Chapter Nine

“The splendors that belong unto the fame of earth are but a wind,
that in the same direction lasts not long.”
—Dante, Purgatorio (XI, 100)

Laserbeak curled his lower jaw at the additional slight. “It was my thought that you would be interested in reviving the old campaign,” he said at last, giving a little shake of his cowled head to flick loose a stray sheet of rust that had fallen from the pock-marked ceiling. “But it seems I was mistaken, as you so astutely pointed out … brother.”

Buzzsaw sniffed. “Cowardly as ever, Laserbeak. Only a coward would believe the catalyst for a new revolution resided in an old idea. Still.” He looked Megatron up and down once more, keeping out of reach. “I’m sure that one of Bombshell’s Cerebro Shells could turn your stupidity into a powerful weapon. What do you have to say about that, Bombshell?”

The Insecticon leaned forward eagerly. “It would be my deepest pleasure, Lord Buzzsaw.” He tapped the pistol sticking out of the middle of his forehead. “With one of my shells, we can easily infiltrate Tripredacus.”

Buzzsaw appeared impressed. “Well, get over here and do it.”

They made an odd little band, Solarflare reflected, as she rode high, perched on the angular shoulder strut of Captain Optimus Primal. Below, the rest of the Maximals trotted along in beastmode, following the sure nose of Silverbolt as he led them down one alleyway, then another. As she swayed on her perch like an imported songbird in the Great Cybertropolis Zoo, Flare kept a sharp optic on their surroundings. Part of her wanted to scout ahead, as she had done many times in the past, but this was Cybertron, not Earth, and her form was not familiar around the warehouse district. Many would wonder what the sleek grey bondmate of the super-rich Mirage Ligier was doing in this dump.

“Anything?” Primal called up to her at one point.

She shook her head. “No.”

He sighed. “Well, I guess that’s a good thing.”

“In part,” she replied softly. He looked away, head hung low between his shoulder struts. Flare could sense dejection and sadness in his body language. She felt for him, she really did; he believed he had done the right thing, and now all their years of fighting had been lost because of his decision. Perhaps he should talk with Optimus after this is over, she reflected as she swung her head high to peer over the lip of a downtrodden building. Hopefully – hope-to-Primus – they would find this Megatron and deal with him before the rest of the world got wind of it … before the Predacons got wind of it.

“Anything on the radio?”

“No. Not even static. The boys must be running silent.”

“Any yourself?”

She swiveled, looking Primal dead in the optics. “I’m broadcasting a slight, but low frequency beacon. If they need to look for me, they’ll know where I am.”

His shoulders sagged a little lower before picking up again. “Might I ask a question, Solarflare?”

A blip three miles to the left delayed her answer; it turned out to be a garbage drone, carting the spoils of high society to the smelter. She zoomed in, checked it over, then flicked back to normal sight. “Surely.” Whatever could he want to ask her now?

“When … when we find Megatron, will you let us deal with him?”

The grey eagle studied the Transmetal-2 gorilla, grinding her beak in consternation. She looked away, wings hunched. “Captain …” She paused, took a breath. “Captain, I don’t know. I’m torn between my Autobot loyalties and my empathy for you and your crew.” There was a small rift between her and Mirage over this already, and she did not wish it to grow any bigger. During the war, they put their duties first, their relationship second; after the war, it was the other way around. They deserved that much, they agreed.

“Understood,” he replied, reaching up and pushing a fallen beam away, its aging paint flaking away at the merest touch.

Flare bit her lower beak. Were these Transformers Autobots, it would surely make things easier – at least that’s what she tried to convince herself. That they were Maximals, the inheritors of a peaceful Cybertron … made it more difficult. And like all Autobots under Prime’s command, she felt the sting of his rejection as clear as the day it was announced that he was to be relived of authority, to “retire in peace”. And that … well, that clouded her judgment and biased her opinions.

“Captain …” she began, only to be cut off by a halt in movement. Primal swung forward as Silverbolt’s head came around.

“What is it?” he demanded a little eagerly.

“The trail, it thus ends here,” the wolf-eagle gestured. “Our quarry seems to have entered the building yonder, the one with the coal black door.”

Flare felt Primal swallow. He shifted and she obligingly glided off his shoulder, transforming in mid-air to land with a soft gust of wind on the littered ground. He rose up, transforming; as if were a signal, they all did the same.

Cheetor pulled a large gun from subspace, twirling it one-handedly. “So, Big Bot, do we go in?”

Primal glanced towards Flare; she lifted her right hand and made a small gesture: don’t look at me, it said. He rose taller, optics narrowed as he studied the building – it was like all the others, squarish, rusty in color, and falling apart at the edges. “For Cybertron!” And they charged, leaping up onto the roof, pounding for all they were worth.

Light from the shattered roof streamed through in unchecked gobs, splattering the ancient floor with circles of gold. “Get back!” Buzzsaw was crowing, shoving the bound Megatron further and further into the dust-choked depths. “You’re a fool, brother! You led them right to us!” A shot from the Condor’s pistol coughed out, striking Laserbeak in the back. The other Cassetticon staggered forward, falling into the decrepit table; the old wood could take no more punishment – it caved in, taking Laserbeak to the floor with it.

“Battle! Battle!” Bombshell positively cooed, rubbing his hands over the Cerebro Shell pistol embedded in his forehead.

“It’s been a long time … time …” Shrapnel echoed gleefully, palming his own rust-caked gun from subspace. It came out with an odd, sickening sucking sound. The Insecticon looked at the barrel, which was all that had appeared, his brow ridge drawing down in near-comic abject sadness.

Megatron stumbled where he was pushed, one taloned leg catching the large foot of the creature in the corner. Over the appendage he went, landing amidst a nest of wires and tubes. Buzzsaw was on top of him immediately. “This is your fault, too,” the Condor hissed, his pistol levered at the base of Megatron’s jaw. “But I haven’t the time to execute you properly. Listen and listen good, pretender. I don’t care if they get you, but I’m not going to die because of it!” Megatron lifted his head, his lip curling slightly, in triumph. He felt Buzzsaw’s taloned hands unhooking each and every one of the wires that held the Energon regulator in place. As the last fell from his back, the Transmetal dragon felt new: insanely, powerfully new. He leapt to his feet, knocking the former Cassetticon to the side as the energy bars snapped with the ease of twigs. He rounded with a great arc of his draconic hand-head, intent on smashing the insolent, craven bird to pieces, only to find Buzzsaw had disappeared.

More light fell onto the floor, commingling with the layers of dust, rust and old Energon. The shouts and battle calls of the Maximals outside rose to a crescendo; underlying those was a high, piercing shriek. Rubble from the roof crashed through in large chunks; not far behind was a small figure, brandishing two boxy bombs in each hand.

“Well, hello there!” Rattrap greeted. “Mind if I join the party?”

Megatron smiled thinly. “I think not. It’s private.” His arm lifted slowly, grandly. Energy positively hummed through his revitalized structure, and he was going to savor every microsecond of the time it took to power up.

The Rat opened his mouth to give a reply in return, but it merely dropped further. “Ohhh, man …”

Megatron merely laughed. “What, Rat? Have you finally become awed of my presence?”

Rattrap palmed the bombs back onto their latches along his upper thighs. “Hey! Boss-man!”

As Megatron moved forward, something behind him began to move. Through one of the holes in the roof, Optimus Primal leaned forward, taking a shot at Bombshell and Shrapnel as they popped out from cover. “What?”

“DECEPTICON!”

It was at that moment that Megatron realized the debris that was raining on his sleek exterior was not coming from the roof, rather it was dripping off of the rapidly-rising hulk in the corner. Metal groaned and chunks of paint chipped off in great sheets, fluttering to the floor as the boxlike Decepticon continued to rise. Partly hidden in the shadow of his bulk was Buzzsaw, pulling wires and cranking a large generator. “What in the Pit …!”

“The Cassetticons are slaves no more!” Buzzsaw declared as the creature’s head thrust through the roof. Light from the new day streamed onto the dank blue paint, splashed across the shattered glass of its chest with only a tip of purple identifying it as a Decepticon.

Megatron rounded, quickly seeing how this was slipping out of hand. If he didn’t act, his advantage was destroyed. “YOU!” The energy that he had been saving up for Rattrap was quickly converted and aimed at Buzzsaw. The blast ripped through the leg of the junk pile, driving through it and into the wall … and beyond. Nimbly, Buzzsaw leapt out of the way, latching hand and foot talons into the large cracks in the Decepticon’s armor; he scrabbled with amazing agility and landed neatly on a button that protruded from the mech’s clavicle. Gears ground and servos popped as the splintered chest of the Decepticon lowered an inch, then two.

Megatron growled, banging his draconic head-hand on the side of his thigh in an effort to get to recharge quicker. He should have taken more time to aim, rather than succumbing to blind-rage. All around him, the hovel was falling to pieces as more Maximals landed. Shots rang and flared in a vicious flurry, all of which he casually ducked to avoid.

“This ends here, Megatron!” an oh-so-familiar – and hated – voice proclaimed.

The Draconic Predacon casually turned around, seeing Optimus Primal land with an earth-shaking thud on the floor. Above, the Maximals were dropping – two, then three, landed atop the large Transmetal-2 … plus one he had never seen before.

Megatron sighed dramatically, still tapping his dragon-head on his leg. Power hummed discreetly in his circuits. “It never ends, Optimal Optimus; wars continue, through peace and beyond.”

But the cursed primate was unable to answer, for the strangely feathered femme on his shoulder let loose a high-pitched keen: “SOUNDWAVE!”

Flare could barely believe her optics. Through the rain of debris – metal, wood, paint, nails, rivets – that threatened to clog her ventilators and optics, she saw him. During the Pax Cybertronia signing and the subsequent banning of the majority of the Decepticon forces, she had not seen nor heard of Soundwave. But there he was: over twenty feet of crumbling titanium metal, more than a dozen fat cables linking him to an aged generator; a dozen more hung limp, trailing from his arms, legs and neck. The stalwart sentinel of Megatron’s Earthbound forces had not been reformatted, and it showed. Whatever had happened to him, she would never know, for it seemed as if the old boom box had lost most of his cognitive abilities. His optics, which always seemed to her to be shaped like Raybans, were dull and dank, no spark of intelligence behind those once blood-red lenses.

This was probably a good thing.

At her shout, Optimus turned to look at her. “What?”

“Soundwave! That’s Soundwave!” Her talons dug deep into his Transmetal plating. “Megatron’s most loyal lieutenant.”

Optimus looked back – up. “Oh … that’s just … Prime.”

Cheetor glanced up from where he had just smashed Bombshell and Shrapnel’s heads in. The mysterious green and purple mech had long since vanished. “You mean, that’s a real, live Decepticon?”

Flare shifted her stance on Primal’s shoulder. Her optics zoomed up Soundwave’s ravaged body, past the wires and tubes, up to where Buzzsaw was using his taloned feet – those more wicked and curved than her own – to push the boom box’s chest all the way open. Cassette.

Optimus followed her gaze. “If we don’t move quick, Cheetor, he will be alive.”

Understanding dawned clear in the Cheetah’s optics. “Right!” Kicking Bombshell and Shrapnel to the side, he bounded with great strides over to Soundwave’s feet and began firing up at Buzzsaw.

Below, Rattrap sighed. “Awr, man, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Hey – where’d ol’ Megs go?”

Underneath Solarflare, the Transmetal-2 gorilla’s shoulders bucked and heaved. “SLAG!”

Flare gripped tighter, swaying like a pole in the wind as Primal shifted, rising to his full height. “Captain!” she shouted in his nearest audio. “I’ll radio this in. For now, I suggest we watch out for Soundwave?” Thankfully, the captain followed her taloned forefinger as it pointed up at Buzzsaw, whose sleek head was already well below the leading edge of Soundwave’s open chest.

Rhinox leaned over Primal’s head. “You fought him,” he intoned gruffly, “what are his weaknesses?”

Solarflare blinked hugely. She bit her lip and stared back at the trembling Decepticon as Buzzsaw worked his way deeper inside the old mech. Now wasn’t the time to reveal that she did more sitting than fighting during the Great War. Then her optics locked on the hole in his lower leg. “Age!” she cried, regulating all available power to her legs, launching herself from Primal’s shoulder to the Decepticon’s chest. Soundwave swayed slightly as she landed, but did not react.

“Solarflare to any available Autobot unit!” she broadcast on a wide, but exclusive ban.

“… szzzsssshhhsss … Hound here …what’s the matter, Flare?”

Clinging like a leech to the mech’s slothing plating, the wild avian femme scrabbled sideways as the whir of hydraulics alerted her to the fact Buzzsaw had somehow activated Soundwave’s powercore. Down below, Primal was ramming into the Decepticon’s injured leg, while Rhinox and Rattrap took the other. She could not see where Silverbolt or BlackArachnia were, but the additional sound of gunfire told her that they were occupied. “Warehouse district, sector … sector …” she scrabbled for a location, peering up through the wide open ceiling for a landmark. “… 20. Near the new hold area.”

Another voice joined the conversation, this one belonging to Prowl back at the estate. “What have you found?” he interrupted without shame.

“Well,” she replied, digging her pistol free and putting it to the side of Soundwave’s head, “we did find the imposter-Megatron, but we also found something else.” She pulled the trigger, noting with grim satisfaction, and a thin trickle of war-thrill, as a large chunk of the Decepticon’s head unit blew away from the force of her blast. Alas, it seemed that the brains were no longer in residence.

“SOLARLFLARE! Stop acting like Sunstreaker and tell me!”

Flare’s crest slid back in embarrassment. She did have a tendency to wax Twin when reporting in the middle of a battle. “There was a small group of reformatted Decepticons – Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Bombshell and Shrapnel among them. I thought I saw a Constructicon, but he got away when we broke through. The imposter was here, but he beat it when Buzzsaw activated Soundwave.”

Silence. Flare could imagine the reaction among the Autobots back home as they took in this news. She took her pistol and put it to another area on the Decepticon’s head. Soundwave rocked dangerously to the side as his wounded leg was being wrenched from under him.

“Get those wires!” she heard Primal shout to Rattrap.

Sheathing the pistol, Flare attacked the holes with her bare talons. It was easier than she thought: age and rust allowed her to simply peel the casing from Soundwave’s head like one would a banana.

“What the slag is Soundwave doing there?” Prowl was back and almost as demanding as Red Alert.

“I don’t know, but Buzzsaw just slipped inside and seems to be controlling him, instead of the other way around,” she replied, grabbing a fistful of wires and severing them neatly.

“I’m ordering all units to converge on your location, Solarflare. Keep broadcasting.”

“Will do.” She cut the connection and leaned over. “Reinforcements on the way.”

Rattrap swung by, hanging by one hand off a lopped off cable. “Well, isn’t that lovely. The Autobot cavalry to the rescue.” Soundwave shifted, causing the cable Rattrap was clinging onto to break; had it not been for Flare’s waiting hand, the metallic Rat would have been stepped on.

Flare smiled endearingly. “You were saying?”

Rattrap scoffed in defense, but used her arm to pull himself up the straight edge of Soundwave’s shoulder. “Crazy femme,” he muttered under his breath. “Now, how do we get inside this oversized music box?”

She pointed. “That’s where the Cassetticons were stored when they weren’t running around and killing people.”

Rattrap looked up at her, a mixture of disgust and revulsion plain on his face. “Whaddayah mean, stored?”

“AU-TO-BOT,” thundered a familiar voice. Flare froze, her spine stiff as the word shot straight through her.

“No time to explain!” she cried, grabbing Rattrap by the arm and hauling him, tail and all, over to the front edge of the Decepticon’s chest. Servos clogged with rust and taunt with disuse raised a horrible, aural-shattering sound as Soundwave’s battered head slowly turned in their direction. “Get down there and stop Buzzsaw!” Soundwave’s head turned a fraction of an inch more; their platform shook as his arms were slowly cranked upwards, fingers stretching towards them.

“Awrr, man!” Rattrap bemoaned as he slowly slipped into the chest cavity. “Why did I have to be made small?”

Rattrap swallowed his revulsion and ducked beneath the edge of Soundwave’s chest. As a rat, he was used to odd smells, but this one took the cheese cake. Among the ones he could identify – and those he didn’t want to – was rancid mech fluid, aged coolants, stale and stagnant Energon (probably leftover from three hundred years ago); not to mention the odor of the wires and the scent of the generator wafting up through the major and minor cracks in this tin can’s hull.

It was fairly dark, with only a string of track lights to illuminate the way. Rattrap sniffed here and there, desperately trying to isolate the Condor’s stink from the myriad he was floating in. Shoulda listened to ol’ Stripes back on Earth, he thought morosely. Oh well, no time to dwell … here birdie, birdie.

The floor creaked and swayed with Soundwave’s outer motions. Rattrap slid down a short hall, fingers and toes scrabbling for purchase on the uneven surface. Rust coated the “floor”, shot his traction to the Pit. Faster than you could say “cheese”, he was rammed up against the back – with more rust. “They sure don’t build them like they used to,” he groused, peeling his face from a most unpleasant patch of “stuff”. On the opposite side, he could just make out the sounds of another individual. Feeling down around his thighs, Rattrap pulled his box bombs from their magnetic holds.

Well, he’d gotten rid of one former Decepticon with these babies. It was their only chance – hopefully Soundwave wasn’t bombproof.

Easing his way around the wall, Rattrap peered into the gloom. There was a thin outline of a door, along with a slight shadow moving within. This was either going to be the easiest bang-up job he’d ever had, or his last. He was hoping for the former.

Taking a deep breath through his intakes, Rattrap readied the bombs and kicked in the door. Buzzsaw looked up, his arms jammed up to the elbow in Soundwave’s circuits. The Decepticon’s optics widened and his beak began to open. Rattrap never gave him the chance.

“Happy landing, Decepti-creep!”

Two bombs adhered themselves to the Condor – one on his forehead, one on his chest. Buzzsaw shrieked – not a pleasant sound – as he tried to rip away from the connection he had with Soundwave and pull the bombs off. Rattrap spun on his heel and kicked himself into beastmode, using his Transmetal wheels to gain a better purchase on the grime-infested floor. Buzzsaw continued to holler and sway as the seconds ticked off the bombs’ clocks. Rattrap heard their sweet music in his cortex as he sped down the short hall; with a final burst of power, he shot through the remnants of Soundwave’s chest.

“TAKE COVER!”

A moment later, Lieutenant Soundwave exploded.