Chapter Two

Worldly renown is naught but a breath of wind, which now comes this way and now comes that, and changes name because it changes quarter.
—Dante, Purgatory (Canto XI, line 100)

The taller mech had his arm looped around the waist of the lithe femme; they stepped forward together, optics sweeping over the motley crew. Much remained of their original forms, though everything had been downsized to conserve Energon. Mirage still bore the outward appearance of a Formula-1 racecar and Solarflare looked as fiercely avian as she had when she stood over fourteen feet tall, though feathered in grey and black and white. But there was a roundness, a sleekness that their old bodies hadn’t possessed. With them standing next to Spectrum, it was so easy to see the “resemblance”. All three bore the symbol of the Autobots upon their bodies: Mirage and Solarflare upon their chests, whereas their son had his on his shoulders.

“Welcome home, Captain Optimus,” Mirage said. The former spy had a deep, resonate voice – and cultured. “Indeed, it seems that my son was correct when he told us that you had undergone intense change.” The blue and white mech slipped his arm from around his bondmate’s waist and walked over to stand at Primal’s feet, looking up – and up – into his optics. “And it seems that the names aren’t the only things you and Prime have in common.”

Optimus coughed self-consciously. It had been one thing to name himself after the great Autobot leader, it was another to be standing before two of his best warriors and have them speak it. Who really knew if Optimus Prime still functioned? After the Great War, the Autobots had slipped into quiet obscurity. Yet, here two stood, completely vibrant. “Yes, well.”

Solarflare smiled. “Raj,” she chastised gently, walking up to each one of them and shaking their hands. “The Council had given you up for lost,” she said, completing her circuit. “We followed events as closely as we could, without seeming to pry. They don’t like it when we stick our noses into their business.” A gleaming golden optic winked. “Us old geezers have to stay in retirement, you know.”

Was it Primal’s imagination, or did their chests puff out in subtle pride at Solarflare’s comments? That the femme warrior had deemed them worthy enough to be noticed? To be cared about? Well, all except Rattrap, who seemed to have found his vocalizer. “We-el, pardon me yer Ladyship, but as much as I love to reminisce, we can’t stay. Y’see, we have to take Purple-Face to the Elders.”

Solarflare’s large golden optics did not blink. “You don’t trust us.” Her wings rustled slightly, softly.

Optimus flexed his joints and laid a restraining paw on Rattrap’s shoulder. “It’s not that,” BlackArachnia began, “but you don’t understand ... ”

“We understand perfectly,” Mirage interrupted, leaning up against the wall and earning a poisonous glare from the Transmetal femme. “But ever since Spectrum sent word to us about your return, we’ve been uneasy.” He did not look at the grey femme, but Solarflare took up the train of thought easily enough.

“To us, this Megatron of yours presents a threat. A dire, dire threat. To all that we accomplished. He’s no longer a rogue, but a figurehead, a reminder through the power of his name and his actions, that the old ideals of the original still flit through the cortexes of Predacons and Decepticons alike.”

“Which is why he should be publicly put to trial,” Silverbolt argued. “Let Cybertron know that such deviations are unacceptable.”

“And let him spew before the world?” Mirage snorted. “I think not.”

“Catch-22, Father,” Spectrum murmured from the side.

“Indeed,” the Ligier replied, looking to the wall before straightening. “Look, we have a hopper waiting outside. It’s obvious that you’re all tired and weary; perhaps you can tell us your tale on our way back to the estate, so that we might better understand your situation.” It was more of an order than a suggestion. Still. Optimus felt a band of stress tighten around his brow-ridge. He’d hoped to avoid such complications, but he was no longer in charge – these Ancestors were, and from what he recalled from history, elite though Mirage might be, he was deadly. And something about vanishing …

“May I speak with my crew?”

Solarflare smiled. “Of course.” She turned around and gathered her son by the arm, drew him over to her bondmate where they simply looked at each other. Optimus withdrew to the furthest corner of the spacious office. Immediately, Rattrap began speaking.

“I say we blow this overstuffed hole, Optimus. They have their own agenda.”

“Yes,” Rhinox consented, “but I understand where they’re coming from, too. We fought Megs and his band for three years; they fought the Decepticons for what … nine million? They don’t want anything to start up again.”

“Well,” stated BlackArachnia, her own gold-red talons clicking together as she mimed cutting off the white-blue Ligier’s head, “from what I can see, it’s just the three of them. What’s holding us from blowing out of here? I can set a bomb off and get us to the holding cell in no time.”

Silverbolt was aghast. “BlackArachnia, such explosions are unnecessary. These are our Ancestors. Heroes of the Ark, for Primus’ sake.”

“Heroes?” she scoffed. “I don’t see any heroes now. Only three slips of what they were, forced to downsize like the rest of Cybertron.”

“But –”

Rattrap sniffed. “For once, the she-spider and I are in agreement.”

Optimus let them bicker. His gaze was drawn many times to the portraits on the wall, to the models and statues. To the symbol of the Autobots that were blazoned in glory upon their frames. His crew had the right of it – could they really trust these Transformers? What, if like Megatron, they were operating under their own agenda? Optimus’ recollection of the Great War was tilted towards Prime’s heroic deeds, not his soldiers. Yes, Mirage’s name was familiar for his abilities and hints of treachery … Solarflare was less-so. He only had Spectrum’s admission that his “mother” was on Earth at the time.

Optimus sighed. Too many decisions!

“Sir?” Silverbolt inquired quietly, resting his fingertips on the lower leading edge of Primal’s wing. “What have you to say?”

What could he say? “Who’s up for a ride?” There; he committed himself. And now to see where those words led them.

“Awr, man, we shoulda stayed on Earth,” Rattrap groaned, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Have your brains been scrambled by history, Boss Monkey?” He reached up as far as he could to tap Optimus on the arm. “We need to do what we planned on the ride back – bring lizard-brain to the Council so we can get back to normal.”

“Think of it this way, Rattrap,” Cheetor told him with his usual youthful exuberance and lack of the bigger picture, “we’re with the Ancestors!”

Rattrap rolled his optics. Apparently his head had been in the stratosphere along with Primal’s during the discussion. “Yeah, kid, wonderful.”

Somehow, considering the money these Tower-dwellers were supposed to have, the Maximals were expecting a more fancier – newer – transport. Nondescript grey and blue, it was bulky and completely ugly; the nose seemed as if it’d been shot off and the wings had apparently seen better days. Indeed, not something one would expect from the mech who purportedly owned half of Cybertron, not to mention the spaceport.

They boarded via an underground tunnel and ascended the craft through a cannily-concealed belly-tube. Only Mirage, Solarflare and Spectrum boarded in the conventional manner. To add to the Maximals’ surprise, the two mechs slid into the pilots’ seats while Solarflare sat – rather, she perched – on a seat directly behind her bondmate. Slowly, she turned to gaze at them as Mirage and Spectrum prepped the hopper for takeoff. “What – did you expect a chauffer?” A grin that emphasized her sharp cheeks split her face. “Are you comfortable, Captain?”

Due to his size, Optimus had been regulated to the very back of the hopper. Arms and legs had to be pushed and torqued in a most painful manner in order for him to fit. “Barely,” he grunted, looking at her sideways. They had considered the option of him flying along beside them on their way to the Towers, but Mirage had nixed the idea – and Optimus agreed. He looked too foreign to pass for a regular Cybertronian craft. And so, using a crowbar or two to augment physical strength, the Maximals had shoe-horned their leader into the hold.

Solarflare nodded. “I’m sorry, but we weren’t aware that there had been any changes made to your forms. When Spec called us, all he said was that you were the lost Axalon crew, and that you had the rogue Predacon with you. We took what we could in order to make it on time.”

“Ready for takeoff,” Spectrum announced, reaching up with a taloned hand and flicking a series of switches to prime the craft. A low hum started in the belly of the hopper and resonated outwards with a jaw-rattling motion. “Strap in.” But they needn’t be told that. Bouncing around on the floor was something they didn’t want to do. Cheetor slid in next to Rhinox, and Rattrap grabbed the one lone seat by a small portal window. Silverbolt and BlackArachnia held each other behind Spectrum, their optics wide in the face of the intense vibrations. Alone of their Maximal comrades, they had not experienced life on Cybertron; everything was so new … and raw.

“The noise’ll even out once we’re up,” Mirage called out over the aural-shattering racket. “Until then … telepathy.” He laughed; even that was rich and cultured.

By the time they were airborne and flying over the outskirts of Cybertropolis, leaving the spaceport and the industrial section behind, the noise had considerably lessened. Enough for them to have a clear thought in their heads … and to feel their limbs again. In the relative quiet, Silverbolt (who, by concensus, had the ability to tell a story better than the rest) began recounting for the three Autobots. And by that same conscensus, agreed upon in the tunnel, Silverbolt would leave out the time storm and all that had led up to it. That was something none of them wanted to tell these Autobots. Not yet, anyway – perhaps never.

Throughout the flight, their hosts remained quiet, listening, save a few interruptions for clarification. Murmurs of sympathy met the pronouncement of Tigertron, Airazor and Depth Charge’s deaths; a deep frown – a nanoclick long – crossed Solarflare’s face at the mention of covert agent Ravage. But it was gone before anyone noticed.

Perhaps it was Silverbolt’s cadence, but he had just finished the abbreviated version when Spectrum announced that they were flying through the great gates of Cybertropolis, with its proud holographic projection of Optimus Prime standing sentinel. Mirage kept them level, staying in the cargo lane before turning off the beaten path. One that had a small scanning device sitting by the road, which beeped green as Mirage pulled the craft through. The Maximals were used to the tightness of the cities, as well as the close confines of their base; this left them poorly prepared for the estate of the Autobot spy and his communications officer mate.

“Wouldja look at it!” Cheetor exclaimed. “It’s green!”

Solarflare chuckled. “Took a long time to get it like that, but yes, it is.”

The Maximals leaned towards whatever available window they could get to, all save Optimus, who remained miserable in his forced yoga position. The large amount of greenery that suddenly blossomed around them – trees, lakes, ponds … animals – it was beautiful and alien at the same time; alien only due to the fact that they weren’t aware such paradise existed on metallic Cybertron. It reminded them so very distinctly of Earth – as if they’d never left.

“What’d you say about going back to Earth, Rattrap?” Rhinox teased.

“Awr, shut up.”

“Welcome to the Towers – or, one of them,” Mirage announced with a small chuckle.

Cheetor pressed his face up against the scratched-up window. Jutting proudly up to the sky were two soaring silver minarets, bursting with grandeur from a sprawling, multi-level mansion. In the distance several self-same towers rose to match these first two, but could not quite get there. Mirage and Spectrum guided the hopper along a cobbled path to park the craft in a circle of steel; searchlights flicked on at their approach, bathing the piece of junk with golden motes.

After the craft had powered down, the weight of silence was almost choking. “You can’t exactly get used to it,” Solarflare noted, unbuckling herself and acknowledging the wry expressions on their faces. “But, come.” Mirage and Spectrum stood up, exchanging a familial hand gesture before hopping over the small divider between cockpit and hold. The tall spy strolled up to the hatch and let it down, spilling more golden light into the hopper.

“Guests first. Spec, unlatch the bay door. I think the captain wants to get out.”

“Now, please,” came the muted reply.

While they debarked, there was a clang as the hopper’s port hatch dropped with a resounding tinny sound. Grunts and howls echoed around the hold, but slowly and surely, Optimal Optimus was let free of his cage. It was almost comical, really, for the Maximals to see their commanding officer being rolled out, still locked in the position he had been forced to keep in the hopper.

“Hey, Boss Monkey,” Rattrap sniggered. “Be glad it wasn’t a ball they stuffed you in.”

“Shut up, Rattrap.” And Rhinox cuffed him.

The espionage agent glowered. “Y’know, this is getting’ mighty old,” he grumbled, rubbing his brain-patterned pate. But any more foul words were lost in the vision of silver and white that was flowing towards them on taloned feet.

“Our daughter, Illusion,” Solarflare introduced before turning around to help pry Optimus’ head out of his armpit.

“Welcome, all of you!” she exclaimed brightly.

Cheetor peered around. “No servants?” With such wealth, where were the serving bots, the drones, the smart-tempered butler?

Illusion dimpled in response. “None, I’m afraid. We run the estate by ourselves.”

Rattrap’s jaw dropped, as much from Illusion’s unconscious beauty as from the revelation. “What? Awr, man, I was hoping to have an oil massage!”

“Sorry. I can offer you an Energon bath, though.” She peered over their shoulders. “Uhm, it seems your captain will be a while. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you inside and get you something to eat. Are your systems calibrated for organic food as well as Energon? We have plenty of both.”

“Just not beans!” exclaimed Cheetor and Rattrap. Rhinox actually blushed.

“Beans?” Silverbolt queried, tilting his head with interest towards the stocky scientist.

The moment of vulnerability passed, Rhinox glowered and stumped past Illusion. “Slag you all. Let’s go.” The silver-white femme’s brow ridge flew up into her long crest of feathers.

“I think I’ll leave that alone,” she murmured, half to herself. “Please, this way.” And with a quick glance towards Optimus, they did indeed follow the femme into the Tower estate of Mirage and Solarflare.