Part One: Ticket To Ride

It was the year 2366, and Great Shot stood in a vast hall of coffins.

   No, not coffins. Stasis pods. The Neogens weren’t dead, just deactive. But for all intents and purposes, they were dead- their pasts were destroyed, in some cases their very forms had been changed. Drone units buzzed from stasis pod to stasis pod, loading them onto vast freighters set for one of the Cyberworlds. They would be dumped there, and they would awaken to and believe that the Cyberformed Earth had been their home all this time, and that they would never remember their true lives.

   It was a huge operation, and it had taken years of planning. Getting all the Neogens without anyone noticing had been hell- reprogramming all of them to remember a cohesive lie about their world’s past had been harder. But it was done now; the Cyberworld’s cities were constructed, Vector Sigma was online and soon millions of undesirables would be shipped away, never to come back.

  “About bloody time too.”

   Great Shot casually glanced at the names printed on some of the pods. Vroom. Fixit. Rodimus Prime- not the REAL Rodimus Prime, of course, but some poor bastard from the Dead End who’d be reprogrammed into thinking he was Rodimus Prime. Such practises were taken extremely serious after the Software Wars, with both the Autobot and Decepticon armies ready to kill whoever did any mind hacking, so Star Saber had to be extremely careful when doing it.

   Great Shot smiled and walked on. Soon the Neogens would cease to be his problem and with any luck they’d all wipe themselves out in bloody warfare within seconds of being dumped.

The first of the great freighters took off, leaving the moon behind. And rushing up to meet it were several stolen military craft.

  “Locked in, intercepting in one minute 52 seconds,” said Powerflash.

  “This is it,” said Pincher, grinning like an idiot. “We’re finally doing it. Finally leaving Cybertron behind…”

   There weren’t that many of them, really. Just a few nobodies, Autobot veterans who’d never gotten any real fame or prestige who were tired of the hypocrisy and oppression of Star Saber’s Cybertron. It had been Big Daddy, hacking Star Saber’s computers out of sheer brain-melting boredom, who had found out about the Neogen trafficking, and about the faux Cybertron, and he had told Overload.

   Such data could have sparked a revolution. It could have led to civil war against Star Saber. But Overload had a much better idea- run away to the fake Cybertron. Why start a war for something that was inherently rotten? No, far better to leave Cybertron and head to a new world where they could all start afresh.

  Besides, who would follow them anyway? Their leader was a Micromaster transport. He’d never had the Matrix, he’d never been the most trusted of a leader’s advisors, he’d never achieved any fame through gladiatorial combat or heroic deeds- officially, he’d just been a cargo hauler. And so people would ignore him, ignore the brilliant tactical mind that lay beneath the chassis.

  Well, slag THAT.

  The crafts swooped under the freighter ship. A warp gate opened up in each of the crafts, and the crew scrambled through it into the stasis pod hold. After they’d all been through, their stolen crafts automatically self-destructed.

   They’d done it, and now just had to wait until the freighter reached its destination. Then they could sneak out and make a fresh start.

2622 AD, FAUX CYBERTRON

Tyres squealed, the engine snarled and Big Daddy came blazing down the road, leaving a very rude message scrawled on the Council Citadel. He shot into the traffic, laughing like a maniac.

   THIS was what he’d here for! He’d quickly immersed himself back into his old pre-war habits of cruising the streets, challenging the authorities and hanging out with young Maximal slackers. A petty life to some, but he loved it. It had been too long since he’d had a chance to sample these basic pleasures, and he had spent his centuries here making up for lost time.

    Of course, once a year he and some of the other member’s of Overload’s fugitives would get together in the local Maccadam’s and remember their real history. They were his friends. But most of the time he hung out with a gang of young Transformers and just generally lazed about. They were no Trip-Up, Hubs and Greaser of course, but they were a good bunch. Of course, the interesting thing about them was that they’d let a Predacon be part of the gang- interesting because Predacons were really seen in Cybertropolis, and also interesting because now everyone assumed they were a dangerous, violent bunch. The racism of many of the Maximals disgusted Big Daddy, but these were very racist times. The Maximals and Predacons were segregating themselves and engaging in an arms race, with hostilities brewing and any fool could see that there’d be some kind of conflict soon.

   He tried not to think about it. He’d lived through one war already, he refused to get drafted into another one.

   But as he raced through Cybertropolis, skirting through traffic and the sunlight gleaming on his bonnet, he was able to forget the problem entirely.

***********************************************************************

Overload had decided to combine his strategic mind and his pre-war job as a cargo hauler to carry out the noble cause- to make him money. He’d set up Obliterator Cargo LTD about a century ago, and it had become the leading cargo/freight transportation company on the planet, with branches even in Predacon borders and nearly a billion credits in the bank.

   There was a downside to this success of course, and that was having to look through all these damn financial reports.

   “Just give me the synopsis here, Hordecount,” he said wearily. He’d shut his eyes in an attempt to make all the charts and graphs go away, but they seemed to have been burnt onto his optics.

   Hordecount, his accountant, seemed slightly put out. “Well, we report stable net profits for this quarter, Mr Overload. No significant growth except in the city of Giada, where we report a 3.4% increase in net profit.” Then, quickly and under his breath, he muttered “And a 12% loss in net profits in all Predacon regions-“

   “You what?!”

   Hordecount wrung his hands and took a heavy interest in the floor. “Well, the Tripredacus Council has placed high tariffs on all businesses that originate from Maximal sectors. They say it’s to protect local businesses from being undermined…”
   “Great. This is just what we need, a big slagging tariff.” Overload sighed and pushed the financial reports away. “Well, nothing we can do about that. We’ll just have to increase marketing in the Pred sectors. Dismissed.”
    The accountant left, and the air immediately became less stuffy. Hordecount was a nice enough Maximal, he guessed, but he seemed to enjoy his figures and reports way too much. Still, Overload would rather take him over some of the other Transformers he was forced to associate with nowadays. Smarmy businessmen, full of a bloated sense of self-worth and the finest illegal substances money could buy; government reps, getting thrills out of telling him how much tax he’d have to pay now; worker unions squeezing him to increase already generous wages and benefits…

    Luckily for him, the annual meeting at Maccadam’s was just a few days away. For one blissful day, he could get drunk and be with people he didn’t want to punch.

   Just one more day…

************************************************************************

Lightspeed was a quiet little fellow, living in his apartment in Cybertropolis and keeping himself to himself. It was hard to believe that he was actually one of the more famous reporters on the planet, with contacts in both the Elder and Tripredacus Councils. He wrote editorials, reported on the latest financial, legal and political happenings, and generally listened. To everything. Every bit of street gossip, every bit of government propaganda, every bit of confidential data- he heard it all, sorted through it and wrote down the truth.

   Reporting was his life, his reason to be on the faux Cybertron. Oh yes, he knew it wasn’t the real one. He knew lots of things most of the planet’s Neogen population didn’t.

   He had originally been sent here to decipher what Star Saber’s plans were for the Faux Cybertron. Once he’d realised Star Saber had no plans, his goal had changed- now he had to watch on their space flight programs, and make sure they weren’t going to reach or discover the Star Former galaxies. If they did, it would be his job to alert Skyhammer so he knew to send in the genocide fleets.

************************************************************************

He had one shot at this. Failure was not an option.

  Grab the rifle, assemble, load, arm, aim and fire.
  Direct hit, just as always. But Powerflash would never allow himself to relax in these training exercises, because there was always the possibility he could lose his edge. Anything less than a direct hit on the target, anything less than ten seconds or less, was simply not acceptable.

    “Good work, Private Powerflash,” barked Stryka. “Move onto the Simulation exercises.”
  “YES SAH!” He snapped off a perfect salute and marched off, disassembling his rifle and repackaging into his hip compartment as he went. Technically, the General Stryka was a “ma’am”, but she never cared about that.

    Powerflash had joined the Maximal army the moment he’d arrived on the planet, and had loved every moment. Some would find an occupation of such strictness and order confining, but not him- he couldn’t stop living without some kind of order in his life. He was dependent on it. Couldn’t accept its absence.

   That was why he’d left Cybertron. Star Saber’s regime had been ordered, yes, but the wrong order- it had changed the Rules. Powerflash felt sick just thinking about it. You didn’t change the Rules. It was just wrong.

    So he’d left, and come here. He liked the Faux Cybertron- he knew where he stood, they had Rules and it was a Black and White world. The Maximals were Good, the Predacons were Evil. That he understood as a fundamental truth; it was a Rule of sorts. It made things far simpler than the real Cybertron, where he couldn’t tell who were the black hats and who weren’t anymore.

   Everything was going all right.

************************************************************************

It was a Maccadam’s, and one of their best profit-earners. It was on the border on the Maximal and Predacon regions, and as such harkened back to the original Maccadam’s. The place was usually packed with cargo haulers, border soldiers, travellers and the destitute, and interestingly had never had a bar fight in years. The Maximals and Predacons may have hated each other, but for the purposes of a quiet drink they ignored each other. It was, without a doubt, the most boring Maccadam establishment on the planet.

   Then the stranger had come in, a Maximal with a dinosaurian alt mode, riding a gigantic motorcycle. He’d swaggered in, chugging down Crude Oil by the gallon, and talking loudly about how the Pred scum were trying to undermine Maximal businesses, how the Preds were paramilitary bastards and generally just trying to antagonise the Predacons.

  They ignored him.

  Realising his verbal attacks were ineffectual, he simply grabbed an Oil off a nearby Pred and drank it.

   “That was MY Oil, Maxie. You better be prepared to pay for that.”

   Vroom turned round, gave his most condescending smirk and said “Make me, aftsucker.”

   The Predacon swung a punch, and was surprised when Vroom grabbed his fist and cleanly snapped his arm. The Predacon started to scream but was cut off by a vicious punch to the head. His forehead crumpled, leaving a nice fist-shaped dent.

   Vroom could hear other Preds getting up behind him. He grinned, ripped his seat out of the floor and swung out with it, smashing glasses and smashing Predacon’s into the bar counter. He laughed and threw the chair across the counter; the barman dodged with a curse as the chair crashed into his bottle rack.

   Vroom was grinning like a maniac, his poise tensed and his fists clenched. He looked just like he used to during the State Games, like he used to during the Asphalt Wars, like he used to when commanding the SAR Squad. But if any of his old comrades from those days could see him now, they’d be disgusted at how far he’d fallen.

   Without warning, he was struck on the head by a chair and knocked to the ground. In an instant, a whole gang was upon him, kicking him and slamming stuff into him. Once they’d finished, once his body was riddled with dents and cracks, they hurled him out the bar door.

   He got up, swore at the bar and went over to his bike.

   There was a trickle of mech-fluid dripping from his mouth.

   Vroom’s face darkened as he drove off, his good mood gone once more. He drove with mech-fluid dripping onto his bike, and wished he was dead.

************************************************************************

   Pincher had decided to put his incredible chemical knowledge to good use- teaching Maximal students. Two hours every day teaching a small but dedicated class how to construct and invent chemicals for nearly any use. He was enthusiastic, and liked working with young minds- it gave him hope for the future, made him feel that war was a long ways away.

   So when he’d seen the army recruitment poster on the Academy wall, he’d become enraged and ripped it down.

   Students stared at him in shock.

   “None of you sign up, you hear?” he yelled, throwing the poster to the ground and spraying it with an acid solvent. “I don’t care what slag they spout, the army is NOT glorious, it is NOT good and if you join you’ll just be throwing your lives away. I don’t even want you to look at one of these damn posters.”

   He walked off, leaving the Prime-like recruitment icon to melt to nothingness.

************************************************************************

Cybertropolis at night as a wild mix of neon lights and snatched samples of music and conversations. It was full of life, with Maximals generally having fun and having out.

    Feeling out of place was Fixit, hanging around in a Maximal nightclub and only there because his friend Catscan had dragged him along thinking, for some inane reason, that Fixit would like it. He actually felt like ripping his audio receptors out to get rid of the horrible repetitive drone that these newly-built Maximals thought was “music”.

   “Great, isn’t it?” said Catscan.

   “No, it slagging well isn’t,” he snapped. “I swear, this is a kind of Predacon sonic torture-“
  “Oh, for Primus’ sake, Fixit! Lighten up!”
  He sighed and headed outside, leaving his friend to pollute his audio receptors alone. He leant against the club wall, looking out at the Cybertropolis skyline while a rhythmic thumping came from behind him. He yawned and gazed over at the Council Citadel in the distance.

    As he watched, it exploded.

Part Two: If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next

The fact was this- a plasma bomb had gone off in the Council Citadel, taking out half of upper three floors and killing three late-night workers.

   The rumours were this- it was an attack by the Predacons, it was an attack by the surviving Decepticons, it was the Primus worshippers, it was an anarchist group, it was a Unicron cult, it was aliens, it was the Council trying to claim emergency powers, it was definitely the Predacons.

   The prevailing opinion was this- “It was the Predacons. The only way to guarantee this doesn’t happen again is the complete annihilation of the Predacons. They want war, we’ll GIVE them war!” Very few of those who put this forward had genuinely been in a war before.

    Three hours after the bombing, the Council of Elders declared that the Security Forces had discovered evidence linking the attack to the Tripredacus Council, and that they wouldn’t be cowered by such cowardly attacks- this meant war.

   Three hours and four minutes after the bombing, the Tripredacus Council held an emergency meeting.

“Did any of our agents or puppet terrorists groups do this?”

 “No.”

 “So what the slag is going on?”

  “Inconsequential. A better question would be ‘How soon before the Maxies start shooting at us?’.”

************************************************************************

“The Council of Elders announced that an invasion force led by legendary veteran Rodimus Primal would be marching into Predacon territory in the next week diisddsidzzzzz01010101011,” said the TV reporter cheerfully as a highly corrosive acid hit the screen.

   “Oh brilliant,” sighed Overload. “You better have some hard credits to pay for that.”
   “I’ll pay the barman,” said Pincher. “Don’t get your gears in a grind.”

   “Well, you did just melt a TV because of a report mentioning war-“
   “What the slag do you expect?! We came here to get AWAY from this!” Pincher slammed a fist onto the bar table. “And now we get to watch a whole new generation gets to be turned to fodder. Great.” He was angry- no, he wanted to be angry, but instead all he felt was apathy. Like he was watching everything through a stranger’s optics, hearing everything through a stranger’s audio receptors. “Y’know two of my students have dropped out to join the damn army?”

    “It’s their choice,” said Overload.

    “Yes, I suppose it is. But… why? I thought I taught them better than that.”

    “Well, whatcha gonna do?” asked Big Daddy, gulping down his Crude Oil. “Hardly gonna listen to you about war, are they? You weren’t front-line, after all.”
   “I saw what happened to people on the front line.”

   “They didn’t. They shoulda.” He shook his head. “Y’know that nobody on this planet ‘sides us remembers Eugen? It’s just been erased from history, replaced with something far more sanitary. A heroic last battle between Rodimus and Galvatron stirs up more patriotism than being driven to near extinction and having to let some dictatorial bastard come in to fix things up for us. What a perfect way to ensure people are going to want to go to war in the future.”

   “But why?” asked Overload. “What would Saber have to gain from it?”

   “Easy,” said Pincher bitterly. “It stops the Neogens trying to get off-world. It stops them finding Cybertron. Who cares if a few million die as a result?”

************************************************************************

Nanobots within him concentrated and made contact with a cloaked satellite, using it to send his message all the way to Star Former space within a nanobreem.

  “Covert agent Lightspeed reporting from Faux Cybertron- report 643. War has been declared on the Predacons. Both sides have a large amount of powerful weaponry, but the Predacons have a major advantage- they have very few Neogens brainwashed into believing they’re veterans. The Maximals, being the ‘descendants of the Autobots’, have dozens of them, and quite a few of them have prominent positions in the army. So the Maxies have Empties believing they’re Rodimus leading their men.

   “One thing puzzles me- the Council are blaming Predacons for the bombing of the Council Citadel, but how could a Predacon get into the Citadel in the first place? The damage caused indicate the bomb was placed deep within the Citadel, a Pred terrorist would never get that far. Ah well, doesn’t matter- they’re going to war, and this will set their space program back by decades, maybe even centuries. The danger of them finding Star Former territory has just been minimised. And that’s all that matters. Lightspeed out.”

************************************************************************

Big Daddy walked out of the bar in the mood to break something. Maybe he could go get the gang together and go deface some military sign-up posters (he held no illusions of being mature) … Of course, then they’d count as evil genocidal terrorist traitors or some other smelt.

   He could see his friend Bugout leaning on the wall nearby, and grinned. Bugout was a Predacon, but he was still counted as one of the gang. Definitely one of the more anarchic members, but still… Damn, if they were going to war with the Predacons what was going to happen to him? Big Daddy frowned. Was his friend waiting here to tell him he had to leave or something? He didn’t seem to be looking up or anything, he must be upset…

   “Hey, Bugout! You OK?”
   No response.

    “Ah. This about the invasion, isn’t it? Look mate, I don’t care what the Council spouts, I’m not letting you get kicked out of your home because…”
   No response.

   And then Big Daddy noticed the strange angle his head was lying at.

  “Bugout? C’mon, this isn’t funny. Say something.”

   He reached his friend and choked. His head had been smashed in from the right side, causing fuel to ooze out of a dozen cracks and splits and drip down his shoulder. The optics had broken. He looked d-

   “Oh no. Primus, no.”

************************************************************************

Vroom felt good.

   He’d been walking, minding his own business, when some slagging Pred had walked brazenly down the street. A Pred, in Cybertropolis, just the day after the bombing.

   He’d been enraged- the aftsucker had probably come here to do some more damage! And nobody was stopping him! Vroom had changed that- one clean punch to the side of the head, a quick kill. Most robots would have just hurt the Pred, but he was Vroom- millennia of practise, upgrades and Cyber-steroids had made him strong enough to literally kill the bastard with a single punch.

   He felt good, knowing he was doing his bit for the war effort.

************************************************************************

Pincher lurched down the streets, his fuel systems corrupted and his mind unbalanced. At the top of his voice, he was singing  an old Autobot war song. It was a really stupid one about Matrixes and lighting darkest hour and had slag-all to do with real war. And he knew about war because he’d designed the weapons for it. Little chemical weapons that would paralyse an enemy, or melt half their chassis to nothing, or cause them to vomit fuel up. Little chemicals with large death tolls.

    To his right, he saw another one of those damn military sign-up posters. This one had been newly produced specially to coincide with the Council’s decision to invade. It featured a heroic-looking Maximal and text talking about patriotism and determination to succeed.

   In his drink-addled state and in the bad light, the poster Maximal looked like Doubleheader. Pincher looked at him, then at the text, and burst out laughing and kept laughing until he started to sob.

Part 3: Can’t Stop These Things

It had been a year since the Great War had started. Neither side seemed to have the advantage- the front line moved about the place with alarming frequency. Cities were captured by both sides, and often recaptured a few months later, leaving the areas reduced to rubble. Tens of thousands were dead, and more seemed to be coming now both sides had brought in drafting.

   In short, it was a big slagging waste of time and lives.

   It was going to get worse.

***********************************************************************

Pincher had failed. Months of drilling into his students what war would be truly like, and a large number of them had joined the army anyway. He had no idea what had happened to them afterwards but he could guess.

   So now he was teaching a class of three, because what else could he do? What?

   The remaining students had noticed a change in their teacher. He’d stopped caring. He spoke in a monotonous voice that had previously been so full of enthusiasm, his movements were sluggish and his optics were dulled. They didn’t even dare broker the subject of the war- no telling how he’d react.

   One day Pincher didn’t turn up.

   He was in the pub instead, downing the most intoxicating fuel he could buy, a draft card in his hand and wishing that he had the guts to kill himself.

*********************************************************************

Overload had failed. Decades of work building up Obliterator Cargo LTD, and it just took one little event to turn it all to slag. When war broke out, any Maximal business on the Predacon side of the planet was immediately seized by the Tripredacus and merged into Predacon businesses. That had dealt the company a massive blow. Then non-military freight transportation was disrupted, wounding the company more. And then the military decided to hire a different company for their transportation needs.

   After that all Overload could do was sell the majority of his shares to a former rival, giving them full control of his company. He resigned the next day, putting his accountant Hordecount in charge.

   Now he was signing up for the army. There was nothing else for him to do- business and military, that was all he’d ever excelled at, and now he couldn’t do the former. He was back to the game of the butcher.

**********************************************************************

Big Daddy had failed. His old gang had been broken apart by the war. First Bugout had been murdered (and nobody outside the gang cared. Bastards.). Then Speedtrap and Grunge had joined up, feeling it was patriotic to do so. Grunge was dead now, killed in the first skirmish with the enemy, a lousy ten seconds into battle, and they’d lost contact with Speedtrap months ago.

  The police began cracking down on gangs and anything else that could be seen as damaging to patriotism. Meaning Big Daddy and his mates ended up in prison for a month, merely for anti-government graffiti, and they were forced underground to avoid a harsher punishment.

   Apparently the Predacons were doing the same, only worse. Over there, people were being lynched in the street for not conforming.

   And now he had received a draft card, along with a few officers intending to make sure he honoured it. It was all he could do to avoid laughing when he heard one of them talk about “disrespectful youth” and how he should feel proud to fight and otherwise he was disgracing his Autobot ancestors.

  Ancestors? He’d fought in the damn civil war for millions of years. He’d killed hundreds of Decepticons in his time, watched comrades died, smelt the stench of ignited fuel and burning wires, felt the wrenching shock of being taken offline, had even lost his original body. He knew all about fighting, and he certainly wasn’t proud of the chance to do it again.

  He ideally wished that a member of the old guard- Xaaron, Impactor, Fortress Maximus, Metalhawk, Optimus Prime, Grimlock, Prowl -was around. They could have sorted the situation out! But then he realised that if they were around now on the false Cybertron, they’d most likely be committing suicide out of sheer frustration.

************************************************************************

Vroom had failed. He had recently been drafted into the Maximal army (there had originally been a slight problem with his criminal record, but they were getting desperate) and this was good, but he was disappointed with himself. He hadn’t done enough for the home front. He should’ve gone off on solo missions, wrecking the Pred’s border, and he didn’t. Was this how he honoured his dead comrades? How he honoured…

   Honoured…

   His mind searched around and found the name “Doubleheader”. Vroom couldn’t remember ever hearing that name and couldn’t tell why it filled him with a mix of grief and disgust.

  He shook his head. Syk, that was the ticket. A shot of Syk and everything seemed clear…

**********************************************************************

The Council of Elders had failed. They had expected that this would be an easy war. They had been arming themselves ever since they’d been placed on this fake Cybertron, because they just KNEW the Predacons would attack soon and wanted to be ready. What they forgot was that the Predacons were arming themselves as well, and they had better officers. The Maximals had an officer class full of Neogens and Empties who thought they were Autobot veterans, and the only real good leader they had was Stryka, and she was a reprogrammed Decepticon! And when you take into account that the Preds had Obsidian, Stryka’s very equal in tactics…

  They had been so sure of victory. They’d even tried to jumpstart the war by having a bomb detonated inside their own damn Citadel, giving them an excuse to invade, and it had come to nothing! They were making no significant advances, and in some places they were retreating!

  They had failed. They had all failed.

Part 4: Be Quick Or Be Dead

Primus, Overload had decided, was a twisted little bugger. When he’d shown up to be transported to the front line, he found out that serving with him would be some of his old buddies from the exodus- Pincher, Big Daddy and Powerflash (who was already at the front line), along with the war veterans Vroom and Fixit. However, they were all being sent off to serve under Rodimus Primal, whose regiment was being pounded into the ground by the Predacons and seemed to be a pretty crap commander. Overload could cry, he really could.

   The new recruits were flying over Cybertron in a bulky carrier craft. It was round, wedge-shaped and about a square mile large, carrying all manner of military vehicles, weaponry, medical supplies and approximately seven hundred troops placed into a small cramped room with two benches facing each other. It had two massive anti-gravity engines taking up a whole quarter of the ship. Overload thought of those engines and the word “Kaboom” came to mind. He clutched his rifle nervously.

   Big Daddy didn’t seem to be nervous. He was mainly looking at Vroom in awe- he’d been the Micromaster’s hero back during the State Games and Asphalt Wars. In between stares, he chatted with several of the Neogens. Fixit seemed to be sandwiched between two bulky Maximals who were enthusiastically talking about war and killing; the medic looked extremely uncomfortable. And Pincher just sat there, not looking up or saying a word. He might have been dead for all anyone knew.

   “Hey, Pincher?” he whispered. “Are you all right?”
  Pincher looked up, looking tired and weary. “No.”

  “What’s the-“
  “I’ve been forced into fighting for a cause I don’t believe in under one of the most useless Maximal general and my future is set to be full of cadavers,” he hissed. “I’m going to be serving under gun-toting fools like them,” pointing to the Maximals Fixit was sitting next to, “and you have the audacity to wonder what the problem is?”

    Overload fell silent, holding his hands up in a gesture of submission. Pincher went back to looking at the floor, bitterness clouding his mind.

**********************************************************************

 “I’m thinking of a number between 1 and 300.”
 “7.5.”
 “…slagger.”

  The carrier craft pilot grinned and gave his co-pilot the two-fingered salute. “One of these days we’re going to have to get a radio, have some music on these trips.”
   “That’d be stretching the military budget.”
   “They can afford all this artillery we’re lugging, but they can’t get us a radio?”
   “Hey, there’s a war on! It’s unpatriotic to have fun.”

    The pilot chuckled and turned back to monitoring radar equipment. He frowned- there were ten shapes moving quickly towards them.

   “Are we meant to be getting air force bodyguards?”

   “No.”

  The shapes on the radar were closing in fast and spreading outwards. The pilot swore and activated the craft’s cannon.

   “Predacon aircraft! I thought enemy ships were prevented from getting this far in!”
  “Must have been a slip-up.” The co-pilot switched on the ship’s radio and started to speak, only to be greeted by static. “Oh Matrix, they’re jamming our signals!”
   “Prepare for evasive manoeuvres! You take the cannon!”
  “WHAT?! You think we can dodge and out-gun Predacon Stratotronic jets with this hunk of slag?! I don’t even think our cannon actually works!”
   “You want them to just shoot at us?!” screamed the pilot. “Slagging take control of the cannon now!”

The jets screeched through the sky, firing cruise missiles as they neared the craft. It rocked under the explosions, throwing the soldiers inside about. Return fire was easily dodged and the Stratotronic jets ended up flying past the carrier craft in a nano-breem. One particle beam shot from the last jet to pass punctured the right engine.

  There was a whine of building power and then a great explosion as the engine malfunctioned, smashing a large section of the ship with anti-gravity, tearing it open and blasting it out of the sky.

  Inside, an explosion slaughtered seven troops outright and sent the rest flying into a large pile.

   The carrier craft made a drunken lurch upwards as the pilot tried to prevent a serious crash. It crashed onto the right side, flipped over and slammed back onto the ground, skidding across the metal plain for a full three kilometres before coming to a halt.

  Far away, the jets turned round for another attack.

The tossed and turned Maximals slowly got back up. Armour was dented, optics were cracked or broken, and in some cases there was stasis lock. Overload slowly got up, his head ringing and oil dripping from a small cut on his shoulder.

   He activated his systems to register on Internal Maximal Communications Frequency (Localised) and began broadcasting in high-speed binary. Someone had to take command before whatever had attacked them came round for another shot.

   “Maximals- this is Private Overload, former Autobot Micromaster sergeant and Obliterator unit. We need to get out of this craft and make it to Rodimus, and we need to fight off our attackers. Who here has any medical training?” A split-second of replies. “You guys are to salvage the wounded, make emergency repairs. I also need people nearest that hole over there to go retrieve equipment or weaponry we can use to fight. Get some high-speed vehicles too. Pincher and anyone else with built-in acidic or laser weapons- make us some more space here by destroying the left wall.”
   The Maximals scrambled- no question of why Overload should be leading, they just responded to the voice of firm and calm command. Extra space was burnt out of the walls, a small team ferried equipment up from the lower levels and Fixit immediately leapt into repairwork, summoning his private medical equipment out of subspace. A brief note by him and the salvage team brought up medical equipment as well. There was a frantic rush to their work, prompted by the pounding of laser fire and missiles on the craft’s hull as the jets swooped past in another run.

   Overload watched as Vroom’s motorcycle and his trailer were brought up, and a plan formed. Quickly he activated the trailer’s transformation sequence, turning it from storage area to aircraft. He switched back to IMCF (Localised).

   “Anyone have any experience in aerial combat?”
  “I have, sir. Designation Lightspeed, function scout.”
  “You take the trailer-jet. Vroom, take your cycle. You two are to blaze out and draw the enemy fire. Fight back, keep changing your speed and direction randomly to make yourselves a harder target. The rest of us will start moving equipment out and setting up marksman rows to shoot down the remaining jets.”
  Vroom grinned. With a quick heroic cry, he transformed to Ceolophysis mode and leaping onto his cycle, which activated and revved after a quick cybernetic transmission. Gripping the handlebars, he gave a primordial snarl and narrowed his eyes.

   Lightspeed, far more business-like, just clambered into the trailer-jet.

Vroom and Lightspeed came rocketing out of the downed craft. The jets swerved to meet these new targets.

   Vroom blazed about, cutting and increasing speed randomly, laughing as enemy fire exploded around him. This was more like it! Once he was sure the enemy was close enough, he swerved round, firing ion-pulses as he went. The closest jet to him went down in flames.

  “Oh, YEAH! Who else wants some?!”

  Lightspeed ducked and weaved across the sky, fighting the urge to scream. He was uncomfortably aware that this crate of a jet didn’t have a seatbelt and that it really wasn’t in the jet’s league. He returned fire on his attackers, wondering what had possessed him to do this.

  A lucky shot took out his left guns. He cursed- he should be concentrating on the fight instead of whining!

The Maximal troops were ready to exit to the roof. Overload, however, was keeping them back until the heavy artillery was ready.

   “What have we got that can handle those jets?” he asked.

   Big Daddy looked over the range of weaponry that had been salvaged. “Two Turbo Cycles and a Positron rifle.”
   “That’s it?!”
  “It’s all we can set up quickly!”
  Overload pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, fine. I’ll take a Turbo Cycle and I need two others with good marksmanship to go with me. Any others with good marksmanship, you come up with us and help shoot down the jets. Everyone else, get equipment and wounded out of here. MOVE!”

   The Turbo-Cycles were carried up and transformed to battle emplacement mode. The Positron rifle was charged up and targeting engaged.

   The jets noticed movement on top of the craft and moved in.

   “FIRE!”
  One of the jets was brought down instantly. The others swerved out of range and fired back. The second Turbo Cycle was hit by a particle beam, melting both it and its user and fusing them to the side of the craft.

   The Maximals scrambled to the top, firing as they went. They were forced to move quickly as lasers and missiles struck them frequently, killing scores of them. For the most part, their firearms didn’t hurt the enemy but did make them back off.

   Inside, Pincher was heading to the cockpit to try and salvage the pilots. He was the only one suitable- the doors wouldn’t open after the crash, but he could get through them with his acid spray.

  It was almost peaceful down there. He could hardly hear the sounds of fighting and with the lights off his night vision made everything a pale, ethereal green. He liked it. It seemed so easy, down here, to just stay and wait for the second engine to be damaged or to detonate on its own. To let it all end. Just so easy. All he had to do was wait…

   But he couldn’t. Not when there might be others lying injured down here.

   He burnt his way into the cockpit. It was a mess of smoke and broken computers. Both its occupants were damaged but repairable- he could only carry one out, however, and he wouldn’t have time to go back for the other.

   <Damn it.>

   He grabbed a random Maximal and broke into a run. Maybe if he was quick enough…

Back on the surface, the Predacons were being forced into a retreat. They’d been expecting to only have to deal with frightened new recruits, an easy mission- they hadn’t expected an organised if inexperienced fighting force, or seasoned veterans driving high-power assault vehicles. They’d already lost half their number, and the Maximals seemed to be gaining more advanced weaponry as the fight went on.

   Time to follow their Decepticon roots and run away.

  As they went, they fired a parting shot at the remaining engine, accelerating its meltdown process.

   “Start moving out!” called Overload. “Vroom, Lightspeed- cover us as we leave. I went everyone else carrying either equipment or injured. I don’t know how long we have before the other engine goes, so we go now!”

   “There’s still injured back in the cockpit,” said Pincher. “I need to-“
  “Do NOT go back for them! It’s too risky!”
  Pincher stared in horror. “B-but we’re Autobots. We can’t leave injured behi-“

  “Better one dies than two. I know how that sounds, but we can’t afford to chance it.”
  Pincher said nothing.

Three minutes after the last soldiers left, the engine detonated. The remainder of the craft was ripped apart, and shrapnel sent flying for miles into the air. All but one avoided termination from this.

After an hour of walking, the soldiers finally reached the main regiment camp. Rodimus Primal was waiting for them.

   “What happened to the craft?” he asked. “You should’ve been here ages ago! And why is so much equipment missing?”
   “We were attacked by the Predacons,” said Overload. “We managed to fight them off and make it here.”
   “Oh. OK, put your equipment over there, wounded there, and the rest of you at ease.”

   Rodimus walked off. Overload watched him go and noted, with some distaste, that he hadn’t apologised for letting Predacon aircraft get past his defences and attack them, or even mentioned it at all. He just ignored it.

   He didn’t like this. Didn’t like it at all.

Part 5: The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight

“ATTENTION!”

  Powerflash snapped off a precise salute before realising that it had not been a commanding officer that had said that, but actually just Big Daddy.

   “Sorry, couldn’t resist…How’re you doing then?”
   “OK,” he said. “Mostly we’re just waiting for combat- we’ve been stationary for a few days now. I didn’t know you’d signed up.”
   “I didn’t. I got drafted.”
   Powerflash hesitated as his patriotism took a knock, before going on with “I heard that your carrier got shot down and you were saved by Overload’s quick thinking.” 

   “Pretty much, yeah. So what’s this Primal guy like?”
   Powerflash chose his words carefully. “He is enthusiastic and dedicated albeit inexperienced.”

   “Meaning?”
   “… Got to go! Need to do target practise! Talk to you later!”
  Powerflash moved off in the stiffest run in the universe. The Micromaster mentally translated what had been said about Primal, and winced. Someone from the “If we run in single file at our enemies guns, they’ll be vanquished forever!” school of thought, it seemed.

   The Maximal camp was really something, he had to admit. Thousands of Maximals milling around, hordes of weaponry and artillery. It was what the Transformers had probably dreamed about when Unicron and the Empire first showed up.

   Then there were the “tents”. They were squat metal boxes that oozed and shaped molten plastic into the form of Earthen tents, and also hooked up to the Maximals to place them into ISS. Smart little devices- he’d seen Pincher tinkering with one of them, to see how it worked. It seemed to make the scientist happy, helped him get away from everything for a while.

   Big Daddy worried about Pincher. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since they’d left the downed carrier, and he was getting worried he was going to try to cap himself.

  He hated thinking about this stuff. It was too depressing. He was going to find something fun to do instead, maybe listen to Vroom talk about his glory days or something.

********************************************************************

Lightspeed had made his way to his designated tent and connected himself up for ISS. Or at least, that’s what he wanted to look like he was doing. He’d connected up and shut off his optics and voxbox to simulate Systems Shutdown, but in reality he was transmitting to the Star Formers again.

   “Covert agent Lightspeed reporting from Faux Cybertron- report 648. Am now part of Rodimus Primal’s regiment, high potential of termination. Awa-“
   To his surprise, he received a transmission from Skyhammer himself- this was the first return message he’d received in ages!

   “Lightspeed- major developments are going on in Star Former space. We will soon be unable to communicate with you. It would be best if you would cease transmitting for now.”
   “What about my mission?”
   “It doesn’t matter now.”

   Lightspeed nearly screamed. “What? I’ve been on this planet for over a century! If it doesn’t matter, you could at least pick me up!”
   “We’re unable to do that. Security risk.”
   “So you’re leaving me here? What, have I been too contaminated by the outside world to be let back in or something?!”
   “Pretty much. This is a bad time for foreign elements to be let in. I’m sorry. We will remember your sacrifice, Lightspeed.”
  “You aft-sucking bastard!” Lightspeed cut transmission. He was seething. Stuck on this Primus-forsaken planet, now of all times. Oh, this was rich. Being kicked out for because they thought he might have foreign influences, when the biggest foreign influence he’d ever had was the Star Formers themselves… He’d abandoned his Autobot roots, embraced their culture and mindset, and now they were hanging him out to dry.

   He hoped they’d all died.

*********************************************************************

“…So that caused the whole convoy to slow down, which is when my boys jumped out and gave the ‘Cons some laser up the aft!” Vroom smirked, lapping up the cheers from the Maximals.

   Overload found Big Daddy there. He raised an optic. “You, listening to war stories?”
  “Hey, this guy’s a pro! I saw him a few times- the whole room would go silent as soon as he started speaking, he had that much respect…”
   “This is serious,” he hissed. “Rodimus Primal just gave us our orders- the whole regiment is moving out tomorrow at dawn to capture a Predacon city!”
   “Slag.”

   “Yes. We’re in deep, molten slag.”

Part 6: Fateful Confrontation

It was something to see. A vast thousands-strong wave of metal and weaponry, looking as if the very surface of the planet was moving. Gigantic heavy-armour tanks and exo-skeletons flanked the army, scratching away at the metal ground. Alien aerial vehicles hovered overhead, backed up by hundreds of Transformers assuming the form of various flying organics. In the centre, placed inside an armoured 4-man Mobile Command Centre, sat Rodimus Primal and a small group of communicators, taking in footage and reports from their various surveillance ‘bots and Majors.

   Unstoppable. Formidable.

   <Ohslagohslagohslagohslag.>

  This thought or a variant thereof ran through the processors of the ranks. It would be disconcerting for the civilian Maximals to know that their army is actually scared fuelless of going into combat. It would be more disconcerting for them to see the exceptions to this, such as Rodimus Primal’s blind faith that they will win because they are the good guys, or Powerflash’s grim determination that nothing will go wrong as long as the orders are followed, or Vroom’s impatience for the slaughter, or Pincher’s interest on how to best get himself killed and make it look like an accident.

   They marched, metal feet pounding on metal ground.

   Tnk. Tnk. Tnk. Tnk.

   Soldiers checked their weapons and weaponry systems again and again, looking for faults that weren’t there or simply to reassure themselves. Powerflash grimly disassembled and reassembled his rifle, testing himself. Big Daddy uploaded an Earthen rock music MP3 and ran it, looking for a distraction.

   In the centre, surrounded by weaponry on all sides, the medics sweated it out and realised how scant their medical supplies truly were. Catscan glanced at his friend Fixit for reassurance, but found none. He’d seen a few combat situations already. He hadn’t expected them to be like this. He hadn’t expected so much damage. Fixit had expected it, and the sight brought unpleasant images to him, memories of patients he could not have had, damage he could not have seen, a Micromaster (Brainmaster?) that could not have existed and a covert war in 2299 that could not have happened. It frightened him.

   Tnk. Tnk. Tnk. Tnk.

   Powerflash had his disassemble/reassemble time down to 4.53 seconds. He packed his rifle back into his shoulder compartment for good. His Actionmaster Partner drone Road Rocket trundled at his side, and he unthinkingly started to drum his fingers on it.

   The city’s defensive guns came in sight, and the entire front line started to tremble.

********************************************************************

  “This is Aerial Reconnaissance unit Airhammer, please respond.”
  “Roger Airhammer,” said Rodimus. “Report.”
  “We have incoming Predacon jets and armed fliers, ETA with city six cycles. Orders?”
  Rodimus switched settings on the communicator, broadcasting to half of the aerials.       “This is Officer Primal, your orders are to head out and engage Predacon incoming.” He switched again, broadcasting to the other half. “Spread yourselves out more to cover the rest of the city.”
   That done, he turned to the monitor showing footage captured by their scout Lightspeed, marking out the weaker areas in the city defence and the like. Lightspeed had somehow gotten behind them without the Preds knowing. Rodimus chuckled in amazement and sent the footage to the front line.
   “High-velocity saboteurs- you’re up! Take out the defences.” Switch. “Tanks- prepare to fire!”

**********************************************************************

Solar beams lanced out at the incoming Maximals- only the fastest of the attackers could avoid them, and four were taken down in the first few seconds. Vroom armed his pulse rifles and swerved across the plain before firing right into the defensive gun’s barrel. The explosion took out the gun, its operator and knocked a neat little hole in the city defences. Whooping, the Maximals gunned their engines and took this opportunity, entering the city and taking out the defences from the rear, where they couldn’t be touched.
   “Great work Vroom!”
  “You the ‘bot, Vroom!”
   A little way away, Lightspeed frowned. “This is surveillance unit Lightspeed to command. Predacon defences are out. I think we should proceed with caution though-“
  The reply was immediate and irate. “Excuse me, but I am officer of this regiment, Autobot veteran and former Matrix Bearer. I know what I am doing.”
   <You’re a reprogrammed EMPTY!> he screamed in his mind, before replying “Sir, this was far too easy for us to accomplish.”
  “The Predacons are sending in part of their air force, but that’s all. This city must not be very important to them. Now pull out so we can begin.”

******************************************************************

The army received their orders. As one, they felt a cold blast of fear, gritted their teeth and armed their weapons. It was time.
  May Primus help them all.

Part Seven: Zombie

“Does anyone read me?! We have wounded over here, we need medical assistance ASAP! Does anyone read-OH DAMN IT!”

   Big Daddy killed the communication and turned to his fellows hiding inside an abandoned shop. Weapon fire ravaged the walls as the Predacons fired everything they had at them. The city had been evacuated of civilians but the Predacon military was around, hiding in buildings where they could launch surprise attacks. The Maximals didn’t know the layout of this city and were outmanoeuvred. Big Daddy’s company had split up into three groups, and his had come under fire after a mere three cycles. Seven deactivated Maximals lay outside on the road and the rest of the group were scattered about the street, sheltering or firing back.

   “Command didn’t respond!” he shouted to Overload. “They must be being swamped with calls like ours, thank you Rodimus Primal… What do we do?”
   “I’m not sure! We’re pinned down- if we try to get outside to use long-range weaponry, we’ll be taken down easy.”
   “INCOMING!”
   The group rushed to the other side of the room as several missiles came bearing down on them. The front of the shop was destroyed and the explosion sent a soldier’s burnt-out corpse crashing into the far wall. A small team of Predacons flew down, guns blazing; a few were taken out by hiding Maximals in the street, but most got through.

   Overload opened fire, lasers scoring into his chest and shoulders, and prayed for re-enforcements.

**********************************************************************

Up above, the Maximals were getting slagged in aerial combat. The Predacons let their initial wave advance, only to then surround them and take out them out with ease. Now all the aerial Maximals were fighting, and it still wasn’t enough. Pieces of Transformer rained down.

    Airhammer ducked a plasma blast and flew behind a building for cover. His laser-beam weapon looked woefully insignificant here.

   <OK, think, think! How can I deal with this situation, without leaving my comrades to die?>
   A moment’s thought and he activated his communicator on a wide frequency. “This is unit Airhammer to all aerial fighters- we’ve been given the order to retreat! Roll out!”

    He transformed to his alien alternate mode and flew off at high speed, following his fleeing comrades. He got a few metres before being shot in the back.

   He fell to earth, screaming, his left wing blown clean off.

**********************************************************************

+++TARGET IN RANGE+++
+++TWIN BEAM: ACTIVATED+++

   Optic lasers fired from Big Daddy’s eyes and neatly decapitated a Predacon gunner. Beside him one of the Maximals went down, their upper body shredded. This was a battle at close quarters, and the dead were mounting up.

   “We have to pull back!”
   “We can’t, there’s no rear exit! We’re trapped!”
   Big Daddy snarled, aimed at the next wave of gunners and went down, his chest blasted through.

***********************************************************************

A radio transmission was sent. Road Rocket flipped into the air and transformed. Connections both physical and cybernetic were made, and Powerflash became a walking armoured missile launcher. Two missiles streaked away instantly, taking out Predacon snipers on roofs and indeed the whole of the roofs. Around him, the rest of his group opened fire, dividing the enemies attention and taking some of the heat off Overload’s battered team.

   Powerflash worked methodically, picking his targets from Predacons that were keeping the other group pinned down and he took them out with maximum efficiency. The Maximals were given a chance to advance and the enemy was finally neutralised.

   Overload was a mess of dents and cracks and fuel stains. “We need medical assistance!” he yelled. “There’s twenty-seven severely wounded back here!”

   “We’ve got a few medical supplies- welders and the like. That’s all. You called a medical team?”
   “Tried several times. We finally got through, but they won’t have one round to us for another ten cycles. Until then…”

   Powerflash frowned. Ten cycles? Transformers could die in that length of time. And with Predacons dotted around the city… This was a nightmare. Worse, it was officer negligence, a failure to plan ahead and take all the variables into account.

   “We’ll stay here,” he said, “Keep your team covered. We can’t advance if it means leaving you outnumbered and outgunned by Predacons.” He turned to the rest of his group. “Right- set up a perimeter around this street, and I want at two Maximals in every building- I want sniper cover and rooftop surveillance.”
   The robots saluted and pulled away. Powerflash turned back to Overload. “How’s Big Daddy?”
   “Deactive. His chest has been blasted open, but he should be OK, his fuel pumps weren’t hit. Now about those med supplies-“
   Powerflash unclipped a leg compartment and removed a small box. “But first, I’m patching you up. Your shoulders are badly damaged- how useful will you be in combat with no arms?”
   He made to protest, but the Actionmaster pushed him firmly down and began welding.

************************************************************************

Battle raged across the city.

Vroom guns down the streets of the city, eagerly looking for a fight, and is promptly blown to pieces by seven different snipers.

A medical cruiser, carrying ten serious cases out of the front line, is hit by a Predacon missile attack. The cruiser is destroyed, killing all its occupants.

On a roadway far above ground level, a Maximal and a Predacon fight in their beast modes, their guns being low on ammo. They are tearing each other apart.

Tanks plough blissfully through buildings, flushing out the enemy and annihilating them, and stray blasts hit their own side.

Away from the front line, protected by the rest of the army, Rodimus Primal sits in despair as his regiment is shot to hell.

********************************************************************

 Airhammer ducked into the safety of an abandoned building. He’d managed to transform and land safely, but he was now stuck in the middle of a firefight between Maximal and Predacon troops. He couldn’t go outside without being killed, so his only hope was for someone to come and rescue him…

   He couldn’t deal with this. He’d signed up for the army in peacetime, mainly for the status. He’d never intended to be in actual combat! Sure, he was skilled enough in battle, but it didn’t stop him being petrified all the time.

   In a nearby room, he could hear voices. Frowning, he increased his audio receptor strength and cancelled out the noises from the fight.

   “…activate warp gates and pull out now!”

   Then there was a strange fizzing sound. Airhammer toned the receptors down and went over to see what had happened. Warp gates? Pull out? But the Predacons (and he was sure they’d been Predacons) were winning, weren’t they?
   He looked in.

  “Oh no.”

*********************************************************************

Pincher had found his chance. His group had their way blocked by the enemy, and was crouched down to avoid getting hit.
  With a sad smile on his face, he stood up and spread his arms wide. He was blown apart.

   The Predacons thought nothing of him until the fine acid he’d sprayed came down and dissolved them.

  “He took out a whole Pred squad!”
  “Is he… dead?”
  “No, he looks like he can be salvaged. A medical cruiser is on its way, he’ll be fine.”
  The chance was lost.

*********************************************************************

The medical cruiser pulled up and Fixit got out, carrying a load of equipment. “I can only take ten cases with me,” he said. “So give me your worst cases, and I’ll make a return trip.”
  “Only ten? I specifically called in and said we had twenty-seven casualties!” fumed Overload.

   “We only have about twelve of these cruisers, and you’re not the only group with wounded.”
  Powerflash tapped his fingers on the wall. “We need to continue advancing.”
  “You’re kidding, right? You heard Fixit- we have to stand guard until he’s taken all the wounded.”
  “If we don’t advance, we’ll be damaging our side’s chances in-“
   “What chances?” snapped Overload. “This whole battle is a bloody shambles! We should be retreating en-masse, not advancing!”
   “That would be a direct undermining of the commander’s orders!”
  “Like I give a damn.” He turned to his group. “Take the rest of the wounded and head back to the rest of the army. I’m going on ahead to try and salvage some of the casualties.” Back to Powerflash. “You can go ahead and play soldier if you want, but you’ll die.”

   The Actionmaster said nothing.

**********************************************************************

“Come on!” screamed Airhammer. “Pick up my transmission, damn it!”

   He was running down the road, transmitting as he went. He had to warn the rest of the Maximals, they had no idea of what they were walking into.

  “This is Rodimus Primal. What is it?”

  He sighed in relief. Finally! “This is unit Airhammer- the Predacons have planted a Chaosmaster bomb under the city and I have no idea of how long we have until it blows!”
   “WHAT?! When did you discover this?”
  “About fifteen cycles ago. You only just picked up my call.”

Rodimus Primal swore and switched communications settings for a wide-range broadcast. “Everyone, get out of the city! Leave whatever you’re doing and get out NOW! The city is rigged to explode!”

**********************************************************************

Overload heard the communication and growled- he’d only been able to salvage three wounded soldiers. Too late to get any more now… He had them loaded into his trailer; he transformed to his truck cab mode, connected with the trailer and drove off at high speed.

   Airhammer almost got hit by him, but managed to rocket several feet into the air and grab hold of the Micromaster’s trailer. No way was he going to try to get out on foot.

   Overload blazed off at his highest possible speed. He knew he could burn out his motor by doing this, but he had to chance it. He had no idea how long he before the bomb went off or even if he was going to get out in time. But he had to try.

   Far behind him, the bomb timer reached zero.

   Boom.

***********************************************************************

+++RESTORING VISUAL SYSTEMS+++

  The faces of various Maximals from his group swum into Overload’s vision. Groaning, he got up, wanting to see where he was. Last thing he remember, the bomb had gone off and the shockwave had hit-

   He looked over at the city. It was gone, replaced with a column of smoke and flames. It appeared the Predacons didn’t want their cities falling into enemy hands.

   “I…had wounded in my trailer,” he muttered. “Are they-“
   “They’re OK. If it wasn’t for you-“
   “Anyone on our group didn’t make it out?”
   “No, they’re all OK”

   “Good.” With that, Overload promptly blacked out again.

************************************************************************

One thousand, seven hundred and fifty three dead. Twenty four land-based assault vehicles destroyed. Thirty aerial assault vehicles destroyed. Two thousand wounded.

    Rodimus remained in the Mobile Command Centre, staring at the statistics. He’d sent the communicators out and shut down all the communications programs. He was walled away from the world.

   He looked at the statistics again, whimpered, and reached for the Syk.