[Historian's Note: This is a "fictionalized" account of "factual" events. Some characters and scenes are composites, some details have been altered, some names have been changed, etc.]

THE 2005 CHRONICLES

By Raksha

Think in terms of bridges burned,
Think of seasons that must end.
See the rivers rise and fall -
They will rise and fall again.

--Bob Seger, "The Famous Final Scene"

13.8.05

Events happened quickly in the last days ... an abrupt downward slide from our lofty ambitions, into the greatest disaster imaginable. I think of Megatron still in his final hours, proud and indomitable, eager to wage his assault against Autobot City on Earth; he knew well that this would draw his greatest nemesis from hiding, knew well that the one-on- one battle to the death, that they had been circling for millennia, was finally at hand. He was confident of his victory. And he alone emerged the survivor, while Optimus Prime was shattered beyond repair. But even Megatron had not escaped unscathed, and the series of events which cascaded over us afterward, could scarcely have been foreseen. Oh, that Starscream would attempt some manner of treachery, I should have known, but he has never exerted true lethal force, and I maintain that even this time, the end result was not his true intention; none the less he cannot be absolved of blame. Greater blame falls to me, however, for in our hasty flight from Autobot City, I was not prepared. I would not have imagined the anarchy in the shuttle, the ease with which Starscream goaded the others into an insensate fury, so that they might have turned on anyone who stood against their mob mentality at that moment.

I think of Megatron, being cast adrift. That moment of stark terror, forever frozen into my mind - the mob would turn on me, I knew, if I made a counter-move, and my creations nestled inside me, clamoring to get out as they saw everything through my eyes, as I stood and did nothing ... as Megatron disappeared into the cold black void. I would be back for him, of course, I told myself desperately, yes, of course, his injuries were grievous but not enough to kill him ... and yet when my mind reached for him, I found it dwindling down into some lightless abyss, as an unnatural energy surged through it and silenced his thoughts. A mistake, a horrible mistake, to have let that one instant of fear sway me - but the realization came too late.

Megatron was gone, and in his place returned something fashioned from his remains, Galvatron. His mind was cold and impenetrable, shot through with this unnatural power ... he showed flickers of individuality, moments of brilliance, but all his striving was to break free of the chains that bound him. I did not know this Decepticon. Shaken still from what I had allowed to happen, I simply followed along with the rest ... against the Autobots, against Unicron, and, when it was all over, here to this wretched planet where we find ourselves today. Galvatron is lost in battle, and we are left to contemplate the heights from which we began, and how badly it all fell to ruin.

Megatron ... Megatron would have known what to do, what to say to these broken and disillusioned souls that take shelter in the crumbling ruins of a lost civilization. Perhaps I'd have once known what to say to them too, but what right have I, to reach out, when I allowed Megatron to die alone?

My creations ... much as I try to shield my thoughts, I hear the questions in their minds, the confusion, the uncertainty. I gather myself, at least for their sake, to present some semblance of assurance now that their world has been torn out from under them. I keep the telepathic link closely guarded. I cannot burden them with this, in addition to what they have already suffered. They must believe that somehow, we will survive.

What would Megatron have said?

15.8.05

This world is called Charr on the starcharts, and it is a most diabolical combination of light and dark, withering heat and circuit-numbing cold. One face it keeps eternally turned toward its sun, and to venture to the Dayside invites exposure to the infernal star's unique radiation; this disrupts the impulses travelling along the neurocircuitry, and immobilizes the victim under the harsh glare, turning outer armor into a heat-trap that melts the vital circuitry from the inside. The Nightside is marginally livable, and Cyclonus, Galvatron's subcommander, who seems by default to have ascended to a leadership role, has urged us to shore up one of the abandoned buildings for shelter. The warriors are listless and disinterested, still reeling from the defeat after such high expectations, and well aware of how little fuel and resources we have left. With great effort I rouse myself from my own apathy - somebody must begin - and set my creations to helping with the task. Give them something to focus their minds on. Even numbing physical labor is a better choice than sinking into despair. Presently some of the others are inspired to help.

The hours pass into days ... a few walls get patched, some building material gathered from the outlying ruins ... it is at best a half-hearted effort. Cyclonus stalks about, seething in frustration ... what could he know, how could he relate, to those of us who served under Megatron and saw him raise us from the lowest dregs to the conquest of a planet? Could he understand the loss? ... Perhaps so. He scans the eternal night skies, he urges his immediate subordinate, Scourge, and his pack of Sweeps, to scour Charr's little solar system, over and over.... Slowly I begin to recognize the pattern. Cyclonus seeks his commander, unwilling to give up for lost the individual to whom he swore loyalty. I must wonder whether Cyclonus would stand aside in a shuttle full of chaos and anarchy, and allow his leader to be thrown to his death?

23.8.05

Cyclonus has finally convinced us to pool what little resources remain to us, so he and Scourge and the Sweeps might travel farther, track a possible trajectory for Galvatron. This Galvatron, he is a stranger, and his name leaves me cold; I owe him nothing. And yet, I look around at the others. They would benefit from a strong command figure. Cyclonus himself has managed to muster himself to commanding the attention of even the most disinterested of our group - his optics burned with conviction as he spoke of Galvatron, as he asked from us the very last bit of fuel that we could give. To my surprise it was Motormaster who first stepped forward and offered what little he could; I had always suspected that behind his growling, blustering mannerisms, his loyalty to the cause ran deep. Could I do less, with my creations watching, their optics gleaming with a haunted light and their minds full of questions?

Cyclonus and his troops were gone a number of days ... one loses track ... but true to their word, returned with Galvatron. I no longer sense the impenetrable barrier around his mind, the twisted power that surged through him ... his thoughts reel with an instability and a miasma of undirected rage that repels me with sheer revulsion. He is quite mad. Gone is the cold, lethally efficient and single-minded stranger who strained at the leash Unicron had shackled him with. He is unfettered now, and loose upon us.

Cyclonus in some manner manages to direct his seething energies. The warriors suddenly step up their pace of finishing a somewhat livable base, if only to keep clear of Galvatron. Slowly we scrape out a subsistence from the capricious fossil fuels of Charr.

13.9.05

Cyclonus seems oblivious to Galvatron's insanity, supporting his every edict. I fail to understand. Cyclonus himself seems competent, dedicated ... there is a core of conviction about him, an unshakable center of duty and warrior's honor. I have seen him settle disputes among the warriors, with words alone, which left them ashamed of their actions. Why he pledges his allegiance to Galvatron, is beyond me. This is no longer the individual whom he followed in the first days of his existence. This individual is a danger to us all. Sometimes I venture to probe the whirlwind of thoughts, in the vain hope that there should be anything of Megatron left ... sometimes I think I catch a whisper, deep within, something struggling upward ... but no, I delude myself. I cannot bring myself to think of Megatron's mind, trapped somewhere within that froth of psychosis.

When Galvatron proclaims that he will lead us in an all-out attack on Cybertron, I look over our bedraggled army and only shake my head. But they have nothing to lose, they will fight fiercely for re-entry to their homeworld - or die in trying. Perhaps one fate is as good as another.

We manage to re-claim a tiny corner of what was once ours, Polyhex City, traditional center of Decepticon High Command, and its looming fortress of Darkmount. What the Autobots have not torn down beyond repair, we slowly restore, and somehow hold our own at the borders on a hostile world.

15.10.05

Discipline has fallen into a shambles; it seems the warriors are constantly at each others' throats. In Cyclonus' presence they slink away in opposite directions - Galvatron scarcely cares, unless sparked by some stray impulse to fire a fusion blast randomly at his own troops - but in the absence of supervision, they return to their old ways.

Onslaught comes to me, desperate for answers, for reassurance. Why come to me? It was my doing, or lack thereof, that caused all this.... "We must restore order!" he insists, his every sense of military regimen and structure crumbling beneath him, and he struggling to keep a foothold. "I'll find a way to restore the Decepticons to what they once were," he swears. "With our without you."

Can I truly turn away from my species now, when they need me the most? I consider the remnants of the old order such as Motormaster and Onslaught; I consider the promising young warriors, such as Ramjet and the other flyers; I consider Razorclaw and his Predacon team, who barely knew Megatron - can I let them head blindly into the future without knowing their past, without urging them to live up to their heritage? My mind reaches out to my own creations. For them, I will survive. Long enough to see the Decepticons restored to their former glory, long enough to insure that my creations live to see us rise again from these dark times.

I go to the others, those in confusion and despair, and speak to them in absolute assurance and conviction. While assisting in repair bay, I speak to them. I remind them that we have all withstood setbacks before. I remind them of the courage with which our fallen heroes faced their fate, and can we do less now, than to face ours and overcome it? With enough repetition, I sound convincing. Here and there, I see hope flicker up again in their optics. The troubled thoughts whirling through the minds of my creations begin to settle, as they slowly adjust, as they slowly begin to accept this gray existence as tolerable, a temporary stage before the inevitable upward swing.

I wish I believed it myself.

21.10.05

It is made even more clear to me that I have a task to fulfill, much as I should like to give up on the struggle and run from my own failings ... but there are others who can still be helped, and I owe them my efforts, at least. Adamia, one of our most skilled medics, brings me Vortex with a self-inflicted laser wound having severed the left side of his helmet; "You can help him," she says with a hopeful certainty, "I've seen a little bit of your file, and if anyone can, it's you." I patch the physical damage over a number of hours, working carefully and improvising the linkages where possible, to reconnect all the cerebral neurofilaments with our scarcity of replacement parts. There may be some slight, irreplaceable memory loss, but other functions should remain unimpaired. The true damage is psychological, and when Vortex awakens I seek his permission for an in-depth telepathic scan. "This will give me awareness of everything about you," I warn him, "perhaps even that which you do not know about yourself." It is perhaps the ultimate invasion of privacy, but he agrees to it, the despair that drove him to place an active weapon to his head being more painful than any fear of what I might find. I delve into his thoughts, through the surface layers and toward the core of his being, sifting through his memories, his experiences, the unique set of impulses and reactions that gives him his individuality. I come upon mental barriers erected millennia ago to contain parts of his past too horrible to recall, re-routed memories and re-directed reflexes. It goes back to his days before joining the Combaticons, when he had another life which was brought to a close by Autobot imprisonment and lengthy, repeated torture - it was there that he learned his own arts of interrogation, where he learned to insulate himself against the suffering of others. When he was finally restored to a place in Megatron's army, he found a degree of peace in serving his function, in being part of a close-knit team in a larger army that strove for the same goal. But that unity was gone now, dissolved in the face of a leadership in which the warriors found no faith - and it goaded all of his old impulses to the surface in ways for which he was not prepared.

Piece by piece I disassemble the barriers in his mind and restore order, melding the disconnected bits of his experience back together again into a balanced whole. When we come out of the link, I tell him that the Decepticon cause is above us all, and in that context, giving up and embracing death is the easy way out, the coward's way, an additional compilation of failure atop past mistakes. I speak for both of us, though he does not know it. He thanks me most earnestly and promises to re-dedicate himself to the cause and our eventual victory, no matter the hardships we may yet face. I am gratified to have reached one individual, at least, who would otherwise have been forever lost, and it is perhaps a small payment toward the debt I owe my species.

25.11.05

I spend a great deal of time in the laboratory adjoining the repair bay. There I am close by, to assist if I should be needed, but also relatively isolated, in familiar surroundings that sometimes almost let me forget what lies outside the lab. It is a place where the others have come to realize they can find me, should they wish to.

I work on the cerebral circuitry, stringing together the fantastically complicated nanocomponents. The absolute focus required, is a welcome thing, it drowns out the roar of self-recrimination that gnaws constantly at the edge of my awareness. What right have I, really, to bring another creation into these desperate times? What sort of life would this one have - I run my hand over the gleaming metal of the robotic bodyshell, built along the lines of Rumble and Frenzy - is it selfishness, pure and simple, to spark another life because I feel alone in the vast universe and wish an additional mind to be close to? I am, of course, imparting him with specialized knowledge, ways of infiltrating Autobot defenses from afar, to perhaps turn our disadvantage into a chance at victory, to prevent the continued loss of life on the border skirmishes. Does that make it acceptable?

"Welcome, Hack," I say to him as I activate him, and he looks up, then around the lab, and smiles ... He learns quickly to steer clear of Galvatron; one day I will tell him about our true leader, and what he achieved, and what he might have yet achieved, if only-- No. That part, he does not need to know. Difficult enough to integrate himself into the group of his siblings, as they are quite literally from another era ... let him face the future with confidence. He is clever and enthusiastic, perhaps a touch overconfident in his youth, inherently skilled in the ways of information access, and forever eager to learn more.

It was not a mistake.

22.12.05

I become aware of the mutterings, the undercurrents of fear and suspicion that seep through our forces. I come into repair bay one day to find Adamia comforting a subordinate, a delicate Insecticon who looks up at me with huge, frightened optics. "Onslaught," Adamia says by way of explanation, her optics darkening in anger. "He accused her of consorting with Autobots, threatened her with death or worse. And she's not the only one. You know it yourself, Soundwave. You know what he's been up to." I regard Styxx, being well aware of the reports my creations have brought back to me, of her too-friendly meetings with Autobots at our borders. At best she is a naive child; at worst, a deliberate security risk. And yet, Onslaught's methods of "keeping order" are a means of last resort, not the first weapon to be reached for, and I have had heated debates with him on the subject.

"I will speak to him," I assure them. I think I understand what drives him, but it has caused more problems than it solved.

I find Onslaught in the command center, facing down a raging Galvatron, with Cyclonus beside him very nearly as enraged. Galvatron screams about a "secret police" whom Onslaught set among our ranks; "How dare you force anyone to answer to you, above me?" he rants. ... "One of your own operatives came forward," Cyclonus puts in, his tone low and dangerous. "She recognized your sordid little secret ring for what it was, cowardly and dishonorable, and sowing unrest and treason!"

He has already been struck several times, and both of his accusers have their weapons out and fully powered. He catches sight of me, gives me a beseeching look ... I cannot stand by again and make no intervention. "Lord Galvatron," I speak calmly, the title reflexive and faintly mocking, as Megatron himself would have disdained it, "Onslaught's intentions were admirable even if the methods were unwise. There is indeed disloyalty among the ranks, and he sought to eliminate it in his way. He meant no treachery against you."

Galvatron whirls on me. "I didn't ask for your opinion, Soundwave!" and his cannon waves in my general direction, but at least he is diverted from Onslaught for the moment. It is Cyclonus who grabs the Combaticon by the throat and snarls, "Names! I want the names of all your 'operatives' in this filthy undercurrent!"

Onslaught to his credit maintains as much dignity as possible under the circumstances, and provides his list ... a list I recognize as the names of some of the most clever and adept infiltrators and spies that remain to us. Cyclonus shoves Onslaught away as though disposing of something filthy, and the Combaticon slams back against the nearest wall, slipping to the floor.

Galvatron turns from him to me, his optics seething scarlet fire. "You, Soundwave, will take over this ring of espionage experts. Send them against the Autobots. If I should catch you maneuvering in any way against me, you can consider your life over!" He stalks out, Cyclonus at his side.

Onslaught glares at me venomously. I smile a bit, regretfully. "It is hardly my fault that Galvatron handed your operatives to me. He is correct in one thing, their talents are best turned on the enemy. Your method of keeping order was counterproductive, as I have told you. I know you miss the old ways, as I do, but one cannot induce unity through fear. It must be inspired. Unfortunately..." my voice lowers, "there is precious little in the high command to inspire us these days. So that task falls to us, those who remember how it was before." I offer him a hand up. Much as I oppose his recent actions, I feel a kinship with him, as he like myself is a relic of a former age, and I well understand the despair that drove him to these lengths. As I have so many times assured others, I assure him that we will somehow survive and triumph.

20.1.06

Of all the faces out of the past that I had hoped never to see again under current conditions, this shadow that materialized in Darkmount was surely the most disquieting: Nightbird, thought long-lost and deactivated. Somehow she managed to escape her captivity on Earth and sneak aboard a ship to Cybertron; with equal ease she bypassed our security systems (such as they are) and appeared before me in the hallway. Already she knew that something was wrong, that Megatron was nowhere to be found; I was forced to confirm the worst of her fears. How to look into her optics, the female whom Megatron had loved, and explain to her that I was at fault, that a moment's hesitation cost our leader his life and our species their future ... I could not do it. I was at least able to tell her that she was not thoughtlessly abandoned, twenty years earlier when she was seized by Autobots and returned to her human captors ... that Megatron and I spent months scouring the planet for any trace of her, that I finally had to insist upon calling off the search, for the sake of our cause and for what remained of Megatron's own health. I imagine briefly what it might have been like, if he had been here today to greet her ... it is like a laser dagger through my fuel pump. I can bring myself to tell her only the sketchiest details of the end.

16.2.06

Nightbird comes and goes, appearing unexpectedly in clashes against the Autobots, bringing an occasional key piece of information to me, appearing outside the base or dropping down soundlessly into my lab from the ventilation shafts. She will speak only to me, trusting me in some way, the one that she should despise most - or maybe I am merely the closest reminder to the life that she could have had with us. She will not serve an incompetent madman such as Galvatron, she tells me, but she will serve the Decepticon cause, and she looks to me to indicate how that is best done. Always afterwards she vanishes again, to some lair she has made for herself out in the ruins. Once I had Ravage trail her, so I would know where she spent her time, whether the location was secure for an alien who knew nothing of this world. I was satisfied that she seemed instinctively to know how to keep hidden when she wished. Now and again I have Ravage or Laserbeak check up on her ... I imagine she would be outraged at the revelation ... but I am determined to see that she stays safe. It is the very least I can still do for my leader.

18.4.06

Events have occurred rapidly once again ... at the edge of the vast trenches that stretch east of Iacon, there stands a memorial called the Liberation Arch. Its builders have long been forgotten, and the legends that surround it, claim it was the memorial erected when the Quintesson slavers were driven from our world in the distant past. The Autobots consider it akin to a holy relic, with the same misplaced sentimentality with which they guard a memorial statue to Optimus Prime that stands at the gates of their spaceport. Some Decepticons have equally impractical notions, caught in the romance of its fanciful lore ... it is - or was - after all, just a lifeless material construct. When the Predacon Tantrum, in a fit of nameless spite, shattered the Arch to cinders, he became instantly a hunted criminal. I remain dismayed at how quickly some of our own warriors took up the cry for his fuel - how even Cyclonus denounced him as dishonoring Cybertron's glorious past - Cyclonus, who has many fine qualities, but knows nothing of Cybertron's past beyond that which he has read. Tantrum's motives, I cannot guess at - perhaps just to cause an uproar, he is not known for thinking his actions through - but I do know that the life of a Decepticon warrior is not comparable to a mere inanimate landmark.

When I heard that a combined group of Decepticons and Autobots had captured him and dragged him to the site of the destroyed Arch, I went there at once, determined to free him by any means necessary. To my surprise I found a gleaming-white figure calming the crowd, standing amidst the rubble ... he called himself Sanctorius, Prophet of Primus, and claimed the tremors sent out by the Arch's destruction had re-awakened him from long stasis. Instantly I sensed something about him ... we telepaths can always detect one of our own. Though he was not a telepath, precisely, that would not be the right term ... but he had a way of exuding mental control over others. He recognized me for what I was as well, his expression unreadable as he noted my presence ... I felt his influence reach out to me, and with years of long training I snapped my mental shielding into place, listening to the words rather than the subliminal spell.

He spoke that which I would have said, that an inanimate object, no matter how symbolically significant, cannot be balanced against the life of a sentient being, and he had the crowd sufficiently enthralled that they came to agree. He then proceeded to "rebuild" the Arch. To all appearances it looked as though double ribbons of silver and gold rose from the ground, entwined about each other, and solidified into a new version of the old monument. Most of the onlookers took it as a miracle, but I know a thing or two about matter displacement, about what, in theory, is possible, and what technology the ancients may have had, that has been lost to the ceaseless wars. The new Arch is most assuredly solid and physically real, but I hold no illusion that it was constructed by paranormal means. This, however, is the impression Sanctorius was quite obviously aiming for. He spoke of peace between the warring factions, of the myths of Primus ... Cyclonus to his credit reacted with extreme skepticism and called for a return to base, but too many of our numbers remained behind, caught in the magnetism of this "Prophet." I was surprised to see Adamia among those that remained, she who had always seemed so pragmatic and steadfast. Something will have to be done about the situation. We cannot have some Neutral on a deranged holy quest filling the heads of our warriors with this type of nonsense. If the Autobots do not kill us, if Galvatron does not lead us into ruin, then this sort of thing surely will undermine the Decepticon fighting spirit.

I do not trust Sanctorius, nor the mythology he represents.

20.4.06

Virtually simultaneous with the awakening of Sanctorius, many of our warriors have begun to manifest strange symptoms. Those who did not flock out of curiosity or otherwise to the newly-rediscovered "Temple of Primus", lingered about Darkmount, fading in and out of a strange sort of waking consciousness. It does not affect all of them, to be sure, and for some it only lasts mere moments, but I am aware of it when it occurs, being very attuned to telepathic influence now.

I exhort my creations to keep their mental shielding up, and watch my closest co- workers carefully. Onslaught comes to me in the research lab, equally concerned; "Do something!" he demands of me, clearly fearing some external influence would take hold of him as well. ... "You must maintain vigilance over your own mind," I tell him. "That, I cannot do for you."

Jetstorm, one of the younger flyers, bursts in on us, hovering in above the ground, wild-eyed and waving his arms. "Unicron!" he announces in a fervor of passion. "Unicron lives again! We must heed his call!"

I feel cold, for I detect the same unworldly power emanating from him, as I had felt crush Megatron, as I had read from Galvatron when he first came to us. I focus my thoughts and send them into Jetstorm's mind, hoping to free the young warrior. Instead, I run up against a vast consciousness lurking behind the individual whom Unicron is using as a puppet. Jetstorm's voice deepens into a rumble of distant thunder, his optics change color and take on a nearly greenish cast. "Sanctorius," growls the voice from inside Jetstorm. "Sanctorius must die." Then the external influence abruptly vanishes, and Jetstorm crumples to the floor, unconscious.

21.4.06

While others have felt the distant touch of Unicron's thoughts, it seems to be Jetstorm who is most susceptible, who has been selected to serve as the "mouthpiece." Unicron's severed head remains in orbit around Cybertron, and Jetstorm has made several trips back and forth, quite against his will and without his knowledge. Each time Unicron speaks through Jetstorm, he demands the deliverance of Sanctorius.

My telepathic scans are attuned to their utmost, as I screen everyone who comes near me for alien influences. Somewhere deep within Galvatron I think I catch the whisper of a familiar mind ... I regard Jetstorm, and the faint hope of a possibility begins to form. I believe the humans had a saying about "bargaining with the devil." It is precisely this that I am prepared to do.

22.4.06

I follow Jetstorm on his journey to the circling head, and lure Galvatron to me with a false report. I wait in the cavernous interior of the hollow eye sockets, communicating with Unicron telepathically while Jetstorm hovers and stares blankly ahead of himself. "Restore that which you have taken," I implore Unicron, "and I will hand you Sanctorius, or anything else you may wish." I have no way of knowing if the vast mind which I address, can even hear my faint call.

Galvatron sails through the opening in the dead lens, trailed by a pack of Sweeps and full of blustering demands. "What is it, Soundwave?" he snaps impatiently, when a beam of light strikes him. He screams, writhing ... I hurry forward to catch him as he falls senseless. "We must return to base!" I tell the Sweeps urgently, and have one of them haul Jetstorm back with us; he does not resist, nor does he seem to know what is going on around him.

I bring Galvatron to repair bay; his optics remain dark. I begin to fear I may have once again made the wrong choice. His life signs are weak ... what will become of the already-chaotic Decepticons if Megatron is not restored, and Galvatron dies as well? He is at the very least a figurehead that Cyclonus has used to maintain some semblance of devotion to our cause. Searchingly I send my thoughts deep into his mind. A faint torrent of disordered images and jarring impulses, fading off into the distance. Something else rises up underneath, a clearly ordered structure of personality, a familiar sense of confident individuality. I reach for that energy- pattern, draw it upward, try to enhance it. The lights in the optics flicker on. Megatron looks out at me through Galvatron's eyes.

I have seldom known such a sense of release and relief. "Commander," I say to him by way of greeting, falling easily back into that old form of address. "You were still in there after all."

He pushes himself carefully to a sitting position and smiles, the familiar expression looking scarcely different on Galvatron's features. "Yes, I was there," he says, and his optics darken. "Forced to look out, forced to watch every incompetent move and impulsive blunder Galvatron made."

I turn my head, unable to look at him ... worse than death, this was the fate I had condemned him to.

"But I'm back now," he says, the easy confidence returning, no trace of recrimination in his manner. "Gather the troops together, Soundwave - we're going to make some changes."

Go find Nightbird, I mentally instruct Ravage, who has been loitering about the shadows watching every move with riveted attention. Noiselessly he slips away as I help Megatron to his feet.

23.4.06

Cyclonus corners me in the med bay, his optics burning with fury and grief. "You vile traitor!" he snarls at me, slamming me back into the nearest repair table with a double- fisted blow. The table shatters in half under me. I offer no resistance, I knew this was coming. But I attempt to reason with him, "It is better this way, Cyclonus. You still have a valuable role here--" He hauls me up and throws me against the opposite wall. "Never!" he insists. "Never will I subjugate myself to a leader who has stolen the mind and body of Lord Galvatron!" ... "It was not his mind to begin with," I counter, but he brings his hands to my throat, exerting a crushing pressure. Now I do struggle, but he flings me away and back into the broken repair table. He stands over me, shaking in fury, his hands curled to fists.

"Consider: I too had to follow a leader whom I felt was unworthy, but to turn away would have done even greater damage to those left behind. I apologize for what had to be done, if only for your sake," I say, and this is true, I see the depths of his devotion, and I am honestly sorry to have caused him this grief, regardless of how unworthy I feel its object was ... but he will accept no reason, no words of conciliation. He storms from the room and away from Darkmount. I can only hope that once his fury is spent, he will allow me to speak to him, that he will not turn his back on the Decepticon cause which he could so greatly benefit.

Adamia steps into the med bay, which had been her domain, almost like a stranger from a different world entering an unfamiliar place. It is the first I have seen of her since she lingered with Sanctorius at the re-formed Arch. But she has not entirely abandoned her responsibilities, for her training returns as she sees me amidst the shattered remains of the table; she comes to me, repairs my minor damage, asks few questions. I think of Cyclonus ... I truly regret what this has done to him. But I think of Megatron rallying the troops on the night of his return, how they formed themselves almost reflexively into a solid unit before him, how they stood more confidently and shouted his name; how Frenzy later in the command center impulsively hugged Megatron's legs and Megatron glowered down at him, unable to entirely hide his amusement; how Nightbird joined us in graceful silence, her optics gleaming a brilliant gold as they locked with Megatron's gaze, and I ushered the others out of the room ... I would take this action again, and more so, if necessary.

27.4.06

I had meant to speak to Megatron in private and seek some form of forgiveness for my failure aboard the shuttle, but there was never the opportunity - he was consumed with his new plans, and Darkmount, though understaffed due to the lure that Sanctorius cast, and disrupted due to the possession increasingly exerted by Unicron, began to resemble a military outfit again rather than a refugee camp. For all that he still had Galvatron's body, he moved like Megatron, and I found it easy to envision him in his accustomed silver form, the Galvatron shell not at all distracting, the unpleasant memories associated with it being swept clean. Scourge and the Sweeps subordinated themselves without much outward protest, as did the other younger warriors; Motormaster and Onslaught slipped quite happily back into their old roles as squadron commanders (though Onslaught remained on edge, constantly fearing a mental subjugation of his autonomy); my creations were exuberant, and in their joy I left behind the nightmare of the last few months, not wishing to bring up the subject to Megatron after all. Cyclonus remained missing without a trace.

Megatron had been informed of Sanctorius' presence and Unicron's influence, and he immediately determined that both were a threat to the efficiency of the Decepticon army and were to be eliminated. I concurred, but told him of my promise to deliver Sanctorius to Unicron, in hopes that this would cease Unicron's interference with our troops as well. Megatron gave me free reign to deal with the matter, and I set up surveillance outside the Temple, watching the dazed and enthralled Decepticons and Autobots move in and out. No good could come from such companionable contact with the enemy, no matter the focal point of their interest.

Sanctorius was aware of my presence and several times stepped out of the protective ring of his followers to speak to me. I told him in no uncertain terms that I knew he was a false prophet, that he was using ancient technology to revive a myth of deity that was long dead and should have remained buried, that such ritualistic nonsense only served to weaken minds and dissipate resolve. In my scan of his thoughts, what I could read through the unique interference currents that went along with his subliminal powers, it was obvious that he believed himself to be what he said, that in his twisted mind he was working for the benefit of all Cybertron, and in his way he was devoted to his cause and loved his world and its inhabitants. But it was an outdated notion, that our warring factions should ever again find peace outside of the total annihilation of one or the other; neither would give up their ideals to the demands of the other. This too I told him, but he seemed not to grasp the concept, lost in the shadowy corridors of some ancient mysticism.

29.4.06

I was on my watch over the Temple, waiting for an opportunity to lure Sanctorius away from his acolytes, when it happened. My attention sharpened when Cyclonus landed before the stone edifice and went inside; my instinct for danger went on full alert when I detected the faint crackle of a radio communiqu� going out from the Temple to Darkmount. Not long after, Megatron soared in from the north and landed. Immediately I left my sentry post to join him. "What has occurred, Commander?" I inquired in concern.

"Cyclonus wishes to speak with me about releasing our troops from Sanctorius' thrall," Megatron replied, his optics darting about the clearing mistrustfully; he too sensed something amiss. "He's apparently willing to return to base, thinks some agreement can be reached with this false prophet."

"It is a trap," I said in absolute certainty, and he nodded. "None the less, I'm putting an end to this once and for all." I could not dissuade him. All I could do was follow him into the temple, determined to safeguard him.

Sometimes our certainty in our own abilities borders on overconfidence. Sometimes we are too lulled by past successes, to realize the danger of the unfamiliar. Whatever Sanctorius' mental powers, I felt sure my telepathic abilities were more than their equal, that I could protect Megatron. And no doubt I could have, if not for additional factors. I should not have walked with him into the heart of the trap, but instead done everything possible, by any means required, to prevent him from entering in the first place.

The gate slammed shut behind us as we entered - that much, we were expecting. Sanctorius was a gleaming-white figure at the head of the dimly-lit room, Cyclonus beside him; the acolytes, wearing Decepticon and Autobot symbols alike, sat blank-eyed in rows along the walls, humming in unison to themselves. "Megatron is the walking dead, brought back to life by the dark power of Unicron," Cyclonus was whispering to Sanctorius; I, of course, could hear every word. "He has stolen Galvatron's body and his right to life. This abomination must be corrected." ... "Those who were one with Primus, should not be torn back into the realm of the living," Sanctorius agreed gravely. Megatron caught a few muttered words, among them "Primus," and I could see by his stance that he was about to roundly condemn the entire mythology ... and then every trace of light died, and I could feel Sanctorius' mental powers surge past me and take hold of Megatron's mind like the grasp of a great claw. I likewise latched onto Megatron's mind, noting for the first time how tenuous was his hold on the reality that we knew, how wildly Galvatron's personality still screamed underneath; but I was determined to keep Megatron locked in place to the body which he'd gained as his own. The acolytes intensified their toneless humming as though to lend their prophet support, but I ignored them. From somewhere in the dark, Cyclonus slammed into me, momentarily breaking my concentration, and in that instant of lapse, Sanctorius' hold intensified. I struck out at Cyclonus as he sought to grasp my throat, to pound my head against the cold stone of the floor ... I reached out to Megatron desperately, and felt his personality, his individuality, his identity, sliding out of my telepathic grasp like sand seeping away. In its place, the screaming maelstrom of Galvatron surged into the void left behind. I struck out with all my strength at Cyclonus, sending him sprawling, but some ancient force-field technology of Sanctorius' had hold of me now ... the gate flung itself open and I was sent crashing out of the Temple.

The opening sealed itself. It was too late, in any case. I had felt the last remnants of what had been Megatron, collapse in on themselves and extinguish themselves totally. For the second time, I had failed my closest friend, and all I could do now was silently vow revenge.

1.5.06

I cannot truly hate Cyclonus for his actions. He is bound by his loyalty, by his word of honor, just as I am, and though I cannot comprehend the specifics of his devotion to a being such as Galvatron, I can understand the principle of the matter. Can Cyclonus not see the damage Galvatron's leadership causes us all? Already the momentary hope and resolve that had bound the troops together under Megatron, has slipped back into the disorganized infighting and petty dissipations of earlier months. Cyclonus cannot see it, he is utterly blind. And yet I cannot hate him. When I look inward I am startled to find an established hatred for Galvatron, which has now come to burn bright enough that I am no longer able to overlook it. I ask myself, is it his fault, that Unicron brought him into existence at Megatron's expense, is it his fault that Megatron cannot exist because he does? For all his insanity and incompetence, is he not still a fellow Decepticon who deserves my help rather than my contempt? But it is no use. I hate him.

And Sanctorius. Sanctorius will pay.

4.5.06

Amidst tragedy, a small bright moment in the dismal existence I have been plunged back into: an old comrade-in-arms from my early days with Megatron's army, long thought dead, has been uncovered and returned to us. He did fall in that long-ago battle, but enough of the body remained intact for the scouts to recognize him as one of our own, and his neural core was miraculously undamaged and so could be reactivated. Thus Backtrack lives. I should like to welcome him in friendship, and yet my thoughts spiral downward into the abyssal depths of my drive for vengeance. Perhaps when this debt is settled, I will be sufficiently becalmed to make another attempt at patching some semblance of a life out of the tatters.

6.5.06

Sanctorius is well aware that I mean to kill him, and hides in the safety of his Temple or amidst his followers, who surround him like a living shield when he ventures abroad. But I have learned, if nothing else, an infinite patience, an instinct for opportunities. Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, and Ravage alternate in keeping me aware of his activities when I cannot keep watch myself. Darkmount is in a chaos of crumbling organization as more and more troops wander off or explode into unpredictable rages, their minds permeated with the preternatural power that is Unicron. Both Autobot and Decepticon attempts to annihilate the great head in orbit, with its hollow yet eerily-glowing eye-sockets, have shattered against an invisible forcefield that now protects the monstrous apparition.

At a tip from Ravage I catch Sanctorius alone in the wilderness, deep in thought, wandering the boulder-strewn foothills of the Bismuth Mountains. A forcefield flickers up around him as I drop down out of the sky before him. The same sort of thing that protects Unicron. It is surely no coincidence. My thoughts brush his mind, seeking out that which I might use.

"You have unleashed Unicron upon us," I accuse. "Every day, more citizens of Cybertron fall under his power. He did not revive until you awoke. He told me he wished you dead. There is a connection. Do not try to deny it."

Sanctorius bows his head. "It is true, my presence re-activated the old cosmic energies. This is why I went dormant to begin with. There is too much ancient power within me, it attracts the wrong sort of forces. For all that you hate me, you must believe me when I say I would take any measure for the sake of Cybertron and its future."

I keep my mental shielding impenetrable. "Then you must destroy the threat you have awakened," I say to him inflectionlessly. "It seems, you are the only one who can. If you have hung back from this necessary confrontation out of fear for your own safety, then I now remind you of your responsibilities."

He nods grimly, his optics flickering a bit, his own mental shielding closing down. He looks up toward the dark sky, where the gargantuan head of Unicron edges above the horizon like a third moon. He levitates upward and is rapidly lost in the deep shadows and faint gleam of the jagged mountainsides.

But he will not elude me so easily. I eject Laserbeak and transform, bidding him to carry me in his claws and follow. He places me gently on the precipice where Sanctorius stands to face down his ancient enemy, no longer taking note of his surroundings. Awash in a brilliant swirl of green light, he raises his hands and sends all the power at his command against the looming head. The hollow eye sockets blaze bright ... a corona of green and yellow flares up around the horned helmet -- and then the gruesome satellite shatters apart, in unworldly silence above the reach of the atmosphere.

Sanctorius sinks to the ground, his personal forcefield gone, his mental defenses down, the great majority of his own life energies drained. I transform. With an effort he lifts his head, and looks up into the barrel of my plasma rifle.

"Galvatron was Unicron's creation - not Megatron," I tell him coldly, and my mind touches his; he knows without question that I speak the truth. "Cyclonus was ... misinformed. And he misinformed you. You have released your enemy's handiwork upon your beloved homeworld. Do not think that the destruction of Unicron counterbalances Megatron's death, and the fate to which you have condemned the Decepticons."

For the briefest instant I savor the horrified realization that dawns in his eyes - and then unleash the bright bolt of plasma that scatters his cerebral circuitry out the backside of his head.

8.5.06

With the elimination of both Unicron and Sanctorius, the citizenry of Cybertron is back to normal, or at least as normal as usual ... those enthralled by either power, have wandered back to base and resumed their duties, a bit hesitantly as though waking up from a dream, but slowly everybody has resumed their place. Or very nearly so. It is with considerable regret that I note the death of Combaticon commander Onslaught under unfortunate circumstances - circumstances I cannot help but think I might have prevented. I knew he feared external mental control, but I could not imagine the lengths to which he would go, to protect himself. At some point in the past weeks he convinced one of the med techs to install a psionic damper into the sensory nexus of his cerebral core. This experimental device is designed to generate "static" that blocks all attempts at telepathic scans or influences, and is dangerous even in the most skilled of hands; in the hands of an inexperienced med tech, cowed by Onslaught's insistence, it could only prove disastrous.

I only discovered what he had done when, after missing for two days, he staggered back to base, battered and filthy, so unlike his usual fastidious polish, without the memory of where he had been and why he had gone there. In the process of repairing him, I came across the energy signature of the damper. I insisted upon removing it immediately, but something snapped in Onslaught and he leapt off the repair table, stunning me with a burst of electricity and making his escape. I followed as best I could when the stun had worn off, trailing him to the cratered wastelands that lay beyond the borders of Polyhex. I came across Motormaster on the way, and he joined me; additionally I released Buzzsaw and sent him scouting ahead.

The ground was alarmingly unstable under us as we finally caught up to Onslaught and landed in one of the jagged canyons, its cliffsides shuddering ominously in synch with pulses of seismic activity. He was firing in all directions, shouting about the hopelessness of the war, how we had been promised victory and instead had lived a thousand million years of lies, how all of our efforts would lead to nothing and he was renouncing it all. Motormaster and I tried to get close and still somehow avoid the barrage of artillery. Buzzsaw finally managed to swoop down and pluck the rifle from Onslaught's grasp, and I walked toward him, slowly, trying to calm him with the same words I had used on many a despairing warrior: that we had survived dark times before, and would do so again, that it was up to us to be resolute and strong for the sake of the cause, for the sake of those who had fallen in combat, for the sake of those who depended on us currently, and for the sake of those yet to come. He had a counterpoint to my every word, but his attention was on me, while Motormaster took the opportunity to circle around behind him. We might have tackled him then and there and taken him safely back to base, had not Galvatron come upon us, drawn to the commotion and the steady, ominous rumbling of the landscape.

At the sight of Galvatron, Onslaught burst anew into a torrent of recriminations, detailing Galvatron's incompetence and unsuitability for command ... he spoke the very words I would dearly have loved to say to the imposter leader, words that I knew Onslaught had long believed, and only now, with the damage from the damper removing all inhibition, did he fling them like missiles at the instantly-enraged Galvatron. "He is suffering from cerebral damage and knows not what he says," I attempted to forestall Galvatron's fury, but he was beyond hearing, charging forward as he powered up his cannon. I knew my only chance was to subdue Onslaught before Galvatron reached him, and apparently Motormaster had the same thought - simultaneously we leapt for the Combaticon, just as the ground sagged away beneath us and sent all three of us sliding down a crumbling slope. I was aware of Buzzsaw circling frantically overhead, caught the flicker of his thoughts, his desire to dive for Galvatron's optics as Galvatron threw himself after us, but I commanded urgently that Buzzsaw keep clear. Galvatron impacted and sent all four of us tumbling further downslope, Galvatron and Onslaught thrashing frantically in their attempts to tear into each other, Motormaster and I trying somehow to interpose ourselves and taking the brunt of the blows.

We impacted sharply at the bottom of the slope, the ground still heaving beneath us. Onslaught disentangled himself and staggered a few steps away, drawing a small handlaser with which he peppered the area in our general direction, Galvatron trying to free his cannon arm to silence the offender for good. I scrabbled to my feet, "accidentally" jostling Galvatron's aim in the process as I urged Onslaught to stand down, to think of his own safety. "Think of your team," Motormaster added, "what happens to them, if you throw away your life like this?" ... "My team?" Onslaught wailed in response. "Where are they, then? Why have they abandoned me to this dismal fate?" ... "We have not abandoned you," I started to say, but my words were lost in the thunderous roar of crustal plates shifting, fissures opening in the ground to all sides of us and cracking into a network of rifts. I was thrown off my feet again, as was Galvatron who had another shot aligned; only from the corner of my vision did I see a great yawning gash open up under Onslaught and swallow him alive. I heard him cry out, saw Motormaster plunge forward to grasp at the falling Combaticon and miss, saw the gash close again with a grinding, shattering groan as other fissures opened up in its place and closed again nearly as quickly as they formed. We were forced to take to the air to join the circling Buzzsaw. Galvatron hovered, firing downward again and again with brilliant fusion blasts, screaming with insane vindication. Motormaster and I looked at each other, the last division commanders, now, of the old order, and some unspoken moment of mourning passed between us - for Onslaught, for ourselves, for the Decepticons as they once were. Without a word I turned in the air and headed back toward base across the dark, rumbling landscape, Buzzsaw following and trying to get into my mind, to read my mood, but I would not grant him access.

I would only hope that Onslaught will not be remembered as he was in his final hours, but rather as a dedicated commander who never lost sight of what it meant to be a true Decepticon. He and I had our differences over some issues, but many of those were resolved in recent months; I came to have great respect for his abilities as a warrior and his efforts on behalf of our cause, and I for my part shall miss him.

9.5.06

Buzzsaw is disturbed by the past day's events, fears that Galvatron will one day turn his fury against me as he did against Onslaught. I assure him that I retain enough control of my facilities to give no voice to the opinion I hold of our "leader," but he worries none the less; "Galvatron is a ticking timebomb," he insists telepathically, "and one day he's going to take the rest of us with him when he explodes. Something has to be done about him." I admit that this thought has come to me as well, and as abhorrent as I find the notion, as foreign as it would ordinarily seem to me, I turn it over in my mind and examine it. "And who would you propose to take Galvatron's place?" I ask Buzzsaw, and he shifts uncertainly ... "I don't know ... you, perhaps?" I laugh, but there is no humor in the sound. "Be realistic," I chide him gently. I am no command figure - I have neither the nature nor the desire to lead an army to grand heights of destiny, certainly not an army such as the Decepticons, who need an inspirational, larger-than-life commander. My own Intelligence and Espionage division, I manage quite well, as they are a small unit of focused and sober individuals, who accord as much weight to a quietly spoken command as to a shouted one - but that is not the norm among warriors. A particular sort of leader is needed ... but who? I have seen flickers of brilliance in Cyclonus, and I feel he would make a respectable commander, but how would one exterminate Galvatron without falling under undue suspicion, and without traumatizing Cyclonus to the extent that he could not lead? I will have to think on the matter.

10.5.06

Due to the steady increase in seismic activity in the vicinity of the trenches, we have gone down into Cybertron's vast underworld of passages to investigate the cause. Galvatron leads a reasonably large contingent, likely on Cyclonus' recommendation that experts in many fields be included, as we do not know what we may find. I have always had an interest in exploring more of Cybertron's subsurface, as I am convinced that many of our lost records may be uncovered there; there are tales of entire civilizations that rose and fell without ever seeing the star-filled night sky, clustered into the mesh of tunnels and caverns that are layered through the planet's interior.

After a day's travel almost directly downwards, we come to a level expanse, the ceiling so far above as to give one almost the illusion of being above ground again. Occasional barriers and columns divide the vast space, with the ground under our feet alternating between a slosh of cold, corrosive liquid and a litter of sharp-edged metal debris, tangles of cable, and rusted walkways. Obviously things live down here, as we detect occasional moans and wails around us, echoing in such a way that their distance from us is indeterminate. Sometimes we must rely on the illumination we have brought with us, and sometimes a guttering lightpanel here and there will indicate the way.

We are attacked repeatedly by bands of robots, or perhaps always the same band, it is difficult to tell as they leap out of the passages and bear down on us with ululating war cries, fire a few harmless shots, and then dart away again. From what I can see of them, they are colored largely in red and white, and additionally marked with strange patterns and sigils, some transforming into small agile hovercraft, and others darting in at ground level. We fire back at them more to drive away the nuisance than because they offer any real threat; occasionally one falls, smoking, and is carted away by another. I also detect, though none of my travelling companions are aware, the scrape and clatter of clawed feet above us in the hanging coils of pipes ... something watching the raids, and then moving on. Some of the others are visibly nervous in these unfamiliar surroundings that are so ripe for ambush, but it detracts from our efficiency to waste energy on anxious twitches and jumps. I keep my sensors fully attuned, walk steadily near the head of the column a few paces back from Galvatron and Cyclonus. One or the other of my creations occasionally wishes to emerge, but for the most part I keep them inside, letting them view the surroundings through my senses.

Rumble trudges along beside me as we come to another great clearing, this one lit by hundreds of small fires scattered before us on a plain of smoking rubble. The buckled walls of what might once have been buildings lean precariously over us as we make our way ... and again that scrape of claws, that clatter of metal feet....

Eyes gleam out of the shadows, and then four ... creatures ... block our path. When Galvatron imperiously commands them out of the way, they transform and stand their ground. They are medium-sized robots, armored in all colors, with odd sigils and symbols painted over their plating, smeared in grime and bearing weapons that range from broken clubs to old-style laser pistols. They are all but unintelligible, their optics gleaming with a dull brutality as they gibber something that I vaguely understand about their hated rivals, the "Technos", apparently the pack that has been harassing us on our journey.

Their leader joins us, a robot of Cyclonus' size who calls himself Hun-Grrr, the Khan of Angselik - he gestures around at the ruins as he speaks the city's name, shattered to pieces as it was in the earth tremors. He is adorned in dangling bits of metal and strings of torn circuitry, his armor carved with symbols and painted grotesquely. Galvatron to my amazement resorts to diplomacy - perhaps these filthy beasts appeal to his own nature - he first boasts of the vast empire he rules in the lands above, something which seems to impress the Khan, and then seeks information on the tremors that have been rattling this realm and ours. The underworld dwellers, the Terrors, as they call themselves, are suspicious, but Adamia steps forward and offers small energon cubes which she has brought, and this seems to immediately smooth relations. I approve of the medic's resourcefulness, for now we may get some information.

Hun-Grrr and his troop lead us down one level and bring us to a smoothly gleaming wall of metal, nearly featureless except for a slight curve, as though the entire thing were a vast cylinder jammed vertically into the ground, and we were only seeing a small part. This, Hun-Grrr claims, is the source of all the disturbance, the monster that dug the floor out from under his city, but why this is, and by what method, he cannot begin to explain. His words are punctuated by snarls and slashes of a great heavy halberd, and his followers burst into howls or senseless giggles at random intervals. One of them leers at Rumble and claims he would make a tasty morsel; Rumble peers out from behind my leg and snaps insults in return. I bid him silence; Adamia steps forward with more salvaging energon cubes. I will be glad when we are away from this place again.

Galvatron returns to the brute-force approach, melting a hole in the wall before us with his fusion cannon. The Terrors clearly delight at being able to enter this barrier that has been taunting them for what can only be centuries; we find ourselves in the narrow passages of a massive engine compartment. The Terrors scrabble upward eagerly, leading the way through the labyrinth of equipment. As we follow, my internal warning sensors go off ... the structure all around us is giving off a damaging radiation. I return Rumble to my storage compartment and run a quick analysis; if we do not spend an inordinate amount of time here, the emissions should not affect us. If we were to be trapped here, however, I cannot currently guess what its effects would be.

We are passing through the heart of the huge engine, the walls and pipes around us still radiating heat from recent use. Again we are blocked by a metal barrier, which Galvatron blasts through, earning looks of grudging respect from the Terrors. A commotion up ahead ... we burst through one last wall to come into a command center, infested by a small group of Autobots, along with the same group of red-and- white "Techno" robots who had been antagonizing us earlier - and in their midst, a Quintesson. The five-faced creature seems quite mad, howling about how he intends to use his Spiral Engine to lacerate the whole of the planet Cybertron, that it was complete now after all these many years, and we would not interfere with his destiny. He is still frothing when the largest of the Technos splits him in two with a powerful axe-blow. Hun-Grrr almost immediately lunges for the other robot, as though they were mortal enemies - and perhaps they are; Galvatron lets loose a barrage of fusion blasts that shatter consoles and melt scanner screens and send the Autobots and their allies fleeing out the hole which they have blasted into the opposite wall of the control room. When all settles again, Hun-Grrr offers his allegiance to Galvatron, the "Great Khan," for the destruction of the Spiral Engine and for striking fear into his hated enemies. Galvatron eagerly accepts, promising them all places within the Decepticon ranks, and I can only shake my head in disgust.

17.5.06

The Terrorcons, as they are now being called, are causing no end of disruption. Even somewhat cleaned up and held to military standards, they brawl with our warriors, stomp about the base as they please, and have more than once been barred from medbay for interfering with routine operations. I remain disgusted that Galvatron would add creatures such as this to our ranks, for their presence degrades the honor of the Decepticon way and is yet more evidence of his lack of judgement.

He called his division commanders together today to spout about his plans for an invasion of Junkion, as though having hit upon a brilliant scheme to harvest much-needed resources - and I imagine it could work, an unexpected attack on a poorly-fortified world, as opposed to an assault on the well-guarded Autobot bases. He is likely aware of my loathing for him, but I am always included in such briefings simply because of my function in communications and espionage, simply because there are vital tasks I perform, that cannot be passed to somebody else. Even my closest protege in I&E division, Full Blast, still has a great deal to learn if something should ever befall me and he is to be my replacement. So I am included, and was witness to Hun-Grrr bursting in on us in outrage, waving his heavy halberd with its dangling trophies and trailed by his entourage, demanding to know why he was not included with the other "chiefs" in this "war council." Did the "Great Khan" consider him unworthy of inclusion?

The reaction around the table ranged from annoyance to amusement, that this bedecked barbarian could have any say in Decepticon internal affairs. For my part, I stood back in silence and observed, Laserbeak perched on my shoulder and recording it all. Perhaps some use could be made of these Terrorcons after all, I mused, while Galvatron angrily sent Hun- Grrr on his way.....

19.5.06

The raid on Junkion was uneventful and relatively easily accomplished. I began jamming their communications from afar, to prevent any mewling for help to the Autobots. We arrived in two ships, overpowering their lax defenses rapidly and securing an area. The entire planet is littered with metallic clutter of all kinds, and a smelter was set up for refinement, turning out long heavy bars of condensed ores. Soon enough we had loaded the cargo holds to capacity and were ready to pull out. I toyed briefly with the notion of feeding subliminal signals into the televised programming around which the Junkions' lives revolved, perhaps putting them to some good use for us - but our time was too short for such an experiment, as we were soon underway again.

The depths of space hold many unexpected dangers, however, and we found ourselves caught in an ion storm on the way home. The flagship, with Galvatron, Cyclonus, and an assortment of warriors aboard, was separated and flung somewhere off course, as were we. When scanners and sensors finally came marginally on-line again, we found ourselves caught in the gravity well of a little world orbiting a small white sun, so far off the beaten spacelanes that they did not even appear on our starmaps. The planet's surface was a swirl of fiery red and deep rust, broken by drifting areas of pale haze. A faint ring of jagged boulders circled diagonally to the planet's equator - the remains of what may once have been an intact moon. And it was drawing us in ... our crippled engines were unable to compensate as the ship plunged downward, its heatshields glowing bright and all of us braced for impact.

We crashed into a vast undulating field of fiery red sand dunes stretching to all horizons. Fortunately no serious injuries were sustained. When we recovered our senses somewhat from the impact, we raised the hatch to be greeted by a stream of red sand showering down over us. A constant, driving wind flung a steady hail of sharp-edged silicon particles against the hull, making it unpleasant to exit the ship - but replacement parts for the engines were needed, and I could only hope that something was to be found in the scorched wastelands that surrounded us. While there were those among us with space-transport capability, sensors indicated that the ion storm still raged above us, and it would take the larger shuttle's additional shielding to give us a chance at breaking through it. Even that was questionable, but the attempt had to be made. To the west I made out the faintest of shadows along the skyline. Hills, perhaps, or just maybe - traces of civilization?

20.5.06

With the other ranking officers currently lost to us, I seem to find myself in command of our small group. Vortex, Backtrack, Airwolf, Drop Zone, Blast Off, Dead End, Motormaster, my creations, a number of others less familiar to me. As a group we head outward ... I am not willing to send scouts out alone until I am more familiar with the lay of the land. The dunes eventually give way to sculptured red highlands, which have been twisted and scoured by eons of wind and sand into sinuous spires and smooth, narrow valleys, with many sloping rock bridges and rounded crevasses. Quite unexpectedly, some of the larger valleys contain metal wreckage - some parts recognizable as transport vehicles of a sort, others obviously the remains of weaponry, missile casings, and other apparently much older pieces, shattered and corroded beyond recognition. I sift through the remains, finding them unsuitable for our use - but it is an indication that more useful material may be found elsewhere.

Vortex and Blast Off circle idly around the oddly unsettling patches of white haze that drift about the landscape, seemingly independent of any wind patterns. My attention is drawn to those tufts of vapor for a moment ... they move slowly, but there is something ominous about them, something that for an instant both repels and attracts me before the absurd notion passes. Vortex slices through a faint veil of haze as I gather my group together and continue on.

We come upon a great cliffside of rust- red stone, smoothed into strange rounded bulges and curved natural spires. Climbing up the contours of the cliffside, an extraordinary city rises alongside. Its multiple layers of platforms separate vertically sectioned buildings that seem to be nestled into the architecture of the cliff itself, as though for easy aerial access. I regard the sight in astonishment, for the engineering skill that went into designing this huge interlinked structure is beyond anything I have yet encountered. Yet, after the first shock of amazement wears off, I become aware of the obvious signs of neglect and even damage. The buildings stand deserted, their shattered windows turning blind eyes toward the highlands. Most of the doors are torn off their hinges, and even some of the landing platforms hang at precarious angles, creaking and groaning in the wind. Most walls bear the scars of weapons fire and some are broken outward as though by explosions from within. One building is especially damaged, and also larger than the others, towering at the summit of this vertical city. "We will begin there," I decide, pointing to the tallest building. "Seek out any tools or machinery that we might use for repair of our engines."

Vortex rounds on Blast Off suddenly, drawing his weapon, his optic band lit with a brilliant cold fire. "I've got a much better solution," he grates. "We'll just disassemble Blast Off and cut out his engines for the shuttle."

Blast Off looks startled; I merely regard him in puzzlement. "Vortex, I am aware you would like to leave this planet as soon as possible and head home, as would we all - but that is a bit of an overreaction. Calm yourself, and we will see what there is to be found here."

"I am calm," he hisses back at me, "I just want to see things done with some efficiency for once. Maybe you can put your infernal pack of creations to good use for a change, too, and pull some spare parts out of them." He looks challengingly around at the others, who just gape at him. "Well, how about it? Are you going to take your ticket out of here and sacrifice one replaceable warrior, or are you all infected with some idiotic sentimentality and tripe of Decepticon brotherhood?"

I cannot fathom what has gotten into him, he who had always spoken highly of his comrades and swore to me to place the cause above all, those many months ago in repair bay. "That will be enough," I command. "We will all leave this world safely."

"If you don't have the nerve, then I'll do it myself," he snarls, and snaps off a shot at the shocked-immobile Blast Off - but Motormaster is quicker and blasts Vortex in the back with a stun-setting. He falls to the ground.

I instruct Motormaster to transform and load the unconscious Vortex into his cargo bay. I send the others into the city to begin the search, accompanying Motormaster back to the ship, where I intend to examine Vortex more closely. He may have taken some damage from the crash that I did not previously detect. Yet when we reach the shuttle, Vortex has regained consciousness and struggles free of Motormaster's grasp as he transforms, soaring off toward the highlands in the distance. "I'll get the little twerp," Motormaster growls and transforms again, rumbling off after the Combaticon.

I set about preparing what diagnostic and repair equipment we have, as night falls and the wail of the wind picks up.

21.5.06

The raging ion storm in the upper atmosphere is still playing havoc with our long-range communications. The exploration team must come all the way back to the ship to report their findings, and I meet them outside the hatch. "You've got to come see this," Backtrack begins, just as Vortex comes soaring in at top speed, closely followed by Motormaster, a rumbling black truck tearing across the desert after him. Vortex lands beside me as though seeking protection, looking shaken and outraged. "What's with Motormaster?" he demands. "He tried to kill me!"

Motormaster screeches to a halt, throwing up great sprays of red sand, and transforms. "Next time you'll learn to address your betters with some respect," he snarls at Vortex, who only shakes his head in confusion.

"Have you anything to report, Motormaster?" I ask, regarding his manner with some trepidation. Vortex on the other hand seems back to his usual self, inquiring of Blast Off entirely innocently about recent goings-on.

Motormaster whirls on me, optics blazing. "And who do you think you are, that I'd report to you? You think you're in command of this outfit, just 'cause you got a fancy rank and title? Let me tell you a little something, Soundwave. I don't take orders from anyone. You sorry lot are going to answer to me from now on!" He glares around at the others, contempt flickering in his optics. I reach out with a low-level telepathic scan. He is sane in the clinical sense but ... clearly not himself. His thoughts are permeated by a cold undercurrent of extreme, ruthless self-interest, a hostile arrogance and overriding ambition for personal power. "Motormaster, step inside the ship," I urge him. "Something has happened to you." Motormaster repeats that he takes no orders from me, that he will find his own way off the planet with or without us, and takes to the air, heading back out toward the highlands and the city. I follow. I am responsible for those under my command, after all, and I must bring them home safely. Without a word from me, Airwolf trails us, perhaps feeling some sense of responsibility of her own.

23.5.06

I have lost two entire days, or so I am told, though I have always known the inner workings of my mind well, and cannot comprehend that I would have been conscious, yet have no memory of the elapsed time. I look around the highlands, not certain how I got there, though Backtrack is there with me, and he fills me in, even as I make an effort to delve into my own memories and draw something forth.

A few images come to me: a sense of disdain for those under my command, contempt for those smaller and less physically powerful, a willingness to sacrifice each and all of them for my own glorification; an image of the others, shocked and terrified of me and I reveling in it; an echoing of Vortex's words, the intent of ripping out Blast Off's engines for use on the shuttle; someone hitting me from behind and sending me nearly unconscious while Blast Off escaped; a mad chase through the sky and into the highlands, with Backtrack sailing after me; his words to me, "Megatron would be ashamed of you if he saw you like this!" and some sense of being brought up short by that, just long enough for Backtrack's stun blast to send me plunging toward the ground, through the veil of one of those cold, cold patches of fog....

"It's the haze," Backtrack confirms. "Airwolf saw you chase Motormaster through a patch of it, and that's when we knew for sure. He came out normal, you came out ... afflicted. And just now when I stunned you and you fell out of the sky, through another patch, it brought you back to yourself." He indicates the nearest drifting curtain of hazy white, which I regard now with a renewed suspicion.

"Are there any others currently influenced?" I ask, for now we knew the means, if not the precise scientific understanding, to affect a cure. He indicates Dead End and Drop Zone were still unaccounted for. We will find them, maneuver them back through the strange patches of mist, and then steer clear of the highlands while we explore the rest of the planet more cautiously.

24.5.06

Finally there is opportunity for me to explore the city and the summit building. The inside of this structure is in worse shape than the outside, the tarnished walls of the main corridor layered with dust and grime, with blown sand lining all the corners. There is much evidence of intentional damage - entire metal panels are torn loose from the hallway's floor and ceiling, all the way through to the levels above and below. Though the broken windows let in some light, the interior remains dim and cold, as though unwilling to give up its secrets. The architectural style is undeniably alien, yet there is something oddly familiar about this manner of building with metal. The entrance hall branches into two main forks, one ending in an open doorframe with scorched and mangled edges - the other ending in a damaged, but still sealed door.

The open door leads to a command center, and here the nagging familiarity of the structure solidifies into certainty. A massive computer bank and a ceiling-high screen are split in multiple places by what look like hatchet blows, the screen shattered, with coils of wires and chips spilling over the floor. To my disappointment, it does not look like there is much salvageable data. But the most interesting aspect of the room is branded into the tarnished wall above a raised platform, supporting a throne-like metal chair, which leans erratically, partially torn from its bolts. Overhead, unmistakably, though of slightly different styling, is emblazoned a huge Decepticon symbol.

It is this that Backtrack and the others found, which had them so excited. Is it possible - a lost Decepticon colony, of which no records remain? It is true that an era of expansion and colonization prevailed before the currently-raging war, and it is true that many records have been since destroyed ... so it is not too unlikely that this may have been an outpost lost to history. I cannot explain the obviously alien elements in the architecture or symbolism on the computer bank, however. Nor can I explain the fate of the citizens, apparently vanished without a trace before Cybertron even lost its orbit. What befell them? Did they call for help? Did they even have the opportunity? I regard the hatchet- marks and laser burns that mar the whole interior of this building. Perhaps the answer lies behind that sealed door.

25.5.06

With the help of Backtrack, and with Blast Off, Drop Zone, and Ravage accompanying us, I have managed to unseal the door. What we found was at once wondrous and gruesome, for this was the last stand of the scientists who worked here, while an unknown enemy raged outside. No dust or sand had collected inside the locked room, and experimental equipment of all sorts gleamed in orderly rows on the shelves along the back, as though just yesterday replaced, and awaiting the accustomed touch of a scientist's hand again tomorrow. If not for the toppled lab tables that were shoved about to barricade the door, and the lifeless, fuel-less Decepticon body slumped among them, I could easily picture this room as a modern, fully operational laboratory. The skeleton of an organic being came to light near the dead Decepticon - smaller, humanoid in form, though most definitely not human. It is as though these two sacrificed themselves to seal the barrier, knowing well that they would starve before they could safely emerge. One can only imagine the value of what they were protecting.

There was a row of stasis chambers along the back wall. I detected the faint, very faint hum of some power source, still operating at maintenance level after all these millennia. One chamber was still operational; the others had malfunctioned, producing three more drained-dry Decepticons. With some trepidation we opened the fourth chamber, to find a most unique being - a robot, though built to resemble the organic skeleton that lay in the jumble of tables. He bore a Decepticon symbol and spoke to us in a strange language, which I was able to decode after some time. He was wary of us at first, but he recognized the symbols we bore, and I promised him no harm. His name is Sotanyavejin, and he is the past come to life - a first-hand source of information on this lost colony. He is quite obviously a product of alien technology and Decepticon science joined, and we could learn a great deal from him. The species he represents is called the "Dyranens", who were apparently a conquered race who merged their scientific talents with ours on this forlorn planet. Again, no records of them exist on Cybertron, and there is nothing to indicate what became of them. This is a unique opportunity to revive a part of our history that is incompletely known. To that end, I have removed the cerebral cores of the four deactivated Decepticons that we found; they are burnt dry and beyond revival, but perhaps I can extract something from the memory chips once we return to Cybertron. Drop Zone, who explained to me his former archaeological training and professed a great interest in ancient Decepticon history, has been of great assistance to me in this matter, and he is in the process of coaxing the laboratory computers back to life, while the others seek out equipment with which to repair our shuttle.

26.5.06

With some translation and decryption, we have come across the resident scientists' reports on the madness that slowly consumed their outpost. It becomes obvious that the enemy was internal, that the affected Decepticons destroyed each other, with only those few in the lab remaining safe from the plague. Previous logs indicate the scientists' study of an older civilization that once existed on the planet. We did find remains of such, out where the highlands come to an abrupt end, though I did not at the time note their significance: a vast plain of stone stretched outward, its surface ridged with symmetrical ripple-marks like a petrified sea. It is the only evidence we have seen, that standing water ever existed on this world. From the air, one can see a network of fissures in the stone plain, as though its overlying ocean had been scorched dry all at once by some great blast of heat. Most notably, at the edge of what was once the shoreline, a jumble of broken stones and twisted, corroded metal lay scattered, in a pattern that faintly suggested the ancient lay- out of a city foundation.

From our superficial observations, and from the archeological text in the lab computer, it is apparent that this previous society destroyed itself as well. I thought it ironic, but did not see the connection until I recalled my sensations when first encountering the mist in the highlands - which brought on the personality distortion in our landing party. When I first saw these patches of haze, it seemed to me that I sensed ... not a mind, exactly, but the remnants of one; a sensation of being watched, without a true consciousness behind it. I dismissed it at the time as illusion. But now I have a highly unorthodox theory that may provide some explanation.

I hypothesize that the original civilization of this planet was based on anarchy - greed, violence, and utterly self- serving avarice - for those are the traits that manifested themselves in our landing party later. And as one would expect from such a civilization, it annihilated itself. But the force of their emotion was so strong, their hatreds so intense and their violence so powerful, that they "imprinted" themselves onto the landscape. This is not scientific terminology, I realize, but it is the only way I can explain it. And those "imprints" - not sentient minds, by any stretch, but the remnants of so much negative emotion, of so much violent death - lingered and affected any others who walked through that haze. From a detailed medical scan of the last individual to be afflicted, Dead End, it seems that affected individuals carry residual amounts of mist in their neurocircuitry, so perhaps the cure has to do with the haze re-absorbing those trace amounts upon a second exposure.

It is all highly speculative, of course. But if nothing else it is an example to us as Decepticons: that if we ever were to descend into the pure anarchy and treachery that our enemies accuse us of, then the fate of these lost civilizations will be our own. A momentary brush with such a fate is all I ever hope to experience; I am more than relieved to see all of us back to normal.

28.5.06

We have managed to repair the shuttle and return to Cybertron, enjoying an uneventful flight home, but the sight that greeted us upon our return, was one that horrifies me even now to think of it. Galvatron in customary manner had neglected to post sufficient guard to our territorial borders, giving no thought to what the remaining warriors might do in his absence. The Autobots took advantage of the overall disorganization, to overrun Polyhex City almost to the very gates of Darkmount. By the time our ship returned from its unscheduled side- trip, Galvatron's shuttle had made it back to Cybertron, and our troops had been rallied enough to drive the enemy from our lands, but by then the damage had been done. Without regard for the numerous non-combatant civilians who inhabited the city under Decepticon protection, the civilians whom the Autobots continually claim to value so highly, they had stormed the streets and leveled buildings, under the guise of rooting out Decepticon sympathizers and of course killing what warriors they could. Ironically enough it was the non-combatants who were hardest hit, those who wore no brand of allegiance at all; the warriors, who were the ostensible targets, had the training to defend themselves or ultimately escape. It is the repeated hypocrisy of the Autobots that infuriates me, even more so when I regard the ruins of what was my home city, a city that I should have been present to defend. Damn Galvatron to the deepest smelting pits, for his blundering incompetence, and damn the Autobots for their sanctimonious lies and false pretenses! Far worse than simply wrecking destruction, which is only to be expected in war, is the claim thereafter that they had the interest of the entire planet at heart. Once again my resolve strengthens, to somehow survive this era and see both Galvatron and the Autobots driven to defeat.

31.5.06

I come upon Hun-Grrr in repair bay. He has run afoul of some Decepticon with a firebolt cannon, and needs a molten piece of chest armor replaced. Brusquely he orders me over, tells me to perform whatever rituals and scribe whatever runes I must, in order to heal him. Though I am almost loath to touch the underworld-dweller, I am somewhat intrigued by his mannerisms, and so begin work, explaining that our methods of repair are not nearly so complicated as what he envisions. Casually I make reference to the "war council" before the invasion of Junkion, where the "Great Khan" so cavalierly excluded him; how he and his followers were so conveniently left out of the mission. He bristles, no doubt rethinking his pledge of subordination to Galvatron. I indicate further that even the most powerful of warriors have weaknesses, and it might be theoretically possible for someone such as myself to point these out. His optics light up in anticipation, and yet he snarls at me warily, "What could a shaman know of a warrior's mind?" ... "You would be surprised," I tell him calmly, and leave it at that for him to think over, as I fit the newly-restored armor into place.

I envision goading Hun-Grrr and his horde into dealing with Galvatron for us. It should not be difficult. Hun-Grrr is cunning and more intelligent than the others, but flawed with the overwhelming desire to rule absolute again, as he did over his lost city of Angselik. The right word, the useful snippet of information, the proper incentive, and he can be guided. If the resulting destruction should be mutual, if Galvatron in his last battle should obliterate the Terrorcons, then we are rid of two problems at once. For a moment something tugs at me ... have times become so desperate that I am willing to manipulate others to my ends like this? The notion sickens me; it is not my way. And yet ... the Terrorcons are not Decepticons, they are a pack of disruptive scavengers that Galvatron drew to him, and I owe them nothing. It is the Decepticon army that I must safeguard first and foremost, and if these vile means are necessary, then so be it.

Hun-Grrr skulks off, casting me a glowering, appraising glance over his shoulder before disappearing out the door. Some of the dangling chips and filaments with which he festoons his armor, have come loose, and I sweep them off the repair table and into my hand, ready to toss them into recycling - when one of the objects catches my closer attention. It is a datachip, I realize, one of an archaic design, and missing an edge, but perhaps none the less readable with some clean-up. I rub some of the grime from the other pieces. These too are datachips and bits of disks from ancient information storage banks, none of them complete, but perhaps readable in part. Considering the information that lies waiting to be extracted from the memory files of the Red Planet's ancient colonists, and what might lie below in the vicinity of Hun-Grrr's realm, I have the intoxicating sense that several entire chapters of our past may open up to us. I spend the rest of the day in my lab, carefully cleaning the "adornments" and scanning their broken fragments of data into my files.

1.6.06

I have managed to secure sanction to lead a small group back into the underground in search of more datachips and storage disks. Sinnertwin, who has integrated himself fairly well among the Decepticons relative to the other Terrors, offers to guide us. Drop Zone and Brigand, one of Scourge's Sweeps, have volunteered for the mission out of archaeological interest; Swindle thinks he may find something of value, though he does not seem to fully grasp the true value of what we are after. Ravage wishes to walk with us rather than be carried in my chest compartment; a few additional warriors join us out of boredom or to provide back-up firepower if we should need it.

We return to the site of the collapsed city, but Sinnertwin tells us this is not the hunting ground for the chips and storage disks that were considered prized trophies by the subterranean populace. They are scattered further down in the passages. The contortions of the ground that swallowed Angselik have left dark rifts leading downward. Carefully, we climb lower. Subfoundations of buildings and other makeshift dwellings are barely distinguishable from buckled passage walls here, and the whole path is littered with debris. I am encouraged that we find a few corners and edges of storage disks along the way; even through the grime that covers them, one can see the faintly-edged trace of patterns on their surface, and once one has a search image for them, they become relatively easy to pick out. At one point Swindle reaches down and pulls up a warped metal panel with a faded Decepticon symbol scratched into its surface. The remains of a surface-dweller who was dragged to his death in the depths, or something entirely different? I do not have enough information to formulate a picture.

We emerge into an open area several levels below the city, also littered with low ruins. Almost immediately a wild howling fills the dark cavern, echoing off distant walls. "Transorganic!" Sinnertwin hisses, his gaze darting around for cover. "They come up out of the core shafts, kill anything that moves. In here!" He plunges for one of the remnants of small buildings, just as a massive eyeless beast with gaping jaws bursts up from one of the patches of darkness nearby. We follow Sinnertwin into the roofless building - there is not much cover. It is Swindle again, who finds an opening along the base of the wall that is just large enough for all of us to slip through. We drop down into complete darkness, just as the slavering jaws of the transorganic crash into the opening above us. Again and again the creature hurls itself against the scant protection of the ceiling above us. I am none too confident of the chamber's structural integrity, as particles of rust and plaster rain down on us at each impact. The frantic screeches of the beast fill our entire consciousness as the walls and floor shudder under us. But so far, the barriers seem to hold.

"Keep completely quiet," Sinnertwin advises us. "Eventually it'll think we've died in here and go away. Transorganics like their prey live."

We wait in the darkness, while the beast howls above us.

2.6.06

Finally all is silence outside. Tentatively someone flickers on a light. Between the sagging ceiling and the mounds of clutter on the floor, there is barely enough room for me to stand, but that concerns me little as I recognize what we have been so thoughtlessly trampling over. Broken shards of datachips and storage disks litter the floor, all covered with a layer of metal dust and crumbled plaster, surely made worse by the collapse of the city built above, and by the frantic impacts of the massive transorganic. More wondrous yet, a faded Decepticon symbol can just barely be made out on one of the buckled walls. The construction of this chamber differs from that of the overlying buildings ... was this once a Decepticon base of operations in the underground? It would seem as much, as other entrances lead off to the sides, though they are completely blocked by fallen debris from above.

Overlying the Decepticon sigil, apparently added much later, are numerous claw marks, painted sigils, and runes, of the same designs that I recognize from the Terrorcons' armor. The squalid underworld-dwellers have apparently used the room as a ritual chamber of some sort, and I can only despair at how much information they might have destroyed. Carefully I sift through the litter at our feet, picking out shards of storage disks.

Drop Zone is in a delight of discovery, examining the old-style data consoles that are gutted and scattered all about. He finds one that is very nearly intact, and cannot resist opening its casing and gently knocking loose the fine layer of corrosion that has coated its interior. It is my understanding that these devices were used at one time, before more miniaturized technology, to transport and safeguard important information - I seem to recall seeing one or two of them on a back shelf at DeceptiTech Labs, but by then they were already obsolescent. Drop Zone concurs, but points out that the reason this model was popular for so long, was its ability to take punishment due to its primitive parts. He is amazed anew to find an intact datachip stuck to the bottom of the terminal.

I urge him to try a reactivation, intensely curious now as to what we may still be able to read. I patch in some cables from my own central systems, and generate an electric current to simulate the long-disabled power supply. Haltingly he begins to coax the screen to life, drawing up what looks like schedules, blueprints ... among them many corrupted sectors of the chip that are unreadable under these conditions. He comes to a list of names, beginning to read them silently to himself before stopping and looking up at me in shock. "It's ... a mission briefing ... from ten million years ago ... I don't believe it.... And the participants--" A list of names. About half of them unfamiliar. The others are well known to us. The Terrorcons.

I look to Sinnertwin in amazement, as though seeing him for the first time. "What do you remember of this place?" I question him, and he looks around blankly at first, speaking of rituals of the hunt and of retribution against their enemies that the Terrors performed here ... and then slowly he begins to recall other bits and pieces, which he had long reclassified as dreams: being sent underground after a group of Autobots, being charged with safeguarding valuable information, spending long years trailing, tracking ... establishing a base, then building a city above it. He does not know anymore who the Sinnertwin was, who was sent on this quest, he only has a few of his memories left. But I look to the flickering screen that Drop Zone is managing to keep active, and seek more information, though already the situation is becoming clear to me.

The individuals whom we today know as the Terrorcons, had been part of an elite unit sent after a group of Autobots, among whose names I recognized the "Technos" who had likewise climbed to the surface and re-forged their allegiance with their own kind. This group of Autobots had stolen invaluable data, and Hun- Grrr's unit, directed to establish a safe place of storage in the underground anyway, followed them down. So, what some of us had assumed to be semi-sentient savages, unworthy of our ranks, were in fact once Decepticon warriors, whose minds were eroded over time by the emissions given off in this region. I think of the Quintesson's Spiral Engine and the readings we encountered from it during our first venture to this area, and I can well picture the debilitating effects of exposure over millennia; in retrospect I am not surprised that the remnants of this Decepticon battle unit lost all sense of their identity. Their service to their species caused them to be damaged through no fault of their own, and those of us who have disdained them, myself included, have done them a great injustice. I will have to offer my apologies to the Terrorcons, as fellow Decepticons, and work to re-integrate them into their rightful place, and to be less hasty in my judgements in the future.

There will be no sending Hun-Grrr against Galvatron. I will find another way.

4.6.06

All the datachips and storage disks we could gather have been stored in my laboratory for eventual cleaning and decryption. It will be a task that cannot possibly be completed in my lifetime, at least under current conditions, and I will have to content myself with unraveling a piece or two of the puzzle only every so often during a free hour. But at least the information is retrieved, and waits only to be restored.

Meanwhile, work begins under Scrapper's direction on the reconstruction of Polyhex, to the spite of the Autobots who had leveled nearly everything and hoped it would remain that way.

5.8.06

I must give my highest commendations to those who rebuilt and restored Polyhex after the vicious Autobot attack. The speed with which the city was re-built, and the architectural skill that went into the design, is a testament to Decepticon nature itself - we will never go down in defeat to the point where we will not rise up again, stronger than ever. The newly designed city is very different from the one I once knew, but that city has been gone for millennia. My appreciation especially to Scrapper and his team for bringing Polyhex to life once more.

11.8.06

It almost amuses me that the Autobots, unable to keep Polyhex in ashes, have resorted to petty vandalism to vent their aggravation at the indomitability of the Decepticon spirit. I was not present to witness the event, but I am told that an Aerialbot and a Technobot went to great lengths to sneak past the gates, and began to deface the new buildings and fountains with paint. It amuses me even more, that they were apprehended and beaten to within a micron of their lives by the citizenry itself, before Decepticon troops even had to be called into the picture. These are the civilians whom the Autobots make such great pretense of protecting - the very civilians who lost friends and relatives in the recent Autobot attack. Did the two invaders think they would be welcomed as heroes? ... I am gratified to note that the civilian citizens themselves also set about removing the graffiti, again without the intervention of Decepticon troops.

13.9.06

Galvatron seeks to renew ties with Earth - that is, to make use of its abundant resources as we did in the past. That suits me well, for I am transferred to Megatron's old undersea headquarters and far from the "leader" whom I so despise. The old Earthbase seems frozen in time - with a bit of lighting and a bit of polish, I might almost expect to see Thundercracker and Skywarp flying in through the air-access tower, Reflector wandering the hallways, Megatron himself striding into the command center.... The thought generates sadness, but an odd sort of comfort too, as I feel somehow closer to those lost warriors here.

Adamia is among those who requested transfer to Earth, and she has been a great help in returning the base to livable status. While welding the hairline cracks in the walls through which moisture seeped in from the pressure of the overlying ocean, she sings ancient Decepticon songs, and I find within my datafiles the music that accompanies them, and we work together in reasonable contentment.

Nightbird too has joined us here - I have not seen her since Megatron died irrevocably for the second time - and she has had me construct her a flight-pack with which she can go out into this world and return when the mood suits her. I remain uneasy about her random disappearances, but such is her desire, and I must respect it.

21.9.06

The humans, no doubt egged on by the Autobots and emboldened by what little trickle- down technology they have been able to eke from their allies, have thought to attack our base. Unfortunately for them, they severely overestimated their abilities. Did they assume I did not have sensors on full to detect any approach from a great distance - let alone a thrumming fleet of submarines that sent out the ripples of its engine signatures over half an ocean? Did they assume that our defensive capabilities were not yet on line, that we would have thoughtlessly neglected such a thing? Sensors and weapons were the first things I saw to. Although there was never any official promotion, I am quite by chance the ranking officer at this outpost, and as such I suppose I am Earthbase commander - though I feel myself more in the role of a guardian than a commander. I have come to regard Earthbase as a memorial of sorts to Megatron, and I will not see it harmed - certainly not by mere organics. They will never find all the pieces of their ships, nor all the bodies of those who died in them. They will from now on steer clear of us again, as in the old days, as it should be.

28.9.06

I find Megatron's old gladiatorial scimitar, a great gleaming heavy blade. Giving it a renewed coat of polish, I hang it on the wall over his seat in the conference room, which will now forever remain empty. Frenzy comes in and sees me doing it, and quite unexpectedly bursts into tears. He laments Megatron and Skywarp and the others who were lost to the wars, and berates himself bitterly for taking no action when his best friend Thundercracker was forced out of the shuttle and to his death. "What could you have done," I try to calm him, "one small Decepticon against a troop of panicked warriors? Would Thundercracker have wanted you to die too?" I try to send him a sense of reassurance and calm over the telepathic link, but my shields are not what they should be and he catches a glimpse of the abyss of self-recrimination that I have lived with ever since that day. I sit on the floor with Frenzy and hold him close to me, look up at the glittering scimitar, and curse myself a thousandfold for my own cowardice. "You could not have affected a different result," I say quietly to my creation, and eventually he seems to realize it ... the sadness remains, but the sense of personal responsibility begins to lift.

"That's true for you too!" he insists suddenly. "You would have gone up against a whole shuttle full of warriors, you wouldn't have been able to change things even if you'd tried, except that they would've killed you too. And then you wouldn't be here for us now..." He hugs me tightly as though fearing I will vanish before him.

I break off the telepathic exchange completely, so he will not see how impossible it is for me to believe him. I saw the one critical instant that would have made all the difference - and I hesitated too long. Every action I have taken on behalf of the Decepticons since then, has been a poor substitute for that single, all-encompassing failure.

"Come, Frenzy," I say to him softly. I rise and carry him from the chamber, closing the door behind me to leave the scimitar gleaming silently in the dark.

4.10.06

Out of some combination of prudence and old habit, I routinely monitor the humans' airwaves - another small fact which the scuttling natives of this world must have been unaware of - for when they captured Nightbird, I knew of it a mere forty-three minutes later. Knowing it was useless to call for back-up from Cybertron - Galvatron would never authorize a rescue mission of this sort - I endeavored to free her myself. Adamia, the only other Decepticon present in the base at the time, accompanied me. One of the humans' governmental organizations had sequestered Nightbird in a heavily-defended building. While Adamia and I drew their fire outside, I released Ravage, Laserbeak, and Frenzy to infiltrate and reach Nightbird. I suspected that once she herself was freed, she would fight her way out even as we fought our way in, and we would encounter each other half-way.

So it went, apparently, because just as we were ready to break down an outer wall, Nightbird burst from the building, flinging a hail of razor-edged throwing-stars behind her. Ravage, Laserbeak, and Frenzy followed closely. Laserbeak and Frenzy took to the air, Frenzy carrying something - I could not at the time make out what it was - and Ravage leapt towards me. I opened my chest compartment to grant him entry, then swept up Nightbird, who had lost her flight pack, and flew upward with Adamia.

Nightbird's manner wavered between terror and fury. She was initially built by humans as a sideshow act, as a slave, and was thereafter kept in captivity for twenty years - and surely one of her greatest fears must have been that they would one day recapture her. I assured her that I would never again allow that to occur. She was missing a few armor panels - obviously they had begun to poke into her inner workings before she managed to break her bonds - and when we got back to base I began repairs at once. She insisted that I install permanent flight engines while I was at it. Much as I urged her to first recover from the trauma of this experience, she would hear none of it. She had a debt to pay back, she told me, and would not rest until the human who had led her capture lay dead at her feet. For that she needed more reliable means of travel. I complied, and undertook the lengthy process of fitting in the engines, rearranging much unusually alien circuitry to do so. She currently rests in my quarters - I took her there and left the room to her, as she seems to feel safe there.

With Nightbird momentarily seen to, there is another matter I must settle. Frenzy has brought back a human. A human. This is what he was carrying, and he dragged it all the way back to base with him. When I begin to take him to task, he explains that this human - Nicole Bradley, he calls it - had helped him and Ravage and Laserbeak sneak into the building. They'd transformed into their tiny cassette modes, and the human had carried them inside without arousing suspicion. At least, not until the three Decepticons leapt forth and transformed. "The human government knows that she helped us," Frenzy insists. "We can't send her back - they'll put her in jail or maybe even kill her." The human pipes up that it has been a great admirer of ours for some years, and simply had to take the opportunity to assist when one presented itself. The words barely register. What could an insignificant creature such as this, know of the Decepticon way?

I am not about to let an Earth-dweller, who would traditionally be in league with the Autobots, wander about the base without doing a thorough telepathic scan. The creature gasps sharply as I enter its mind - it did not occur to me to warn it - and I sift through the thin, slippery layers of thoughts and memories and intentions, scanning rapidly, alert to any subversive plans or past contact with our enemies. To my faint surprise, I find none - the human's intent does seem to be as claimed. I catch glimpses of a self-sufficient existence on the fringes of this planet's system of laws, flickers of contempt for the human species as a whole, a self-taught study of technology and a fascination with alien worlds - in particular, our world. An admiration for our species. Very well then. I withdraw my thoughts. Frenzy can keep it, if he feeds it and cleans up after it, but it still disturbs me, to have such a creature underfoot.

10.10.06

The human has actually tried to make itself useful, striking up a friendship with the rest of my creations and several other Decepticons stationed here. It spends a good deal of time with Adamia in repair bay, where I am told it has been of assistance; it seems to have a thorough understanding of mechanical and electrical workings, and an innate ability to learn more. Every now and again it tries to speak to me, but how does one communicate with such a being? I have a hard time considering it even fully sentient, although I see clear objective evidence to the contrary. My creations, on the other hand, have no such problems. They are younger and more flexible yet, without the overlay of mistrust and contempt that humans have engendered in me over the last two decades, seeing them link themselves to the Autobots so willingly. What can be noteworthy, about such a species? Frenzy agrees in principle, but insists, "Nic's not like the others." We shall see.

19.10.06

I found myself actually conversing with the human today ... I was in the conference room adjusting the scimitar on the wall, when the small creature entered and clambered up onto one of the chairs, looking about in curiosity. Quite unobtrusively it - she - asked about the weapon, and to my surprise I found myself telling her about it, how it had belonged to my leader - no, not Galvatron, I emphasized in response to her question - and how he'd kept it as a memento of his time in the State Games, and how I was keeping it now, in memory of him. I said no more than that, but it was strangely consoling to tell her about it. I cannot speak of such matters to other Decepticons, who have their own problems and do not need my dismal reminiscences as additional burden. Afterward I carried her back to repair bay, almost fearing to pick up such a fragile being, as any wrong move would crush her. I have never before really noticed how ephemeral these organic life-forms are....

25.10.06

I receive a strange message while at my monitoring station, originating from a cloaked shuttlepod, in orbit, of Quintesson design. The lone passenger calls himself Chronicus, babbles on about seeking the means of travel through time, and requesting my assistance. My first impulse is to dismiss him, as I have no more trust for the Quintessons than I do for the Autobots, but it becomes clear from the exchange that this is a fugitive from his own kind, one who sought the means to further his studies, and was denied them. With access to the proper equipment, for instance our space bridge, he claims, he can make his theories reality. He sends me a datadump of formulae and equations to look over. Although they mean little to me, I am intrigued despite myself ... I think of that one critical instant in the shuttle, and what it might mean to turn back time to that moment, to then replay history in a different tune. Absurdity, of course. None the less, I grant him access, stash him under heavy security in one of the lower cargo holds that have recently been pumped clear of seawater. Behind several layers of forcefields and alarm systems, I provide him with a computer bank and holographic model generators. It is clear that he seeks an alliance only to further his own ends, whatever those may be, but that interests me little if there is a chance, even a slight chance, that I may achieve my own goal. But the very idea is so preposterous, the potential ramifications so great, that I keep his presence secret from all others at the base, my creations included. If this Quintesson generates something worth considering, then we will see further - though I do not truly expect results, and it is easy enough to make him disappear again if necessary.

9.11.06

Laserbeak brings me startling news. He has been deep in conversation with Adamia - I knew she had come to feel protective toward him and his siblings, and they have enjoyed spending time with her - but what he conveys to me, is something I would never have expected. He sends a telepathic echo of her words to him: "Laserbeak, I think I'm in love with your father." I am caught completely unawares. In retrospect, I should have seen the many sidelong glances, the multiple visits to my laboratory on faint premise, the request for transfer to Earthbase. But the concept never entered my mind. "Come to repair bay," Laserbeak urges from afar. "Talk to her. Someone as special as Adamia shouldn't have to cry."

I try to explain to her that I have not entertained the notion of a mate since the death of my consort many millennia past; that I have greatly appreciated her presence as a reliable and dedicated co-worker; that I am a relic of the past and not someone upon whom she should pin her hopes. I try to forestall any sense of lowered self-worth on her part, by pointing out the many, many Decepticons whom she has pulled back from the brink of death; how it is not easy to see so many die, and still maintain the compassion which is so vital to a good repaireon. Her optics darken even as I speak, the light of hope guttering and flickering out. I wish to reach out to her, to in some manner ease her pain, but she turns away. Laserbeak is correct in that she does not deserve this anguish, but I cannot feign that which I do not feel; I can only regret that I cannot provide her with that which she seeks. I tell her that I am available in the capacity of friendship whenever she should wish to seek me out, but she does not even seem to hear me. At her request, I sadly leave her to her own thoughts.

17.11.06

An urgent message from Cybertron sends us all back to Darkmount, Nicole included. Someone has given her a golden Decepticon symbol to pin upon her clothing over her heart, and I make it very clear to the other warriors that she is one of us now, and is not to be harmed.

It seems that in my absence no one thought to monitor the surrounding space, instead focusing all their awareness upon the enemy or their internal squabbles - and now we were faced with the imminent collision of an onrushing asteroid, nearly half the size of the planet, and too close, by now, to be thrown off course by the conventional means at our disposal. Flights are organized for the gathering of data, while the science division prepares to analyze the results. Nicole offers assistance as I set up and calibrate some of the necessary equipment. Afterwards, we have only to wait. She finds herself a storage crate in my laboratory, which she fashions into a den for herself, and then emerges to anticipate the readings we are soon to receive.

18.11.06

I step next door into repair bay for a momentary break from the laboratory work, to find a most unfortunate sight. Sotanyavejin, whom we brought back from the Red Planet, lies curled up on one of the repair tables, his limbs wrapped around himself as though to ward off a pending strike. Underneath his crossed arms I can see the ugly black burn-marks of a high-impact laser weapon. "He was shot out of the air," Adamia explains. "The Technobots. I think it was the fall that killed him, more so than the shot." I regard the curled form in silence. I promised him no harm. Instead I brought him back to this world, to meet this fate. I had intended to set aside some time, eventually, to speak to him at length about the meeting of two cultures that brought him to life, and to assure myself that he was settling in well among the Decepticons - but as with so many things, the opportunity never arose. I shake my head, unable to dwell on it, as I must return to my work. We are informed shortly thereafter that hostilities with the Autobots have officially ceased for the duration of this crisis.

19.11.06

Theoretically there is a way to shatter the asteroid at a point along a microscopic fissure, which will pulverize it. I say theoretically, because this would require a sophistication of light-beam weaponry which we do not currently have available. And it must be a light-beam, capable of immense power- output and instantaneous directional adjustments, in order to fracture the rock in such a manner as to render it harmless. Even a well-placed explosive charge will not do the job, for this would break it into multiple large fragments, to do more damage than the intact planetoid. We scientists among ourselves are quite certain of the specifications of the necessary laser weapon, but it is such a sophisticated construct that it will take longer to build, than we have time remaining. Still, both factions pool their resources and begin the hopeless task. Cybertron is our homeworld, and none of us wish to see it destroyed without making every effort to save it; the notion of fleeing without an attempt, is not even mentioned. None the less, Motormaster and Scourge and I quietly begin to formulate evacuation plans.

20.11.06

The skeletal weapons frame already stands atop the highest plateau of the Iacon Highlands, when one of the auxiliary power cells explods into a brief fireball of noise and heat and light. They are touchy things, and when transported a bit too roughly, their chemicals overactivate into a runaway chain reaction. But the destructive output of a single cell is minor, barely even jostling its neighbors. If one happens to be an organic being caught in the blast, however, the result is very different again. I am shocked to see the damage done to Nicole, by an explosion that would barely have scorched my armor. Limbs burnt beyond recognition, bits of casing imbedded in her head.... She is thankfully not conscious, but I detect the remnants of lifesigns within her. Hurriedly I send Laserbeak to take her back to repair bay in the hope that something can be done for her, in the hope that another ally will not meet death on a planet far from home. I know very little of how these beings function, and so I cannot be much help, but irrationally enough I feel the urge to travel with her. I cannot do so, of course, as I am needed at the construction site.

21.11.06

It becomes more and more obvious that we will not finish our weapon in time. Another conference is held ... Decepticons and Autobots glower at one another suspiciously across the open floorspace of a meeting hall in a Neutral city. Once again Hook explains the necessary parameters of the laser device, and how impossible it will be to construct it on this time-scale. "Then our only option is to evacuate," says the Autobot leader, an ineffectual upstart, though he may be correct in this one thing.

"No!" Galvatron rises, his optics flashing bright. "I will not see my world destroyed. I can generate the necessary power, with the needed directional control, to destroy this floating chunk of frozen rock."

One of the Autobot scientists taps a keypad. "According to my calculations, you can indeed output the necessary power," he muses, "but it would fuse your every system and smelt you from the inside out. There is no way you would survive."

Galvatron favors him with a withering glare. "I am aware of that."

A flurry of discussion follows, with Cyclonus and several others arguing vehemently against this course of action, and a good number of Autobots, and some Decepticons, voicing their opinions in favor. I merely sit back and observe. Once he has announced his decision, Galvatron falls silent, a cold determination hardening his features. There is not one ranting outburst, not one uncalled-for lashing-out at the nearest underling ... it is the most controlled I have ever seen him. I would not have thought him capable of such devotion to the homeworld. I will make no effort to argue him out of his chosen course of action - I would not be overly surprised if he were to back out at the last moment - but if he does indeed undertake this task, he may perhaps in some small manner earn a place in history after all.

22.11.06

We gather at the plateau, in the shadow of the unfinished laser weapon. Cyclonus will be piloting a small shuttlecraft into high orbit to bring Galvatron within range of the asteroid, and all the Darkmount Decepticons have turned out to pay their respects. Even some of the Autobots are here - not many of us, I imagine, have come out of any great affection for Galvatron, but one must acknowledge that this is an act of tremendous courage, and the sacrifice is to be honored. Nicole is here as well, her missing legs, right arm, and optics having been replaced with bionic constructs. The right side of her head is shielded by a metal plate, and part of the memory capacity of her organic brain has been replaced with a computerized insert. I regard her dubiously for a moment as she maneuvers on her crutches, still growing accustomed to the metal prosthetics. I must wonder if such a mix of organic and metallic circuitry can possibly function - but other than a bit of physical awkwardness, she seems fine, and so I turn my attention back to the scene before us.

With few words, Cyclonus and Galvatron board the shuttle and launch. The Constructicons have brought a viewscreen, and we are all able to witness the events: the shuttle hovers in orbit while Galvatron disembarks and transforms. If one looks closely, it is possible to make out the asteroid in the distance of deep space, its icy surface glittering faintly, deceptively far away but in reality closing fast. Galvatron's cannon barrel swings in its direction. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then a massive blast of light bursts from the barrel, momentarily overloading the screen in its brilliance. When the picture flickers back into view, the bulging torrent of light has narrowed down into a lethally focused beam that is all but swallowed by the eternal night of space. But the glitter of the asteroid begins to change, taking on a more reddish cast ... even as Galvatron's cannon form begins to shimmer with waves of heat and radiation. The sustained barrage seems to stretch on into a silent eternity. Galvatron's form glows red- hot; the asteroid finally shivers to dust, a glittering cloud that spirals into orbit around Cybertron.

Cyclonus returns with the great cannon that was Galvatron, still molten-hot and fused nearly shapeless. Scrapper takes a hopeful reading for lifesigns, but there are none ... only heat-dissipation patterns. "We'll have a ring around Cybertron from the asteroid dust," someone murmurs quietly in the background. "It'll be a permanent symbol of his sacrifice. He won't be forgotten."

23.11.06

The memorial service is held in Polyhex City's great coliseum. It is simultaneously Cyclonus' ascent to command. One by one, various warriors rise to say a few words in memory of Galvatron. "Let us not remember him as an iron-fisted tyrant, but as the hero who saved Cybertron," some say. Phrases like "He led us with valor and dedication" permeate the proceedings. I must question where all this noble sentiment comes from, all of a sudden. I will not tell such outrageous lies, merely because they happen to sound good on this solemn occasion. He was a psychotic tyrant, he was unbecoming of the leaders who went before him, and I am not sorry he is gone. But he did give his life to preserve our homeworld, an act of courage and honor that ultimately made him worthy of the symbol he wore. That much, I am willing to say.

I regard Cyclonus. I know he mourns Galvatron, and I do feel for him, as I have been in the same position - but more and more I sense the rise of a new sensation within me, a sense that has been absent so long that I scarcely recognize it upon its return: a genuine hope for the future. Cyclonus has the talent to lead. I have seen it in him for some time, though he intentionally stood back in Galvatron's shadow. He may require some guidance in presenting himself with absolute authority to the troops, because if he has self-doubts and allows any hint of them to show, it will invalidate all of his other abilities - especially now, with confidence in the High Command on such shaky ground. A change of leadership among the Decepticons is always a precarious thing, rife for internal power struggles by those who have waited in the wings for their golden opportunity, real or imagined. Such conflict is to be prevented at all costs, and to that end, the new commander must exert strength and certainty and dedication. I believe Cyclonus has that capability.

16.12.06

The inevitable challengers to Cyclonus' command have been quite swiftly put down, and all is proceeding smoothly. I have even toyed with the notion of building another creation, the first to symbolize this new, brighter era that we are moving towards. I even have a name in mind, Tangle, and the specifications for his functions and abilities begin to sort themselves out in my mind during idle moments - but another matter requires my attention first. I notice that Nicole seems to be having problems. As I feared, the cybernetic implants in her organic brain are proving to be incompatible. Her memory processing has gone awry; she is losing track of times and dates and sequences of events. I bring her to repair bay, to see if Hook or Adamia or someone else who knows more about organics, might be able to reverse the problem, but they are at a loss. Assistance comes from an unexpected source - a warrior known as Theta-7, whom I have only been dimly aware of as someone who was built for armed service to the Quintessons, and some time ago asserted his own will, broke free, and came to join us. His service record has been reliable, if unremarkable, since then. But he has some experience with organic design from having worked near Quintesson scientists in his early years, and he is able to halt the worst of the deterioration. He tells me it will not be a permanent solution.

I remain overnight with Nicole in repair bay, as I might with a creation of my own. She asks me when the memorial service for Galvatron will be. I tell her not to worry about it, to sleep. I am aware that she is perhaps two decades old, a mere fourth of her species' already-brief expected lifespan. Surely there must be some way to assist.

17.12.06

I instruct Buzzsaw to carry Nicole, and Laserbeak to take the backpack in which she keeps her sustenance, and meet me at the shuttle pad. I have spoken to Theta-7, as his experience will be invaluable, and he has agreed to assist. We meet the others at the shuttle, taking care to avoid attention along the way. Although Cyclonus and I have worked well together in the last weeks, I still find him remote on a personal level, and I am quite certain that an official request for this mission would be denied. And I cannot take that chance.

Theta-7 ducks inside the shuttle to make preparations, when Full Blast happens by, wonders casually what I am doing on the launch pad at this hour. He has always been one of my brightest students in matters of communication and espionage, and it does not escape him that I have some ulterior motive. For the sake of our friendly association in I&E division, I ask him to go about his business and say nothing, and I will explain when I return. Now he is truly concerned, and is no longer to be shaken loose. It is not my intention to drag Full Blast, or Buzzsaw and Laserbeak, along on a dangerous and unauthorized mission. I tell them all to be on their way. But they will hear none of it; they look to me and Theta and Nicole, and conclude that we may need extra firepower, and they will not let us go alone. Finally, for the sake of getting underway before we do attract unwanted notice, I relent and let them aboard, quite against my better judgement.

Some well-chosen signals beamed to the scanning systems, and we slip past the sensors unseen. Our first stop is Earth, where I have left Chronicus in the cargo hold to continue his formulations. His work has circled endlessly back on itself, and more and more I have come to doubt its validity. In any case, I find I cannot weigh a remote impossibility in some distant future, against a concrete choice in the present. I do have copies of his equations, and perhaps one day I will have opportunity to look them over myself.

I go alone down into the cargo hold, stun the Quintesson without preamble, and bring the unconscious creature aboard. Again a faint, disquieting tug deep within me; I detest going back on my word, even to a being such as this. But my higher responsibilities are to the Decepticons, and Nicole is, as far as I am concerned, a Decepticon like any other. Another deal with the devil, to use that Earth- phrase again.

19.12.06

Quintessa from orbit seems almost entirely dominated by its sickly-orange oceans, but upon closer approach, there are places to land. Theta-7 gives me the name of the individual to contact, a high-ranking scientist by the name of Mutagenicus. After some back- and-forth diplomatic posturing, I finally make clear to him that I have something he wants, namely the wayward Chronicus whom his leaders have been seeking, and in exchange for his deliverance, there is something I require. Mutagenicus scans us in orbit, confirming there is indeed a Quintesson lifesign aboard, then gives us a precise trajectory to follow for landing. We are escorted under armed guard through the mirrored, echoing corridors to the Quintesson's laboratory, myself carrying Nicole, and Buzzsaw and Laserbeak hidden in my chest compartment, and Full Blast carrying the unconscious Chronicus. Theta-7 keeps alert to every micron of our surroundings, obviously very much on guard as he returns to the grounds of his servitude.

Mutagenicus meets us, tries repeatedly to get us to give up the sedated Chronicus, but I understand from Theta that these beings can only be trusted if one has bargaining leverage, and so I refuse, until I have more proof of the Quintesson's ability to fulfil his part of the deal. He takes us to his laboratory, which boasts sloshing tanks of multicolored liquids, steaming vats of carboniferous juices, and all manner of organic creatures which he has spliced together. I put the challenge to him: can he re-create the missing limbs, eyes, and brain section for the human which I have brought along? He scoffs; not only can he re- create the missing parts, but could make improvements upon them. "Just the original form," I emphasize. "And there is to be no pain." Again he claims it is an easy task, and sets to work. Theta steps forward to watch and make certain there is no foul play, as best he can recognize. It was for this reason that I wanted his company, for I know so little of organic repairs and Quintesson capabilities that I would not recognize a misstep if it were directly before me. As the Quintesson's tentacles writhe over Nicole in a flurry of activity, deftly removing the artificial limbs and optics, I nod to Full Blast, and he slowly relinquishes hold of Chronicus.

Mutagenicus takes a small scraping of Nicole's skin, and uses it to grow a perfect duplicate in one of his vats in a matter of minutes, only that this one is intact. It is of course the cybernetic implant in the brain that is causing the problem, the rest is merely cosmetic damage - and so the brain section is seen to first. Unceremoniously Mutagenicus cuts off the clone's head and removes the skullcap, exposing the brain. He says that Nicole's organic brain and the implant have by now become so interconnected that it will be difficult to fully sever the connections between them, at least not without causing great trauma and possible loss of function. I tell him that I will make the attempt telepathically.

I eject Buzzsaw and Laserbeak for additional vigilance, and perhaps as a show of force to emphasize to the Quintesson that there will be repercussions if he should try to take advantage of my temporary loss of awareness. I enter Nicole's mind and the laboratory around me fades out of existence. I seek out the connection points between the organic and mechanical brains, gather the memories contained therein, and seal off the relays. I find I must provide some of the signals to the brain that the implant was generating, as I feel Mutagenicus remove it from a great distance away. I feed the electrical impulses back on themselves to simulate a closed loop, keeping the organic part of the mind self- contained.

This is a more intensive link than my search for information back at Earthbase, and I am surprised to note the chaotic quality of Nicole's thoughts, the non-linearity, the random images and sensations that leap from one to the next. There is an eclectic creativity about it, somehow ... but also a tremendous amount of stored information, of which she herself is not aware. It is as though her mind has recorded every image and thought and sensation that she has ever encountered, but is only willing to allow her conscious awareness of a small fraction. Most odd. I am surprised also to hear her thoughts relatively clearly in this dream-like state, and so I instruct her to focus on the "sound" of my "voice" and hold tightly to that, lest she slip away into an endless darkness. She says she can see out of my optics, that she can see Mutagenicus working over her, replacing her eyes and limbs. She marvels at the clarity and order of my thought processes. She says she can tell what it feels like, to be a Transformer. She is curious about me, about my life, and I allow her to see a series of images, to give her a focal point. It is only by a shift in her thought-patterns that I realize she has been awakened in the physical world again, and I withdraw the link to see her sitting joyful and whole in the center of the Quintesson's work table.

"It's done," Mutagenicus says to me, peering up at me with one of his faces, with an expression I cannot read. "You may be on your way. But first ... tell me of the change in command among your forces. I am curious. Your new leader - Cyclonus, is it? I trust all is running smoothly?"

"Cyclonus, yes," I say, as there is no point in denying that which is known to half the quadrant, but the internal workings of Decepticon High Command are not his business, and I will say no more.

One of the beasts in a cage behind me lets out a piercing shriek and sprays a fine mist into the air, some of which condenses onto my armor. With slight irritation I brush it away. "Pay her no mind," Mutagenicus says, "she is in a mating cycle and is hoping to attract others of her kind with that pheromone ... if I had bothered to make any others."

Theta-7 mutters to me that we must leave as quickly as possible, now that we have nothing further to offer. I cast a half- apologetic glance back at the slowly-awakening Chronicus, then pick up Nicole, who hugs my arm in gratitude, and we take our leave. Surprisingly, we are not molested on the way back to the ship, nor during our launch and flight from the system, but I do not wish to tempt fate by questioning our good fortune.

21.12.06

Upon our return we are greeted by good news - Sotanyavejin lives. Apparently what we mistook as death, was for his alien systems merely a form of stasis, during which his body repaired itself. It seems there will be a second opportunity for us after all.

But there is also bad news - tragic news. Adamia is dead. And according to her logs, by her own hand. I try to make some iota of sense of it - why now, of all times, when everything is looking upwards? Did the long years of repair work finally catch up to her? Was she unable to find someone to love her the way that she wished? Was there something I might have seen, some way I might have prevented it?

But there are additional problems to be dealt with. I had wondered why the base was so empty, why no one stopped us and demanded to know where we had been ... Rumble, Frenzy, Hack, and Ravage meet us outside the command center and tell us that Motormaster and Wildrider have had a falling-out with Cyclonus and have run off into the canyonlands. From there, Motormaster has been trying to convince the other Stunticons to join him, and whoever else will listen, insisting that he will not follow Cyclonus' command, because that would be no better than following Galvatron's command, and we have all had enough of Galvatron. Cyclonus has led a contingent of Sweeps and other flyers to track him down and confront him personally.

Motormaster mis-reads the situation. Cyclonus is the best hope we currently have. Who would he suggest in Cyclonus' place? Himself? Unlikely. I can talk reason to him, I am certain of it. Hurriedly I take to the sky and fly in the direction of the canyons, determined to find all of them before someone else gets killed. My creations and travelling companions trail behind......

*****recorded logs end here*****

Motormaster was cornered; he knew it. Cyclonus stalked toward him, moving slowly and inexorably, his optics burning with controlled fury. Scourge and his Sweeps and an assorted number of other flyers hovered in the air, and the cliff faces rose up to all sides around them. Wildrider glanced up at his division commander. "What do we do now?" he asked uncertainly.

Motormaster drew himself to his full height, unrepentant and determined. "We fight," he growled, brandishing his sword. "To the death if we have to. We've waited long enough while the Decepticon way was corrupted under Galvatron - and Cyclonus is just carrying on that same tradition. We either break it now - or there's nothing worth sticking around for." Soundwave had already left the ranks, Motormaster noted; he'd been gone for almost a week, vanished without a word. But his message was fairly obvious. Motormaster had merely tried it another way, tried to get others to follow. And if he was to die trying, then so be it. Maybe his example would inspire the rest to-

His thoughts stopped short as a small group of figures dropped down out of the dark sky and landed between himself and the approaching Cyclonus. Soundwave! And Full Blast, and Theta-7, and that little organic female, and the pack of Soundwave's creations whom Motormaster never could keep straight. Soundwave turned to Cyclonus, his manner and his movements steady and reassuring, as always. "Commander," he said, and Motormaster noted in some corner of his mind that this was the same title with which Soundwave had habitually addressed Megatron, "please allow me to explain the situation to Motormaster. I do not believe he fully understands."

Cyclonus made a sharp gesture with one hand. "Get out of the way, Soundwave," he said. "This doesn't concern you."

"On the contrary," Soundwave replied calmly. "The Decepticon cause always concerns me. As it should each of us." He cast a significant look over at Motormaster, who returned the look a little puzzled.

Something detached itself from a side- edge of Soundwave's armor. It looked a little bit like a thin, silver stream of liquid, arcing through the dim night to strike Cyclonus in the chest. The new leader's optics flickered a little, as though in surprise; he reached up to brush the silver patch with his fingertips-

With shocking speed, the faint silver patch expanded into a crystalline coating that seeped across Cyclonus' armor, its edges sprouting into a tangle of dendrites that pierced the armor at all contact-points. Cyclonus staggered backward and hurriedly tried to pull the thing off him, but it continued to grow and encase him, creeping upward toward his head and reaching long sharp-edged filaments toward his eyes. Scourge dropped down out of the sky and tried to seek a handhold on the hard silver casing, but it was impenetrable ... Soundwave too leapt forward and tore at the slender, seemingly-delicate crystalline tendrils, but they were like steel and forced their way inexorably into the armor plate. Cyclonus cried out in pain as one of the slivers pierced his face just below his left eye and sunk in with terrifying swiftness.

"It's an Assassin Crystal!" Theta-7 gasped, frozen into inaction by the cold horror of recognition. "A Quintesson weapon - it's tuned to the brainwaves of the target and seeks them out ... there's no way you can get it loose...."

Others had come forward to pry desperately at the thing that was gouging its way into Cyclonus, he thrashing on the ground trying to break free ... some hammered furiously at the crystalline coating with the ends of their weapons, or tried to burn it off with searing laser bolts, but nothing had the slightest effect.

Motormaster stepped forward, curious, his sword clasped forgotten in his hand. Suddenly out of the writhing mass of Decepticons, Soundwave rose up and pushed others aside, forcing his way out of the crowd and taking a few steps back, his optic band lit with a uniform brilliant scarlet light--

--Condensed into a fraction of an instant, Soundwave realized the full overview of the situation. Mutagenicus' interest in the Decepticon leadership, Theta's revelation ... the Quintesson had let them go, unharmed, in order to deliver this weapon, in order to do away with the new leader who threatened to re- unite the Decepticons into a formidable fighting force. The Quintessons considered all Transformers their enemies, and if they could wipe out one faction by sowing anarchy and disorder - the faction that contained the true warriors, no less, the faction that was the most immediate threat to them - they would take the opportunity.

And he had given it to them.

He could not stand by a second time and see the Decepticons' best hope for the future destroyed. There was only one thing to be done. He knew the shape and feel of Cyclonus' mind, knew the texture of his thoughts, knew he could mimic them precisely if he had to.....

The Assassin Crystal was a living thing, engineered to lie dormant until triggered by the right impulses, and then to expend its short life in a single purpose, from which nothing could dissuade it. It possessed not a mind but an instinct, a single, all-overriding homing drive, a thirst to bury itself in the signal to which it was attuned, and draw in energy until there was nothing left. It was fulfilling its purpose now, expanding into thousands of razored filaments and plunging deeper ... when ... a new signal tugged at its senses. It stopped its steady forced descent through the armor plate, momentarily confused ... the signal which called to it was here underneath it, that was true, but suddenly the same signal was coming from another direction, and far stronger ... the Crystal shuddered, paused ... and withdrew itself from the weaker energy field to condense in upon itself and leap in a single, dagger-edged spear for the stronger energy signature nearby, piercing the indigo-blue armor in half a hundred places as it greedily plunged for the brainwaves to which it was attuned.

Motormaster watched in horror as the bristling crystalline shield that had molded itself to Cyclonus, seemed to draw in on itself and leap in a glittering, faceted arc toward Soundwave. The leading edge was like a bladed javelin of broken ice, and it shattered Soundwave's chest compartment upon impact, its momentum driving it all the way through him as it flung him to the ground. Almost instantly, additional jagged needles ripped savagely into his armor, a writhing, coldly-glittering mass that nearly hid him from view; there was a sharp sound of shattering glass as two thick, twisted spikes of crystal plunged deep into his optic band.

Then it was over, the crystal dissolved into a glimmering silver dust that collapsed on itself and blew away in the faint breeze.

The other Decepticons stood frozen into a terrible moment of absolute silence. Then Cyclonus, pierced and leaking, but alive, forced himself up and staggered forward, collapsing to his knees at Soundwave's side. The cassettes came forward, fearing even to approach, lest they be forced to acknowledge the truth of the situation, but they came, and placed shaking hands and paws and wingtips on Soundwave's horrifically torn armor ... fuel leaked freely across the ground. "Get a repaireon -- now," Cyclonus rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Soundwave's head turned toward the sound, the shattered optic band flickering dimly with glimmers of red light somewhere in its depths. "No ... need," he managed, the usual soothing harmonics of his voice distorted into a faint rattle. "There is ... no more help ... for me. Too many ... broken promises ... I swore to stand by Megatron ... to the death ... and did not. ... Too often ... I told dying patients in repair bay ... they would be fine ... and lied ... hoping to ease their final moments. ... Promised safety ... to those I could not protect. ... I could not be responsible ... for your death too. You are ... our hope ... for the future. You will ... lead us well. Remember always ... the honor of the Decepticon way. Indomitability ... of spirit. Never ... surrender. You can ... achieve victory."

Some of the cassettes were sobbing openly, and Soundwave's head turned slowly toward them. "Look after one another," he said, almost inaudibly. "You will ... live to see the end ... of this war. Our triumph. If I have ... in any way ... helped make it possible ... then I have lived and died well ... after all."

The light deep in the shattered optics blazed up once more, as though sending some silent, telepathic message to his creations.

Motormaster felt himself clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. He dropped to his knees beside Cyclonus and placed the sword on the ground before him, a symbol of repentance, of allegiance, of unity. As the light flickered out in Soundwave's eyes, Motormaster could only hope that the indigo Decepticon had still somehow seen, or heard, or sensed the gesture.

* * *

"Soundwave?"

Megatron's voice. Soundwave was puzzled, trying to detect something in the darkness around him. Complete lack of sensation, complete lack of light ... but there was the sound again, Megatron's voice, calling his name, more insistently this time: "Soundwave!"

Soundwave's optics flickered on slowly, the dim shadows around him taking form and coalescing into the familiar surroundings of Darkmount repair bay. He turned his head to one side ... empty repair tables and recharge beds ... was he the only patient? He looked to the other side. Megatron, seated in a chair he'd drawn up beside the bed. The Decepticon leader's concerned expression faded into a relieved smile. "You had us worried, you old rustbucket," Megatron grumbled. "That piece of Autobot trash got in a lucky shot, but we didn't expect you to be out for a whole day!"

Soundwave started upward, looking around in amazement as a torrent of memories began to flood in. "What day is it?" he asked Megatron urgently. "What year?"

The Decepticon leader looked at him oddly. "17453.984. Earth date August 7, 2005. I thought Talon fixed all the damage. Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine," Soundwave replied, for he did feel physically fine, if not for a lingering sense of disorientation. He sat up more fully and swung his legs over the side of the bed to rest his feet on the ground. "I am fully repaired," he assured Megatron.

"Good," Megatron said, allowing himself another smile. "I need you in top form when we attack Autobot City tomorrow, after all."

Soundwave's hand shot out and grasped hold of Megatron's arm. "Call off the attack!" he insisted.

"What? Are you out of your mind? We've been planning it for months!"

Soundwave shook his head emphatically. "You must call it off. You must. You risk a disaster of proportions that I cannot even explain to you. For your own sake, for the sake of our species, for the sake of Cybertron - call off the attack."

Megatron stared at him with complete incomprehension.

Soundwave's grip tightened on his leader's arm. His optic band was brilliant and intense; his voice was low and all-but-devoid of its usual harmonics when he spoke. "I tell you that Cybertron is soon to be under an attack of unprecedented magnitude. Our forces will be needed here. Furthermore, the Autobots will expend a great deal of energy in countering this assault, and when it is over, then we can pick them off. But under no circumstances must we attack Autobot City on Earth tomorrow. If you have never before heeded one word of my advice - if you never again take notice of anything I say - you must trust me on this. And if I never request anything of you again, you must do this one thing for me."

Megatron held his friend's gaze for several long moments. Soundwave was not an impulsive individual, subject to irrational paranoias or flights of fancy. Soundwave had never misled him. Soundwave's every action, as long as they had known each other, had been geared to the benefit of their cause, and for Megatron's benefit as the embodiment of that cause. To dismiss his words now, absurd as they may seem, would in fact fly in the face of all reason.

The Decepticon leader nodded. "Very well. I will call off the attack."

END

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