By Charles Ellis

Cybertron, the late 32^nd Century. A glittering world of chrome and iron, tarnished by the oppressive rule of Shokaract. It is a peaceful world, but a peace through tyranny. A dull and tedious peace, where boredom is almost a living thing for the Cybertronians, crushing down on them every second of every minute of every hour of every day. They don’t even realise it, they think it’s the way the world is. Such boredom that the greatest act of rebellion against Shokaract’s rule is a lone Transformer telling stories.
Stories that inspire, that educate, that reveal a great past long since forgotten.

The Kalis mine is no place for stories. Nobody talks, they simply dig, looking for any underground fuel sources or rebel bases. Dig dig dig.

Then they hear it. It whispers in their audio sensors. It comes from the air itself.

logicistheultimateweapon

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The Grand Citadel of Corumkan. Antagony, greatest of all the Heralds, is communicating with a deep-space fleet poised to crush a Tyroxian stronghold.

“Move in with Weaver divisions on the east side, distract them into thinking that’s the main attack. Then send in the heavy-arms battle cruisers- use photon torpedoes, target the planet’s fault lines. The seismic disturbance should take them out. Then send in-“
The transmission cuts, and her communications screen is full of static. She slams her fist on the terminal angrily- Cataclysm is trying to sabotage her again! He’s still trying to undermine her author-

In the midst of the static grows a faint blue blur. The shape of a head, two antennas growing from the top, a visor across the middle with two gaps for the eyes. A rasping, ghostly message is transmitted through the speakers.

tuneinorsignout

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The Badlands. He soars over this blasted waste, an amalgamation of many different alternate configurations and styles of design. The sun glints across his metallic frame and he cries out, a shrill metallic shriek.

The Badlands are his- any member of Shokaract’s forces come in, he annihilates them. Anyone who flees to the Badlands pleading sanctuary are under his protection, and so many Transformers hide out here, for one reason or another. He is a threat to the system, but not one that Shokaract gives any great thought to. The Badlands is only a speck of dirt on the great plane of Cybertron, a few mere square kilometres. So the army just leaves him alone, and he leaves the greater Cybertron alone. Simple.

His optics flash slightly as the whispering begins. Unlike the many others hearing this all over Cybertron, he knows what it is, and where it is coming from.

She’s not meant to be here. She is ignoring direct orders from rebel leader Sandstorm by being here.

Her name is Widow, and she currently stalks across the wastelands of Cybertron in her metallic green-black-and-white arachnid configuration. She knows of J’nwan, and how it is patrolled by members of the Hand to make sure no one enters it. She also knows, thanks to an intercepted military transmission, that the energy readings from J’nwan had jumped today, and that was likely the cause of the paranormal disturbances that had been occurring all over Cybertron. She also knew the Hand had been called away from the area.

This meant Shokaract thought something was going to happen. She very much wanted to see it happen. Rebel activity had been declining a lot lately, as Sandstorm was keeping the unit confined underground and forbidding any escapades topside, and so she was bored and frustrated.

She puts these thoughts aside for the moment, along with the predictable if-I-was-in-command thoughts that turn up every so often, and waits.

He strides confidently towards Eocra, his design that of a generic Maximal’s. He looks calm and composed- almost too much so. Too perfect a picture. Too… fake.

In fact, it is. The real him is cloaked and, if he were organic, would be sweating like a pig.

“I thought I’d see you here.”
Startled, he turns round to see the Veteran perched on a ruined building, surveying him with an optic visor like a thin red slash of blood.

   “I can’t believe I didn’t see you,” mutters the Storyteller. “That’s what I get for being preoccupied…”
   “It’s justifiable here, M-“
   “Don’t say the name. It doesn’t fit here, on this Cybertron. It’d just seem… wrong, to use it.”
   “Neh, whatever.” The Veteran turns his head away and looks straight ahead. “So do you know what the cause of all this is?”
   “The energies of J’nwan have jumped,” he recited in a sing-song voice, “thereby opening a hole to our world for both J’nwan and the Matrix/Allspark/whatever it’s being called now-“
   “Yes, but what’s causing that?”

“Well, I’ll say one thing for that planet, it had some great slang words. But back on topic, I have no idea why this is happening.”
   “Maybe they want it to happen, where they are. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I dunno. But it is happening, and we have to be here. For…” He shakes his head angrily. “I don’t really know why I’m here, to be honest. I just heard the voice of the old commander in my head, and… Well… I’m hoping to see him, really. Haven’t for three centuries or so. Slag neither.”
   “I… I don’t think you will be seeing him.” The Storyteller’s voice was hesitant, apologetic. “He… He was caught in a temporal anomaly that threatened to wipe out a good portion of the universe, and he… he stopped it, only… it was restarting inside him, and he got away in time, so it didn’t affect anyone, and…” He sighed. “I don’t know if it is possible to be a ghost after being wiped out by Time. I’m so sorry.”
   The Veteran is silent for a long time. Finally, in a choked voice, he says: “And Slag?”
   “Died heroically,” lies the Storyteller. “You should see him and the other two.”
   “It won’t be the same without ‘him’.” He laughs bitterly. “Still, I never really could see him getting a really good happy ending, could you? Remember who we’re talking about.”

They are silent for a while longer. Finally, the Storyteller speaks again, in a hushed whisper so as not to ruin the sanctity of this time and place.

“I know why we’re here. It’s because we want to remember. Really remember.”
“Hmmmm?”

   “This… world, it’s a dull little slagpile. Everyone’s so DULL. Nobody remembers the past. We have a cardboard cut-out of a tyrant. And we’re the last of the great legends, and we’re stuck here. We want to remember better times.” He checks himself. “Well, not exactly. The war always sucked, which is why I ran off to the Fahl Galaxy. But… better people. Old friends. You know.”
   “Yeah.” The Veteran frowns. “You think maybe they want to meet us?”
   “I don’t know.”

Widow stares in amazement, trying to work out what she is seeing. She doesn’t recognise the ghostly figure, but she is struck by a sense of importance. A sense of character.

He is a giant of dead white metal, with blocky limbs and a chest dominated by a large glass windshield. From the front of his face stick strange ornamental horns, grey and triangular. His eyes are clear blue, his waist and heads a rich red. On one of his shoulders is a simple red cross. He walks with a wry grin on his face, and almost unbidden, his name comes to her.

She frowns. From around the giant come… well, she supposes they are figures. They are blurry, and she can’t tell who any of them are. They come and come in great numbers, surrounding the Veteran and the Storyteller, and as they come her vision becomes grainy, full of static. She can see the two Transformers talking, but can’t hear the words- all she hears is strange, ghostly whispers.

They flow together until they are naught but white noise that fills her mind, building and building and building until her systems can’t take any more, and she heads for stasis lock.

The figures have come into sharp focus, while Cybertron has become shadowy and insubstantial. The great giants rise around her, a huge mass of them, yet while they are clearly thronged together each one somehow stands out perfectly.

One is blocky and simple looking, shining golden with a clear and light blue face with a grill-mouth. Not much to look at, but she feels the respect shown to this figure by his companions.

Another is small, soft-edged, looking weak and puny. His chest thrust forward, four strips of blue glass adorning its sides, and stylised horns jut from the sides of his head. He is smiling confidently, and she can tell that whatever his appearance he is not weak.

Another is slender, a mix of metal and pseudo-organic reptile skin. His optics burn red, his face is azure and hard-edged like a blade. He wears a golden helmet and holds a strange blade in his hand, almost like it is a part of him.

Another is bulky and orange, with his small black-helmeted head nesting in a large orange block. His front is that of an old vehicle cab, and he looks peaceful- not a warrior, she realises, but a builder.

And there are many others around, and in the centre is the Storyteller and the Veteran in different forms, their TRUE forms, and they are speaking.

Widow awoke half an hour later to find Eocra deserted. She felt calm, like she’d witnessed something momentous, but in waking hours she’d never remember what.

Six months later, the Storyteller told his final story to the lord Shokaract and left the planet.

Eight months later, the Veteran merged his Spark with that of a younger Transformer, and the fusion created a powerful new Fuzor named Windrazor.

The veterans never came back. Their stories were done. But they would always be remembered.