Chapter Eleven

Thou shalt know by experience how salt the savor is of other's bread,
and how sad a path it is to climb and descend another's stairs.
—Dante, Paradiso (XVII, 58)

Primus forgive him, but Optimus Primal was more than a little skeptical about the plan: rolling en masse down the warehouse streets in hopes of catching up with Megatron. After so many hopes of peace being dashed to bits – not to mention the betrayal of Ravage – promises of the end tended to leave a bad taste on his sensors. More Autobots had poured into the small area of destruction after the big black mech named Trailbreaker had finished his communiqué with Optimus Prime. Like Rattrap, Primal had to wonder, was there really more than meets the eye to these old soldiers? They seemed so fluid in their movements, so at ease with each other (the Twins not withstanding). It was almost as if they were cortex-linked. Their banter spoke of tight friendships and rivalries. It was hard not to feel like a parasite on the edge of a powerful unit; looking at them waving their arms and gesturing skyward to the two jets, Skyfire and Powerglide, Primal thought for the briefest of moments that perhaps he and the Axalon crew could just slip away and let them deal with it. The Autobots certainly had the strength in numbers, as well as the undeniable enormity of experience at their beck and call. Many of them had been functioning for over nine million years, with a good half of that time engaged in battle. The Maximals, as a subgroup of the Autobots, had only been around for about three hundred years.

It was very hard not to feel depressed about the situation as a whole.

“Hey, man,” somemech prompted. Optimus lifted his shoulders and turned to look down at Jazz, the special operatives agent. “You ready t’roll out?”

What more could he say or do? “Yes.”

The white and black mech peered at him from behind that guileless blue visor. “If’n you don’t mind me buttin’ into your private business, but ya don’t sound too cheery.”

Optimus’ mouth popped open, but Jazz wasn’t finished speaking. “Y’don’t have t’worry, man. We’ll get that slaggin’ dragon.” With a jaunty wave, the Autobot left, jogging back to his comrades. Primal merely sighed and straightened his shoulders. He knew what he had to do, what was expected of him. But what if he failed, what if he defied their expectations and just left? Sure, Megatron was a powerful threat, but faced with all these Autobots, it was so easy to let the burden of commander slip away.

“Are you comin’, Boss-man?” Rattrap impertinently called out. “Can’t let these ancient gas-guzzlers one-up us, now can we?”

Primal blinked, then began to laugh. BlackArachnia made a small sign against her helm to Silverbolt, indicating she thought their chief had finally slipped a circuit. But Primal paid her no heed. Rattrap’s words merely reminded him of how close they were. And with that thought tucked deep into his cortex, he bellowed, “Maximals! Transform and roll out!”

Cosmos had never been happier. The tiny UFO bobbed and weaved over the gleaming surface of Cybertron like a yo-yo jacked-up on sugar. Oh, he was well aware of the enormity and severity of the issue, but for the first time in three hundred years, he felt like somebody. (It was tough, coming down off that nine-million year high and finding out that your efforts were barely worth a thought of the new generation.) True, there was the possibility of a resurgence of violence between Maximals and Predacons, but wasn’t the purpose of this mission to stop such an occurrence from coming around? By Primus, he would do his best.

Tens of thousands, possibly tens of millions, of signals were beamed to and from Cybertron almost every hour; every single one was distinct, but trying to find the needle among the haystack – as the human saying went – was the difficult part. Fortunately for the Autobots, Cosmos was a pro. He hadn’t spent all his hours on patrol over Earth scheming up ways to scare humans in an effort to relieve his boredom. No, he often played with the various signals coming from the planet, honing his skills for such an occasion.

While bouncing around space, he found that Decepticon signals, like scents, were quite conspicuous. Their nature might have been an influence to the “flavor” of said waves, but Cosmos did not have the background to make such a conjecture. All he knew was that Autobots and Decepticons, when laid side by side, were different. Thus, he was able to narrow the myriad threads to a few million, then a few hundred thousand.

Space traffic was getting a little more crowded now, as night spun into day, then day into mid-afternoon. He had more than enough close calls and dirty phrases shouted at him in the last hour than he’d had in his whole life.

Still, what fun!

Along with scanning frequencies, Cosmos scanned the surface with his bare sensors. He knew the relative position of the imposter Megatron, and that is where he concentrated his efforts.

“Cosmos, ol’ buddy, how’s it hangin’?”

The old Minibot spun on his axis, lights along his midsection blinking in surprise. “Powerglide?”

“The one and only,” the jovial crimson plane replied. “Me’n’Skyfire were wond’ring when you were gonna come down and join us.”

Cosmos gave a wry chuckle, spying the other Minibot through his telescopic lens. “Sorry. My orders have me staying up here.” He paused. “Unless you’ve seen something.”

There was a Transformer equivalent of a shrug along the intercomm link. “Nothing. Bare as Charr, let me tell ya. What about you? Find anything in that slag pile worth talkin’ about?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m having a difficult time trying to isolate this new Megatron’s signature. There’s so many Predacons around …”

Powerglide send a rumble of distaste along the line. “Ah, well, we’ll find him soon enough. From what I’ve heard, he’s big’n’scaly, not something you can easily pass up.”

“Well, I’ll see you around, then. I’ll let you know if I find anything.” Wordless assent flowed through the link before Cosmos was alone again. Down below, the red plane dipped his wings and sped off in the opposite direction, flying low over the rusty buildings of the warehouse district. Cosmos watched him go for a moment, then spun counterclockwise. His cheery demeanor was slowly fading, the longer the day went on. Two planes plus himself, plus the contingent of Autobots and the small band of Maximals – and they could find nothing?

The green mech spun higher, widening his field of view. Maybe if he concentrated his band on a section by section basis, which would increase his chances.

By Primus, why didn’t he think of that first!?

All that time spent plowing through vid waves, transmitters, satellites … !

Slowly, Cosmos flowed over the decrepit district, following his formula for identifying different bots. Clicks and clicks ticked by; a transport vessel from Junkion passed near and insulted him with canned Earth ’50s references. He caught snippets of conversation between the party below and tailored his search pattern to run parallel. A few comments were thrown his way and he replied in clipped phrases, digging deeper and deeper into the ruins. All his being, all his spark was throw into finding this draconic daemon.

Cosmos spun again, dipping low. The rust was slightly interferring with his instruments from this altitude, so it was either lose the signal or get blasted for finding the source. In this case, he’d rather get blasted (he was a tough old thing, anyway). A moment later, a faint trace – a mere blip, really – caught his attention. Immediately, he threw every computer he had in his bulky body into analyzing it ten thousand ways. Hope raced through his system, threatening to overwhelm his cortex. No, no, Cosmos, keep it level … But, no! It had to be true!

The green UFO wheeled, skimmed the thick, grimy “clouds” that hovered over the dilapidated area in an attempt to isolate the anomaly. Oh, it had to be! “Grid Theta, Grid Theta …” he called low and urgently, sending his link to Powerglide and Skyfire alone. Hopefully they were high enough that whatever special abilities this new Megatron possessed would not allow him to detect their conversation.

“!!”

“??”

Instantly, the Valkyrie and jet were at the front of his cortex, two powerful presences that almost bowled him over with the intensity of his sending: “What in the Matrix –” “Didja find it?”

Cosmos could hardly believe his own sensors, so much so that he almost forgot that he was talking to his friends. Quietly, serpentinely stalking the shadows, was a flame-red creature, his metallic scales laced with veins and whorls of purple and gold. Cosmos switched lenses, peered at the creature through infrared, then the spectrometer … five more before he could calculate a response. No wonder he couldn’t get a tight fix! There was something about the Transmetal-2 construction of this Megatron’s body that made it almost invisible to current technology as Mirage was to the naked optic. Enough time for that … “Cosmos to Prime …”

Prowl leaned back, eying Optimus. “This is it,” he pronounced.

Prime stopped his pacing and laid his great blue hands on either side of his old vice commander’s backrest. “Indeed it is.”

Something gleamed in the normally-reserved Prowl’s optics. “So, what’s the plan?”

“You remain here with Illusion; I need someone to help her man the Tower.”

Reserve went out the hatch as Prowl gaped. “You –”

“Mirage.” Optimus uncharacteristically ran over his old second-in-command.

The spy turned his head slowly. “Chief?”

“Get your rifle.”

Mirage’s shoulders lifted, as did his brow ridge; he stood up, reaching around behind him to pull his beloved hunting weapon from its customary position at his back. “Locked and loaded, Prime.” His grey lips were set tight, fingers clenching around the stock and barrel of his rifle. Whatever Optimus had in mind, he would find out soon enough.

Illusion twisted in her seat, mouth slung almost as low as Prowl’s. “Father …” Mirage lifted a slim black finger to silence her.

“You’ll be fine,” he sent on a tight, personal link. “You’re my sparkling, you know what to do. I have faith in you, Lu. Besides, Prowl is here, and if anything happens to us, he’ll take care of you.” The warrior in him tried to reassure the parent in him that this was the right thing to do, that his assessment of her skills was not just pride. And he hoped to Primus that Prowl would not have to take care of her in the end.

Illusion’s lip trembled; the mature femme was replaced with the battle-naïve warrior. “Father –Daddy …”

“I have faith in you,” he insisted, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder, knowing that as Solarflare’s daughter, too, she had that avian ferocity and determination. She would make it if the Pit spilled over. Primus forbid …

“Where are you going?” Prowl almost demanded, half-rising from his chair. Optimus gently, but firmly, pushed the cruiser back into his seat. Mirage knew what he was thinking: how could you leave me again?

“I wish I could, old friend, but I can’t. Tell no one that we’ve left,” the old commander warned, deliberately refraining from leaking his innermost thoughts. “Even if they specifically ask for us. Distract them – you know what to do. If anyone finds out, then this will be for naught.”

The black and white looked extremely dubious. Optimus patted his shoulder encouragingly.

“Trust me, Prowl. Mirage, let’s roll.”

Mirage squeezed Illusion’s strut, trailed his hand down to her fingers and gripped them as well. Her hold was slack and the look in her optics fleetingly reminded him of her first day at school, back on Earth. His baby girl … Resolutely, the older noble pushed his emotions to the side, in effect becoming the cold, distant elitist he’d once been. Quickly, the spy followed the large red-white-blue mech through the halls of his estate, down into the foyer and onto the landing pad. He said not a word as Optimus instructed him to pilot his personal hopper, kept his optics straight ahead while the larger mech busied himself with the controls.

“You never used to be this quiet about a battle,” Prime remarked, almost idly. Mirage turned his head away, reaching under the console to pull the ignition. For a while, all that could be heard was the whine of the engines. The former spy cranked the power, and the craft shuddered in preparation for takeoff.

“I guess I learned a little something along the way,” the Ligier said at last. The whine of the engines rose to a deafening crescendo; the spy set his foot on the gas, and with a roar, the hopper took off, streaking over the estate, white-blue flames licking around the twin boosters. Prime sat back, staring through the tinted viewscreen, his sky blue optics impassive.

“I hope that this will be a last resort,” he murmured.

Curiousity finally wormed its way into Mirage’s cortex. “What do you mean, Optimus?”

“What kind of ammunition do you have, Mirage?”

An inkling of understanding flared into the white-blue’s cortex. “Several,” he replied slowly. He steadied the controls with his knees and reached into a subspace pocket, bringing forth a canister. Ever since Rattrap’s invasion, he had kept to carrying both his rifle, as well as a large stock of ammo with him at all times. Even to bed, though tucked away so Flare wouldn’t complain about the extra pointy bits. “Armor-piercing, force-shield busting, my usual liquid-fuel darts … you name it, I have it.”

“Good.”

Replacing the canister, Mirage took up the controls in a more conventional manner. “Optimus, I don’t mean to pry, but I do need to know where we’re going.”

Optimus sighed. “Apologies, Mirage. I want you to take us to the gates. We’ll be moving on foot into the warehouse district from there.”

The spy gave his old commander a sidelong glance. “You’re not planning on taking this fool on, are you?”

Behind the mask, Mirage could hear a rattled sigh. “Am I getting so transparent in my old age?” Prime murmured. The Ligier remained silent, gently guiding the hopper through the thick streets of central Cybertropolis. “No, in answer to your question. At least … I hope not.”

“That is why I’m here.” Mirage tilted his head, catching Prime’s nod. “Chief, if you wanted me to blow this insular creature up, you should have let me get my shoulder-cannon.” The edges of his grey mouth quirked enough to assure Optimus that he was joking.

“Are you happy, Mirage?”

The spy blinked. Was Prime going through a mid-life crisis? Primus, he hoped not. Not when they were just about to go into battle! “Of course. I have all that I ever wanted: Flare, my estate, my sparklings. My friends,” he deliberately added – and stressed. “Aren’t you?”

“I thought so.”

The spy sighed. “Optimus,” he began, using the formal instead of his usual informal “chief”, “we would have all backed you to take over as Cybertron’s leader if you wanted us to. Slag, we wanted you to. Do we hold it against you because you stepped down? No; you thought it was noble, and we did, too.” He halted the craft to idle at a traffic light and looked over at the Autobots’ finest Prime, slouching in his co-pilot’s chair. “Til all are one, Optimus.”

Low blue optics shifted to lock with steady, clear sky blue ones. Slowly, Optimus nodded. “Until all are one.”

Mirage grunted. That sounded more like the Optimus of old, the same giant who had convinced a snobby noblemech to join the Autobots.

The light changed and they moved forward. Mirage took the quickest route to the gates, bypassing most of the traffic with some short-cuts and a few illegal turns. He parked near the entrance to the Six Lasers Over Cybertron and quickly scanned his credit card to save the hopper from being towed. What was winning a personal war when you returned only to find your ride taken? Details, details.

Spy and commander slipped out of the docking bay and ran along the back of the park, where garbage and other unsavory material lay in heaps. They hopped the fence and landed without a sound on the other side. Mirage paused, bringing his rifle from around his back and loading several canisters into the chamber; he then looked up at Optimus expectantly.

“Here I go alone,” the great mech intoned. “We’ll forge our own paths to the end.” He looked down at the spy. “I’m giving you free reign, Mirage. If you think it necessary, destroy him.”

Silently, Mirage watched him transform, sans that ubiquitous grey trailer, and roar off into the waxing daylight. A slow, self-assured smile crossed his lip components, a hint of his old superiority. Prime knew he didn’t have to give him permission, because from the very beginning, Mirage had often acted on his own initiatives. But it was nice to know that Prime approved – at least, this time. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, the former spy faded into the shadows to begin the hunt.

He was close; he could feel it. Just a few clicks more, and he would be at the gates. And then, onto victory. Draconic lips pulled back from sabre teeth, smiling without humor, without feeling. The Maximals had brought about their own demise, and he would make sure they remembered it for a very long time.

Lifting his paw, Megatron paused. His sensitive Transmetal-2 skin fairly vibrated with warning. Too late; a thunder of laserfire thudded into the ground at his feet, throwing up debris.

“WHAT!”

Among the dust and dawn flew two aircraft, each baring the symbol of Primus upon their accursed plating. AUTOBOTS! A third, one that was round and bulky, bobbed down from nowhere, spinning like a top and zooming around behind the Dragon. One by one, the Autobots transformed, landing with weapons bared and humming with power.

The great white mech spoke: “In the name of Cybertron, halt.”

Smoothly, Megatron transformed, laughing. “Three? Is this all Primal could gather? Three old, worn-out Autobots?”

The white mech smirked, a fair approximation of Megatron’s own. “Old we might be, but hardly worn out.” The long black gun in his hand never wavered as the ground began to vibrate, and the roar of a hundred engines filled the dust-clogged air. “Look around you, imposter.”

Spinning around, Megatron came face-to-face with a wall of Autobots. Flying high above them, baring his dilapidated crew, was Optimus Primal. Quicker than the optic could follow, the Autobots ringed him, each fluidly drawing their weapons and levering them at his head.

Megatron laughed; it was far too easy! There was a ground-shaking thud as Primal transformed and landed within feet of his enemy.

“This ends now, Megatron!” the Transmetal-2 gorilla declared as the Maximals leapt off of him.

Megatron sighed and folded his arms. “Don’t you feel rather repetitive saying that, Primal? Shouldn’t you know by now that this shall never end? No matter how many times you try, I will rise like a Phoenix from the ashes. I am indestructible!”

“Evil is never indestructible,” a new, powerful voice declared.

Heads spun as a massive red semi barreled into the ring; great jets of fire exploded from its tires as the machine threw itself into the air, transforming into the distinct form of Optimus Prime. Even Megatron fell victim to the shock and awe that descended upon Maximals and Autobots alike.

And then he recovered. Spreading his arms, he seemed to greet the former Autobot leader.

“Ah, it is you, Optimus Prime. You look extremely well. Have you come to repeat history? To destroy me at these very Gates to Cybertropolis, as you destroyed my predecessor? I do find it interesting that you chose to join us, especially after you know the truth.” Megatron paused, enjoying the look of pure surprise on the ancient Autobot’s face. “Did they not tell you? I find that extremely hard to believe; I thought that Maximals and Autobots shared the same rigid code of honor that compelled them to tell their deeds to their commanders. Alas, it seems not so. So let me regale you, Optimus Prime.

“Where did we go for those three years? We Maximals and Predacons battled on Earth – your precious, prehistoric Earth. And during that time, the she-spider who stands at your side was one of my loyal troopers! It was she who gave me the codes to the great Teletraan-1 computer, the self-same system that allowed me access to your Ark. Yes, I, Megatron, found the Ark as it lay under its volcano, awaiting that historic moment in time. I walked the halls where you and your fellows lay in emergency stasis. I walked right up to you, Optimus Prime – and blew your face off!”

The impromptu arena fairly vibrated with shock and horror. Even the stalwart Prime, the so-called greatest Autobot leader of them all, fell back as if he had taken a mighty, physical blow.

Megatron raised his hands. “Time was on my side, but that creature who calls himself after you, thwarted my grandest plan. He took your spark from your very chest and implanted it in himself in a foolish effort to save your life. Lo, does he not look like you, does not sound like you? And I – I took the spark from the first Megatron. So you see, Optimus Prime, if you were to battle me, you would be battling your old foe; for while your Maximals ripped it from my chest, my cortex remembers. I am MEGATRON! And there is no other!”

Optimus Primal staggered backwards, completely thrown by Megatron’s revelation. He turned his head, watching the reactions of the Autobots, of Optimus Prime. He could sense them swaying in their convictions, feel their stanch support slowly falling by the wayside. They were hurt, betrayed once more by those whom they had set aside their differences to trust and aid. And he would avenge them.

“That Megatron is dead!” he shouted back. “And you carry with you his death. You might have him imprinted upon your core consciousness, as I might have Prime upon mine, but we are two different machines. Come on, Megatron, let’s finish this!”

Across the ring, the Dragon laughed. “It shall ever be your funeral, Optimus.” He crouched, arms sweeping out. “Let it begin!”

Upon the ruined top floor of a rusted out building waited Mirage. The spy lay among the dirt and rust, his rifle propped up on the edge. Through his scope, he watched the two Transmetal titans land their first blows; even from this far out, he could feel the vibrations in the air and struggled to keep his system from going into flux and revealing his position. When the moment was right, he would put an end to this travesty and regain his peaceful reward.

Somewhere, deep inside his spark, Primal knew he could not defeat Megatron alone. That his strength was not enough to combat this deep, unadulterated evil. That thought nearly cost him his own life.

Around and around in the middle of the circle of Autobots they went, armor cracking and falling off in great chunks. Broken bits littered the floor, only to be crunched underfoot and proving treacherous going.

“I am the Alpha and Omega, Primal,” Megatron growled as they locked hands, coming so close as to taste the sparks flying off their respective bodies. “You should know that right now.” He broke his hold and swung at Primal’s face; the Maximal ducked, countering with a kick to the legs.

“Let’s say … I tend to forget,” he returned, grunting. Power at 60% and falling, his computer intoned in his inner audio as Megatron brought his draconic hand around to lock about his neck. Primal gaped, struggling against the razor-sharp teeth that continued to saw into his plating. At the same time, Megatron’s free hand drove into his stomach, ripping through layers of armor, reaching for his spark chamber.

Primal’s optics bugged, coolant and other fluid bursting from his battered innards, spilling over Megatron’s digits and mixing with the gunk on the ground. “ALL POWER TO LEGS!” he shouted, feeling everything that he was begin to drain away. Affirmed.

The rush almost blew what remained of his head off. Crouching, Primal drove himself forward, surprising Megatron and driving him backwards. At the same time, he felt something cool, like a wayward breeze, blow over his shoulder. It grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of coolant down his face. Ahead of him, Megatron cried out, releasing him to clutch at his head. Sparks fairly exploded from between his digits and rain upon the messy arena.

There was no time to find a reason for this sudden turn of events. Grabbing his injured side tight, Primal threw his good shoulder into Megatron, bringing the tyrant down, but not before a second, larger breeze cruised over his strut. At the same time Primal’s shoulder contacted with the Dragon’s body, Megatron’s head seemed to erupt in a sea of structural components and malleable metal.

Coolant and mechfluid shot skyward from a ruptured line, drenching them both in blues and greens. With a thud, Megatron landed on the ground, Primal atop of him, his good hand locked around his throat.

“You … were … saying?” the Maximal grunted, looking into the ruined visage of his greatest enemy.

Megatron’s ruined lips parted, but only sparks flew out. “Do … it … Primal …” hissed over a broken, static commlink.

Could it be? Primal lifted his fist, ready to slam it through Megatron’s chest. Could he? For one moment, he was out of his body, looking down upon the scene, as buoyant as a ship upon water. He saw the ring of Autobots, saw the dazed expression of Optimus Prime; saw the bloodthirsty gleam in his own optics, the coolant upon his lips. He gazed upon the forthcoming death of Megatron and wondered if he could do it.

Rid the world of a tyrant, and another would rise in his place.

Primal’s grip slacked a little, and he could feel a wave of triumph along the commlink. What was left of Megatron’s face contorted into a maniacal grin.

“You can do it,” another voice intoned, as if so very close. So close to his cortex, to his spark. Turning his head slightly, Primal locked optics with Prime. The elder Autobot nodded. Primal nodded back.

And punched his fist through Megatron’s plating, grabbing that evil spark in his bare hands.

Lifted it.

Blew it up.