice was self-castigating. “.. Or at least dreams about it.”

Delusion watched as various emotions played out over the Dourjer’s face. Eyebrows shifted position as thoughts processed. Lenses were narrowed and then widened and questions were almost asked, then dismissed with speed as more took their place.

Legislative body. Legislative. I know that word. Legislative body. A body that legislates ---that would be me. Metatisic frowned to himself. But what do they mean? How could they possibly decide on anything if there is no one to will it done? The council was little more than a gaggle of robots, all shapes and sizes and crossing at least four different eras or more if their decorations and complexity held true. That and a smattering of femmes. Femmes! Okay, okay .. Females were delightful creatures. Even those roughened by hard work, like the transport Coronach favored, had their own allure, but to rely on judgments from minds prone to emotionality and fancy? What sort of mech allowed such things? He glanced at Eleven as if for confirmation. Her optics were downcast, but he shook his head nonetheless.

What of the strange power the Emirate displayed… and all this was to say nothing of those mysterious recordings they mentioned. Recordings of…

… it was mind-boggling.

One brow gabled much higher than the other, the Dourjer's optics flickered for a moment, squinted once, and then opened once more-- all of it seeming in one motion. It was awhile longer before he spoke though.

But what was most overwhelming was that they had no leader. No Dourjer. Nothing! It was a near complete vacuum of authority.

"No ..rulers." He repeated the declaration flatly as though he were trying his best at a new foreign language.

"Then..." Metatisic attempted to secure a sound footing, "Who is it that I am officially addressing? You must have one mech in charge at least?"

Either Xaaron couldn't see how perplexed the Decepticon was or he didn't see what was so alarming him when he answered, "All of us-- any of us is fine."

Delusion was happy that A-3 noticed the monarch’s stress at least. "I am the chosen Prime of my people." He went on to explain, "The problems of my people are presented before the Assembly for deliberation and conclusion. Xaaron speaks on behalf of our laws and my council-mechs offer their advice."

This explanation washed away a lot of Metatisic’s questions and his face cleared. "You have an abundance of personal viziers then?"

"You can say that."

"I see." Metatisic stroked his chin. "Seems it is different in Ta'nak then. I only keep one."

"Only ONE? And with only one you've mastered the government of your mechs?!" Alpha Trion was truthfully impressed. "Amazing. Your strength must be phenomenal!"

Murmurs from the assembly shared the conviction. The Dourjer himself smiled a very small, pleased, smile. "Here, I AM the Assembly. I'm the council, the speaker, the enmechanation of Megadyne, and the law! My body IS the legislative and judicial body of all Ta'nak.”

Prime nodded and Delusion silently thanked him for not asking questions. “I admire both your conviction and your wisdom, Dourjer Metatisic.” Every word was true; Alpha Prime wasn’t sarcastic in the slightest. The dark mech could have applauded because Xaaron was giving the king a subdued look of bewilderment. He wouldn’t have been so tactful.

“You will forgive me for being unpleasant, but your mechs have raised certain questions… you were a slave as well, Alpha Trion?”

Prime nodded gravely. “As all my robots were. And many of them still are. I have no shame in that.” He gestured to the Assembly. “It is because of our fierce desire to throw off the shackles of our oppressors that caused us to gather those brave enough and send them across the Dead Zone in search of your people.”

Metatisic stroked his chin. “Hmm…”

“We… we were never programmed nor trained to fight. It is only through the careful strategy of Delusion---” Alpha Trion gestured to the dark mech, who bowed. “Alpha Duon--” He pointed out A-2, who likewise bowed. The Dourjer’s brow quirked at him as if he recognized the mech. “And my own Beta--” He squeezed her hand and she nodded. “That we have been able to hold our own thus far.”

The Dourjer mused. “I have been told that your former Masters, these Quintessons, are demons. Are they?”

It was Xaaron who spoke now. His voice was grim. “They might as well be, Dourjer.” Delusion nodded fiercely, no longer caring much for protocol.

Prime glanced at them both, then spoke before Metatisic could think to become offended. “I could list the tortures visited upon my people until your very audios leaked coolant, Metatisic. Until your sides ached with every electro-prod they felt… until the jaws of the sharkticons haunted you in your thoughts even as they haunt all of us who have seen our loved ones, our friends .. our comrades go to their deaths. Some are murdered for no other reason than entertainment. There are no innocents here. No one is spared before the Quintessons’ lust for butchery.” He gestured. “Xaaron, Delusion. If you would?”

The two Autobots came forward to stand just before him. They did not glance at each other, but they seemed to be of infinite accord as they turned to the viewer. The anger that passed between them the other day was forgotten. Whatever had been said between the two in the annex must have been very compelling indeed.

“Please show the Dourjer what I mean.”

Paneling was carefully unbolted from several areas on both mechs. Arms, sides… one upper thigh. Horrible twisting scars were revealed. Such marks could have only come from plasma discharge or something equally deadly. Manacle gouges were still visible, though they had been filled with solder and had repair patches. Long parallel wounds, obvious signs of torture, marked them both-- even scoring across the heretofore-unseen parts of the other panels, those that were permanent and could not be removed. Delusion raised his chin slightly as if to implore the Decepticon. From his lesser height, Xaaron’s gaze was level blue-- asking nothing.

“Those are not marks of battle, or even the burns of the lash. Only the evil of those without sparks can deliver such blows.” Prime shook his head. “These are only two robots, Great Dourjer. I could show you wards full of mechs that have even more grievous injuries than the ones Delusion and Xaaron bear. All of them earned before we freed them.” Alpha Trion gestured for the Emirate and the Minister of Information to replace their paneling.

Metatisic pondered this new development with a furrowed forehead. When he did speak, his tone was very serious. “I have much to think about. As I have said, we are in the midst of a rash of armed civil disobedience.” His gaze lingered on Xaaron and then slid to Delusion. “But I am not unmoved.”

The warmech leader's brow creased again before Alpha Trion could offer any further measures of explanation to their plight. "No, not unmoved, but yet I am also curious. My Decepticons are already heavily burden by homefront defiance. And now you are seeking me to commit them to another battle, Prime?"

Alpha Trion sighed, but nodded slowly. "We understand, Dourjer."

Metatisic continued, "..and further, one that is rightfully none of our affair. To command that my armies leave their homeland to foreign ground for a war that is not theirs." He paused. "-- That's not a easy item to sell."

A sting of fear hooked Delusion for the first time. What, what if he said no?! They'd be slaughtered! All of them! There was just nothing else! The ramifications jabbed the Autobot like a cold spike. He looked at Wordplay. Though others might not notice it behind the veneer he’d taught her, those worried eyes told him everything he needed to know.

"Tell me." The Decepticon on the screen asked thoughtfully, "If I agree to allow my armies to invade your enemies, as slave mechs, what could you offer me to feel such an action even held merit?"

For once, the dark, navy mech threw caution to the wind. He was grasping for anything, any scrap of truth he could use to persuade this king. “Slaves we might be, Master, but that does not mean we have nothing to offer. We have rich fuel resources we’ve wrested from Quintesson control. Byrite Mines. Docks and cargo companies. Factories. We are skilled scientists and builders.” Delusion’s extreme anxiety was creeping into his voice, but he no longer cared.

Duon nodded, his tone much calmer as he interrupted the growing panic. “I was presented with the fuel ration reports this morning. Our photon collectors and sunk rigs have been producing gigaphaelons of fuel in various forms every astrocycle. Whatever might happen to us, we will not starve.” It was out of turn, but the information made the Decepticon leader’s optics aglow with interest. A-2 continued, “And this is but a small fraction of what could be, Your Highness. If the Quintessons were ousted once and for all, our output would be twenty times that amount!”

“You are not exaggerating? Twenty times your average output?”

Alpha Duon shook his head, and was echoed by Xaaron and a few others who had seen the reports. “No, Great One. My figures are correct. Probabilities are something of my speciality.” Delusion looked at the great bronze mech with newfound respect.

Someone, obviously off camera, beckoned Metatisic's attention. Again the strange language was spoken that had been heard by one and all just yesterday. Zero-zero narrowed her optics into blue slits. Five coughed in his sleep and mumbled something. When the Dourjer nodded, his attentive glance panned back over the collection of the council.

Delusion looked at Prime. He put every ounce of his anguish in that one expression. Please. Please, Trion…

“We offer you free trade, fuel as mentioned, or other goods.” Alpha Prime presented in the silence.

Xaaron added, forcefully, “We have liberated all the lands surrounding the thrust of the Zone. Even the lower levels… it would be more than easy to accommodate such transactions---”

"And, as you are builders and scientists, certain technologies in your possession are also of some interest to me," Metatisic said, interrupting. "I was quite delighted by the display of alternative modes your envoy shared with me yesterday." The warrior leader was rubbing his chin again, his voice vague and drifting. " — all of this is quite tempting." His tone sharpened, as if he realized he’d spoken aloud. "These are fantastic offers indeed, but even so they demand a measure of thought and private consultation with my own if I am to make a constructive decision." He nodded. "We shall adjourn this matter for one megacycle, Prime."

“A wise decision, Metatisic. Perhaps in that time we here may gather concrete numbers for your perusal.” Alpha Trion ventured.

“It sounds as if we both have much to do. Megadyne keep you, Alpha Prime.”

Five twitched and snorted, coming rapidly awake. He looked around at the other Assembly members, smacking his lips and yawning.

“And Primus you, Metatisic.” Prime responded.

The screen went dark before Number 5 managed to figure out what everyone had been fixated on. He stared at the darkened rectangle and a confused look crossed his agone face. He managed to stand without the use of his crutch as he turned back to the others. “What’d I miss?”

“Probable guess: the future-- scrap pile,” Zero-Zero snapped acidly. Duon hushed her, placing a kind hand on her blocky beige shoulder, but she’d have none of it. Though she was older even than Five, she had a great deal more energy and often reminded him of it in the nastiest ways she could think of. Beta didn’t like her. It wasn’t just Five; Zero-Zero seemed to hate everyone but Duon. Then again… she had no idea what the elderly femme may have gone through either. She only knew that it was A-2 who rescued the old glitch and, since then, she’d been treating him as if he were her own creation-- fussing over him and cooing at him and making sure he fueled up on time. For his part, Duon had not only allowed it, but also seemed to enjoy the attention.

“Oh… that’s okay then. I thought I…” Five scratched at his helmet. “Guess I must be hearing things again. Damn audio shorts.”

Beta walked forward as Prime busied himself with arranging the appropriate reports. She smiled at the old mech, gently steadying him. “Don’t be overly concerned, Five. The Decepticon will be contacting us again in a megacycle. That’s not very long from now at all.”

“Hmmm?” Five was already bleary again. “Oh… that’s nice, Beta. You’re such a sweet girl.” He patted her on the hand as he settled himself in his seat.

Sounds of a scuffle outside drew her attention away. No one else seemed to notice except for Wordplay. The attaché stood, glancing at Beta, then made to draw her blaster from her hip compartment. Beta gestured her to take cover nearby, and drew one of her bows from her own paneling. This wasn’t the crossbow; it was the longbow. It extended at a touch of her hand and the tips flared to life, creating a tensile photon string. Drawing an arrow from her sling, she set it on the glowing filament and pulled back, aiming for the door.

“What is it?” Prime asked.

“I believe we’re about to have company from the sounds of things.” She responded. The sounds of fighting had grown louder. Alpha Trion nodded, drawing his laser rifle. Alpha Duon, who had nothing more than a large spear, gently took Zero-Zero by the hand and roused Five. He ushered them both into the Annex and then stood before the doorway, the ancient rusty weapon held before him at the ready.

There were shouts.

“Quints!” Wordplay growled even as she took up aim on the door. Delusion was in motion instantly. A vibro-knife, ugly and serviceable, appeared in his hand just before it and he disappeared from sight. It was hard to say if he was at her elbow, or waiting to jump the hostilities from any of the many available shadows.

The Emirate’s preparation was the simplest but the most impressive-- though his magnetic displays drained his power quickly. He started to walk and, as he did, his yellow frame began to crackle with electricity like a cathode tube. Finally it leapt in arcs around him, like a tesla coil. That’s when everyone in the room felt a slight tug on their paneling. Xaaron was at full charge and ready to toss mechs twice his size around like toys. The doors suffered from a massive blow and Emirate Xaaron raised his hands, electrons crackling in visible incandescence over his fingers.

The other Cybertronians prepared for the worst, drawing whatever weapons they could find. One had nothing more than a large brick tied to a wire wrapped tightly around one arm-- an improvised mace. They all took cover and waited. Omega Blue, slowest of all, aimed at the doors with his cannon. His giant cyclotron thrumming, filling the laser cells with power, was almost as loud as the thrashing outside.

“No one attack until I give the signal.” Prime called, even as he powered up his rifle.

Another bang rocked the entryway.

“Nobody even twitch a cable.” Beta affirmed her mate’s command. She held her bow steady, the taut photon line glowing brightly at her cheek.

The doors slammed open with a twisting, shredding noise.

A rush of militia bots pounded into the room, led by a red transport and a mint green light-loader. They had no particular rhyme or reason to their formation, only that they were indeed a group. On their arms they had the rags signifying that they were from Kokular. The two leaders also bore bands from Iacon over the one from Kokular, meaning they were senior militia members.

What had started as a trip with Kup and his lady friends, to find out what happened to his boss, had turned into a two astrocycle long fight against the Quintessons for Ironhide. The transport’s only consolation had been that Servo was not among the dead guards they’d found outside the main chamber. They’d stopped the Quint-made drones trying to cut through the doors with a welding torch-- they’d killed them in fact. It hadn’t been nearly as satisfying as a fight against those beasts themselves, especially not after what they’d done to those other robots. Ironhide’s boots slick with coolant and other vital fluids from those noble mechs and the blasted drones that slaughtered them, he more slid to a stop than actually put on the breaks when he found himself staring down the entire Assembly now.

They didn’t look too happy.

“Holy Primus.” The Ironhide blinked, lowering his gun.

But at least they were alive.

“Holy slag, more like.” Kup whistled looking at all the Assembly-mechs prepared to fight. “We thought you guys were in trouble.”

That was an understatement. Ironhide had thought that they’d been severely wounded and holed up in the hall for safety’s sake. If not that, they’d done so and died and the drones were looking for proof. Those damn Quints would love to have the helmets of the Council as trophies. If he and Kup hadn’t noticed the mechs outside being missing.

Alpha Trion chuckled. “Stand down, everyone. It seems our overzealous protectors sensed danger and rushed to save the day.”

The Emirate vented out noisily before Prime had even finished his first sentence, the incandescent crackle of electricity sputtering into nothingness. Xaaron sat right were he’d stood. Faceplate in hands, he looked completely exhausted. Delusion flickered into being near him, making a few members of the militia jump when he did. The navy Autobot kneeled down to speak to the small yellow Emirate, his voice not much above a murmur. The rest of the Assembly relaxed. It was not a carefree sort of relaxation, rather being more one brought about by fatigue.

“Ah take full responsibility, Prime.” The transport bowed quickly to hide his discomfort. “When we saw the guards’d been executed and them drones a’workin on that door, well Ah thought we was gonna be pick’in up pieces of you folks off the floor if’n we was lucky.”

A-3’s face was a mask of confusion, and the gasps of the Council confirmed it. They’d had no clue how close they’d just come to dying. “What do you mean?”

“What he means-- is this.” Spectral spoke as she and Eroda dragged one of the still sparking drones into the hall. The muck-streaked femmes threw it to the floor. It’s head detached on impact and rolled to a stop before Prime. He was mute.

Beta nearly strangled the bow at her side as she stared at the drone. “ALL of the guards are dead?” Her voice was rife with disbelief.

Ironhide answered. “Ah ain’t seen Servo in the wreckages, ma’am. He was supposed ta be here and all. And some of the mechs Ah know personal-like from jobs ain’t there neither.”

“It’s bad, Beta,” Kup interjected. “There are dead robots stacked up to my knees in several places out there. It’s like they got caught by surprise… and these drones---” He motioned to the sputtering machine on the floor. “—were burning through the door to get at you all when we stopped them.” Prime lowered his head. Beta was instantly at his side, but he waved off her concern. His jaw set itself. When he spoke, his voice had the ring of cold iron. “I want those reports for the Dourjer. I want them now. By Primus, this cannot be allowed to happen again.” He turned back to his fellows. "Pray, all of you, that Primus will see the Ta'nakian ruler has been persuaded."

.

6

.

“Are you feeling improved, Emirate?” Wordplay asked.

Xaaron nodded, hazily, as he sipped fuel from a chipped mug. He leaned on the console in the annex. Five was dozing peacefully in a chair near him. Xaaron envied the ancient’s ability to do so, but Delusion was going over the recording of the transmission from Bractos.

With an uncomplaining smile, the attaché returned to aiding her much-loved superior. She was scanning the ancient datacorder disks for something. Images of the gladiators flickered by at high speed on her monitor as Wordplay searched. Xaaron wasn’t sure what she was after, but Delusion himself had been almost possessed for the last few breems. He kept staring at the Decepticon’s ruler on the transmission earlier as if he actually knew him.

Prime didn’t need any of them breathing down his neck to compile data. That’s why he had Duon. Xaaron was more interested in the wild cryo-goose chase that the spymaster was engaged in. He would never doubt Delusion’s fits of seeming madness again. Too much water had passed through that duct. The dark mech, for all his wicked manner, was an asset to his Prime, his Emirate and the Assembly at large. One of Xaaron’s scars twinged as he readjusted his position. More personally, he would trust Delusion with his life from here on out. Brothers under the plating, as it were.

“Got it!” Wordplay crowed. On her screen was a still of the familiar red gladiatrix from the earlier tapes Delusion had shown to the Council only days prior. The sliver toned cannon on her arm, she had been caught just as she turned-- full face except for what was covered by her battlemask.

Delusion sighed out, and briefly stroked Wordplay’s cheek with some affection, though his attention was riveted on the red warrior femme. “Perfect… just beautiful…” He sounded like he was falling in love. His screen snapped to a still he’d already selected and with one hand covered the lower half of Metatisic’s face, the spymaster turned focusing piercing optics on the yellow Autobot near him.

“Xaaron! ...See! See for yourself, Xaaron.” Delusion whispered fiercely.

It was almost enough to make Xaaron drop his mug. The Emirate straightened. If he changed the colors in his mind and added the heavy black brow ...

Metatisic looked just like the red one.

.

CHAPTER 21: I, as Megadyne

.

Bractos - PL-D2; The Great Hall - The Iysurus

Clapping his hands, the Dourjer summoned his attendants. Quaking from the strain of having such a powerful signal run through his systems, the needlebot had collapsed to the floor in robot form when the transmission ended. Voyager lay there now, venting, silent. It worried the monarch. For that one not to talk, he must truly be tired.

The striking femmes rushed forward. Looking over them, Metatisic took a moment to appreciate them both. It wouldn’t have been courteous to do any less. “Take the Autobot and see that he is rested and refueled. Make him comfortable. I will have need of his talents again in a megacycle’s time.”

Without a word, the two nodded and went to collect the worn out robot. Voyager didn’t struggle at all. The needlemech only leaned heavily on one of the women, concentrating on the apparently immense task of putting one ped in front of the other. After the notes of their footsteps died away, Metatisic glanced at Shockwave. "The offer is a good one. If those Autobots have alternative modes as the others here…"

"Yes, and these resource deposits the Emirate--” Shockwave clarified, “the Council, praised so highly."

His finger tapping his chin for a quartex, Metatisic flicked his gaze back at his guardian, "If they exist." His tone was sharp.

"You think their Prime was not genuine?"

"Oh, I do believe he and his mechs we're telling the truth, but I still would like to personally examine the investment."

"A logical decision."

"You mean to travel there?" Sarterius asked. His shock was as ill contained as Shockwave’s moment of confusion had been.

"It appears to be the only sound judgment. I also want to behold this Primus they worship... see how their faith compares to our own, and--" He added, "--to decide if it's a hidden beam of the Karna that deserves our adoration as well.”

Shockwave nodded. "Even if it is nothing more than sentimental sludge, their transformation technology alone is certainly worth the attention."

"Yes." Metatisic agreed, "Besides I would like to see these horrible creatures once fought by our own."

Sarterius chuckled, "And to see if their strength measures up to the legends of 'Those Forsaken' by Mergadyne."

Casual as it was, Shockwave seized at the symbolic nature of the remark. "Master? .. Master wait. If you were to, as Megadyne did himself, again eradicate these, these monsters... the Decepticon people would in fact be strongly reminded of their God."

Sarterius stroked his own chin. "After the doubts set forth by the renegades…"

Metatisic could have sworn the guardian's optic winked somehow. He knew just what he meant exactly, but Shockwave furthered the explanation: "It would restore our principal morality."

The king’s smile was inward. He was already the enmechanation of Karna --but to actually and truthfully re-fight the very war of Megadyne and drive Those Forsaken before him?! It would be to become Megadyne in a completely new manner. The Rougeons had spewed their toxin to the minds of the people. Truth, powerful blazing truth like the light of Karna itself, would burn that away. If he were to end this horrible plague, to save these… Autobots…

Not only would he be walking the very path of Karna, he would have access to those mysterious recordings the Cybertronians claimed to have. Recordings that any renegade would likely desire destroyed.

— Ha! Would that not be a great laugh in the face of such blasphemy?

The Prime’s offer was becoming increasingly attractive. Not only could Metatisic reap its physical rewards with trade and technology, but he could also reaffirm the ancestry and glory of his Decepticons. Metatisic wasn’t just smiling-- he was beaming.

"If ever you were a God," Eleven’s soft voice was soft like the silky cool warmth of a turbo-fox pelt. It was evident she cherished the wisdom of the scientist's claim. When the Dourjer turned to her she nodded several times in quick succession, as if to draw his final decision. "… surely there would be no question." She finalized.

"You believe Shockwave has the answer?"

The femme seemed embarrassed now. A slight shiver that the servant-femme dispelled quickly, "By your word, master."

Metatisic patted the top of her hand just then, before he rose from his seat. Astro-seconds ticked by. Outside the doors ahead he could see the strong spears of light. The Alpha-Centauri was still high no doubt and Metatisic gorged the spectacle a moment before he spun to face their direction again.

"I agree. The benefits are far too invaluable to ignore." Deliberating as he strode back towards his grand chair he added; "Moreover we shall make arrangements to journey to this city of Iacon; see to our investments and our battlefield. Pycon! Send an order that Commander Coronach should bring the Autobots to— "

Pycon bowed even as Cyclonus caught the Dourjer’s attention.

"Wait, Pycon!"

Pausing immediately on the word of his king, the soldier bowed again and waited for further instructions.

The Decepticon leader's optics didn't jerk away from the purple toned jet for even a trifle. They stayed fixed as he retook his throne again. "Cyclonus." He said. "You and your comrades step forward, please." Despite the please, it wasn’t a request.

Oh, slag… what now? Megatron’s father's tone sounded serious enough. Deadly serious, the Cassetticon thought. Rumble glanced at Scourge and Cyclonus. In a tiny voice, he whispered. “Look, if something bad goes down, I don’t know you guys. Alright?”

His tone was so faint that only Scourge caught the comment, and he gave the Transformer a harsh optic for his trouble. The Sweep didn’t dawdle and wait for Rumble, but followed Cyclonus within a few steps.

“We’re doomed,” Rumble mumbled. Galvatron’s lieutenant glanced sideways a moment even as he was moving forward. Cyclonus’ expression could be easily translated in a single word; “Hush!”

There was a new air about the Dourjer just now ---stronger, straighter, if he could be anymore commanding than he was already. "These scenarios presented by the Cybertronian people are novel." He said. "Never confronted before by all of Ta'nak. Certainly then, it calls for an experienced hand and careful insight. You agree, Cyclonus?"

The jet from the future bowed, "Yes, Mighty One." What else could Cyke do? God asks you if you agree-- of course you do! Unless you’re insane! Rumble scooted just a little behind Scourge-- just in case that affirmative response wasn’t the answer Metatisic sought.

"A knowledgeable sort who can aid me in these fresh and future policies."

Cyclonus’s optics went wide. Rumble and Scourge shared a worried look.

As if appreciative of the confusion, Metatisic let the statement hang, but only for a moment more. "I find Arms Bearer does not suit your expertise, Decepticon Cyclonus. Surely I have enough who fawn over such trivialities. It would be a waste for a mech who has been into Cybertron." He nodded to himself. "You have been places none of my Decepticons have ever stood. Not even I. I will need a good mech to set in charge over of dealings with these new aspects within Cybertron." His optics crossed over Scourge and Rumble now, " ... and you obviously work best with your comrades likewise."

The Cassetticon closed his filters, trying not to vent audibly. Scourge stood straighter, but his optics were respectfully lowered.

"Cyclonus... I make you my first Foreign Ambassador of Cybertronian Affairs. You will be my protégé and your men will be your auxiliaries." During the barest of pauses, the great mech stroaked his chin thoughtfully. "I will equal you to that of my Legate and my servants will obey your decisions."

A job? As diplomats? Oh frag me sideways… how are we supposed to get home now? Rumble tried not to wince. He had to think positively. Wasn’t Soundwave always telling him that? Opportunity. Opportunity. Opportunity. Big Daddy was an optimist. He’d be looking at ways to turn this mess in their favor..

Then Shockwave started to speak.

"Metatisic, Son of Rom the Second! Hail! First born of the rays of Karna, O' sacred light of Megadyne--"

Shockwave was noting his master's titles and Metatisic smiled down upon his new ambassador while he spoke, "Has so ordered it."

Cyclonus could not... wouldn't believe what he was hearing. Too modest to show it, his astonishment grew upon the staring at his own feet. Even as the Decepticon leader noted how only the likes of Shockwave and Sarterius themselves would have any ranking over him now. He blinked. Then he did so again. It was far, far more than he’d hoped for. He really WAS the mech. Nobody would believe what kind of snow job he’d managed to pull… he didn’t even believe it!

"It’s a great honor," Metatisic reminded. Cyclonus' very armor shivered.

The Dourjer nodded to the other two as well, "My honor." He said to Scourge.

Perhaps it was the jet's anxious but near silent panting, but something made the Metatisic chuckle lightly. "You have nothing to say, Ambassador Cyclonus?"

”I... I am." He was moment from a smile before the stupor seized him again, "Words fail me, M’Lord. I am... we are. I'm deeply humbled."

When Metatisic rose it was only then that he took noticed that the servants were paused frozen in there places and that when the Dourjer's hand touched his shoulder, that both Shockwave and Sarterius--

Sarterius?

Cyclonus had a distinct desire to ask Scourge to pinch him. Hard.

The Vizier and the General brought their fists in a thump to their breastplate and bowed.

Cyclonus couldn't feel his own body; but his fist raised to his chest in mimic of Shockwave across from him, "To serve you as you have spoken, Mighty one, is my greatest privilege."

"Then it is done. Is there anything that you and your mechs may need? A servant perhaps?" With a sharp clank, he snapped his fingers at one of the worker bots closest to his throne.

"Actually, Master…" Scourge stepped to Cyclonus' right. The sweep didn't want to ask after such a generous blessing but he overcame his trepidation even as the jet watched.

“Yes, Scourge?” Metatisic focused on him.

“Lord...” The repulsor craft ventured, “We have been very long away and have no homes available to return to. May we ask for a suite of quarters in which to set up our operations?”

“Billet for the Ambassador’s company,” Metatisic mused. He glanced over them, probably wondering where they’d spent the night before. Cyclonus knew that if he were in the Dourjer’s position the question would definitely cross his mind. “Hmm… I would certainly prefer you near for my calling should I have the need.”

Scourge and Rumble glanced at the jet, but he had no answers for them. He was just as hung, waiting for the monarch’s deliberation to cease.

“I will give to you residence in tower two. This bot---” Metatisic gestured to the slave he’d summoned a moment ago. “Will show you to your quarters as soon as our business is concluded for the day.”

Cyclonus and his compatriots bowed. “We are grateful, Master.”

“Nonsense. It is my pleasure to reward you.” Metatisic smiled. He turned his attention back to Pycon. “Go, Pycon. Tell the Commander he and his wing-mates are to bring the Cybertronians here without unreasonable delay.”