Chapter Text
There was once a legend about the walls of Iacon. It claimed the high barricades surrounding the golden city were forged from the super-dense heart of a star. It held that, for nine million years, the walls were unbreakable and impenetrable; that they turned away all attempts at assault. And it said that, on the one and only day the walls did fall, the Autobots won the Great War against the Decepticons.
As he watched the gilded barriers crumble before him, Star Convoy believed the end of the battle, this day, would be not legendary but infamous.
Roaring and bellowing, the beast called Metrotitan waded through the ruins. Blood-red fists hammered mercilessly at buildings. Impossibly large silver legs brushed freeways aside; blocky feet dug trenches through the civilian zone. The creature’s cries echoed through the streets.
It was, Star Convoy knew, a desperation move. Somehow, the Decepticons had scrounged up enough Energon to fuel their walking doomsday weapon and send him into the field. That Metrotitan had not fired a single one of his numerous artillery batteries spoke volumes; the juggernaut had power enough to move, and no more. His opponent’s lack of weaponry was of little comfort to Star Convoy.
“When the bad guy’s as tall as the Tower of Pion,” he muttered, clenching his fists tightly, “it really doesn’t matter if he’s carrying a gun.”
Star Convoy had no rifle, either. He was among the larger members of the Autobots; a mighty mechanical being clad in crimson, silver and cobalt armour. His reinforced chest-plate bore the finest blue crystal and the golden crest from which he took his name. All that power, all that structure, was of little use right now... Like the Decepticons, his army lacked the fuel necessary to power its ordnance.
It was, he reflected, a bitterly proper situation, given the history of his world.
The Great War had begun, 18 million years earlier, as a dispute over Energon. It raged for nine million years – across Cybertron, Earth and the greater universe – before ending in Autobot victory. Peace had reigned, factionalism was forgotten and plenty was enjoyed. Cybertron and its colonies became involved in galactic affairs; its people soon famous for their strength, wisdom and willingness to help others. “Autobot” ceased to be a political designation and became an occupation; a term for those Transformers working for the protection and betterment of the universe.
Nine million years of harmony and accord – as many centuries of peace as there had been war – ended when the Energon ran out.
The stockpiles dwindled and chaos reigned. Rather than working together to find a solution, the Transformers began to hiss at one another. Accusations were hurled both at those who went off-world and those who came from distant planets. Xenophobia swept the metal world. Alliances were broken and lines of communication were severed. Autobots were called back from their galactic posts to help quell insurrection and put down attempted coups. Then, on the darkest of all days, the hated Decepticon insignia was unfurled over a battlefield… and war began again.
Star Convoy had done his best to stop the fighting, to encourage discourse and resolution. His best, unfortunately, had been sorely lacking. All the mistakes he’d made… all the wrong paths he’d taken… had left his beloved city at the mercy of a starving, half-crazed behemoth.
But not, he vowed silently, for much longer.
“Metrotitan,” he boomed, amplifying his voice as much as his synthesiser would allow. “You’re not welcome here, Decepticon! If you turn around, now, and head back to Kaon, I’ll spare your miserable Spark. But if you ignore my warnings, I won’t be held responsible for what comes next!”
“You’re warning me?” the giant asked, incredulous. “That’s rich, Autobot germ. Our spies know everything about your predicament. Grandus went offline from Energon starvation cycles ago. Battle Gaea and Sky Garry didn't leave enough of each other to sweep up.” He laughed. “As for Hot Rodimus, well, I’m still cleaning him out from between my treads!”
Star Convoy bristled.
“You’ll forgive me,” Metrotitan continued, “if I ignore your feeble warning and get back to the task at hand. Once Iacon is levelled and the Autobots annihilated, the Decepticons will drain whatever Energon we find and, finally, rule Cybertron!”
The Autobot sighed heavily. “Then you leave me no choice.”
Slowly, Star Convoy raised his arms. He turned his fists over, palms upward, and uncurled his powerful fingers, setting them free.
Unconcerned, Metrotitan moved deeper into the city. He punched a hole in the roof of the stellar galleries and took a chunk out of the Decagon with a savage kick. Still grunting and guffawing, the Decepticon turned his attention to the Oracle Tanks… and paused.
He slapped at his left shin.
Then his right.
He twisted, face wrinkled by discomfort, and tried to grab at both of his knees.
Metrotitan began to convulse, all over, and scrabbled madly at his armour. Star Convoy watched, impassive. The Decepticon could do whatever he liked, scratch as compulsively as he wanted. Everything he tried would fail, because no force in the universe would stop the Autobot Micromasters protecting their home.
-----
The Battle Patrol’s commander accelerated, using his specially-designed wheels to drive vertically up Metrotitan’s armour. As he hurtled skyward, Big Shot spun his turret and lobbed acid-filled shells in all directions.
That’s one of the best things about being a Micro, he thought to himself. We might only be able to use our projectile weaponry in vehicle mode, but we’re so small and use so little Energon, we still get to have weapons! Thank the Matrix for that... life without a cannon wouldn't be worth living.
His fellow Battlers covered his rear expertly, just like he’d taught them. Sidetrack – show off that she was – was reversing up the ‘con, marking her trail with blistering firepower. Flack, always the thinker, was eyeing more strategic targets… servos, joints, fuel lines… before strafing them out of existence.
“Try bendin’ over now, loser,” Flak drawled in his thick Tyrestian accent.
“Try anything,” Sidetrack fumed, her temper flaring, “and we’ll eviscerate you!”
Big Shot smiled proudly. “Atta girl,” he encouraged his life partner. “Talking the talk and walking the walk.”
He cast his scanners around and found no trace of Sunrunner. Good, he grumbled. The last thing we need is that maverick.
“Big Shot,” growled a voice in his cockpit. The Micromaster paid it no heed, but the caller would not be ignored. “Follow the plan,” it continued. “Keep your team in tight formation and stop the indiscriminate barrages! You want to get us all killed?”
“Cram it in your tailpipe then smoke it, Road Handler,” he barked back. “I don’t give a damn about you four-wheeled retreads, so it’s on you to stay out of my sights and not the other way ‘round!”
He terminated the inter-Autobot radio call and went back to work. The Battle Patrol were more than two-thirds of the way up Metrotitan, now, and closing in on his mid-section. That’s where they could do some real damage. If he, his girl and Flak could power through the denser plating on the giant’s central hip joint, the Air Patrol and the Astro Squad could wreak some real havoc.
And, if Big Shot was lucky, Road Handler and his goons would be caught in the crossfire and written off as collateral damage.
“Ah see th' hip joint, comin’ up,” Flak reported.
“Sidetrack, you’re on flea duty,” Big Shot ordered. “If Metrotitan ties to scratch us, blow his frelling fingers off. Flak, take out the outer epidermal layers.” He narrowed the width of his tank barrel and charged up his laser core. “I’ll take it from there.”
The trio sailed over the top of Metrotitan’s leg and transformed to robot mode. Flak landed first and immediately scurried over to the target. He fixed his ruby crystal visor on the Decepticon’s plating, doing quick mental calculations in order to deliver an effective payload.
Sidetrack danced lightly across the undulating surface toward Big Shot. She grabbed her life-mate by the shoulders and planted a deep, passionate kiss on his blue face plate. “Just in case,” she winked.
“You’re crazy,” Big Shot admonished, pushing her away. He smiled. “Don’t change.”
“Never.”
Sidetrack curled in on herself again and pointed her twin cannons toward the sky. Metrotitan’s hand sailed past and, even though it was hundreds of metres from them, she fired a couple of rounds into the massive red thumb. Femme after my own pump, Big Shot thought happily.
“Ah cain't see th' others,” Flak commented.
As if in reply, four colourful streaks arced past them. They coalesced, suddenly, into a group of lithe figures. Road Handler had extended his knuckle-spines and was gently swinging his left hand from a chain, like a spiked wrecking ball. Free Wheeler was tense, his optics alive with battle fervour; Swindler looked bored, obviously failing to see any opportunity in their mission.
Tailspin, the last member of the Racer Patrol, nodded at his rivals and snatched handfuls of throwing stars from his waist-mounted dispenser. Leaping, he filled the area next to Flak with red shuriken, then blew the Battlers off with a mock salute.
“You’re welcome,” he deadpanned. “Oh, and: Fire in the hole.”
The Zen Master of deception vanished; his team followed suit, snide laughter trailing after them. Big Shot and Flak exchanged shocked looks and hit the deck. The explosion almost knocked all three of them off Metrotitan; Sidetrack had to transform once more and grab hold of a loose piece of panelling. Much as Big Shot hated to admit it, the racer had indeed done their work for them; the shuriken had burned through Metrotitan’s weakened defences and exposed his vulnerable interior.
“Spawn of a glitch,” Sidetrack sneered.
“He’ll get his,” Big Shot murmured dangerously. “For now, let’s give Metrotitan a hiding he won’t soon forget.”
-----
Blaze didn’t listen to the voices in his head. Never had, never would. There were only two sounds to which he ever paid heed: the thrumming of his fuel pump and the shrieking in his Spark.
Lots of mechs feared those kinds of noises. They said they were harbingers of the path to the Pit, proof the taint of Unicron within you was too strong. But Blaze didn’t worry about that, either. He’d long ago given his Spark over to the Chaos Bringer. It was what made him such a fantastic Autobot.
Powering up, rotors spinning madly, the black-and-tan helicopter looped under Metrotitan’s flailing attack. The giant couldn’t focus on Blaze – couldn’t see any of the Micromasters – because his sensor net wasn’t delicate enough. He left the other members of the Air Patrol in his wake. Eagle-Eye, Treadbolt and Sky High could provide a distraction for him as well as for the Battlers and Racers. His work was just as important.
Blaze drew in as close as he could, landing neatly on Metrotitan’s ebony neck. As he transformed, his still-spinning rotors leaped up into the air – he snatched them down with one hand. Humming gently to himself, Blaze walked casually across the giant’s surface, nestling himself in under the immense silver jaw.
Then, with a pleasant whistle, he drove one of his four his diamond-hard, serrated blades into his enemy’s throat.
Gratifyingly, the beast stopped roaring. Blaze took that as his cue to continue his work. In went the second blade, meaning the first had to shift to one side. It did so, carving out a good portion of the Decepticon’s synthesiser. The third blade moved the other two along, and gouts of oil and Energon marked their passage. By the time the fourth and final blade was inserted, Metrotitan was gagging and puking up thick, frothy oil. The slick flowed over Blaze and made him smile.
It was such a pleasure, to have found one’s calling in life.
-----
“You’re worrying too much again,” Blast Master said. His thick, powerful hand settled comfortingly on her shoulder. “We knocked the asteroid off course last year, and our makeshift force field kept the solar winds from immolating everyone the year before that. There’s more chance of the universe spontaneously contracting than there is of us missing our target, Phaser.”
She turned to him and tried to smile; it came out as more of a grimace. “Worrying is what I do, Blast Master,” she reminded her gestalt partner. “All the great minds worry, and I’m perhaps the greatest mind on Cybertron. Should I stop worrying, I shan’t have anything to do.”
A long, blue vehicle – topped with a satellite dish and supported by moon tyres – chuckled. “We simply couldn’t have that,” quipped the front half of the truck. “Perish forbid!”
“Totally unacceptable,” agreed the rear section of the vehicle. “Should Phaser cease fretting, the knock-on effects would be catastrophic! Why, for one thing, I’ll lose my best client. And what’s a counsellor without a permanent neurotic to look after?”
Phaser shot Barrage and Heave a withering look. “You two just can’t stop listening in on other mechs’ conversations, can you?” She sighed. “Maybe you could swing that dish of yours around the other way and keep an audio sensor out for Big Shot’s signal, please?”
Her team mates groused good-naturedly, taking mock offence. “You wound us, madam,” they wailed plaintively.
Phaser found her spirits buoyed. She was ever so lucky to be leader of the Astro Squad. Alone among the Micromaster teams, she and her friends each transformed into half of a deep-space vehicle. They were incapable of acting alone, and had to work together at all times. So strong were the bonds of friendship and loyalty, the infighting of the other teams seemed alien to them.
She ran over to Moonrock and Missile Master. They, too, were in their combined mode – a launch truck. The rear half of the vehicle was twitching slightly; Missile Master was characteristically eager to fire off the team’s latest invention. This projectile was fairly standard; a high-explosive payload with that special Astro Squad tip. The pointed surface was coated with cyclonic steel, as were each of its creators, and the metal that kept the six Autobots safe from even the fiercest photon blasts would ensure the missile buried itself deep inside Metrotitan before detonation.
“May I?” Missile Master asked. “Oh please, may I?”
Moonrock tutted. The front half of the launcher was a more simple-minded mech; the least intelligent member of the team. That made him a genius compared to most Autobots, of course. Still, he did not share his partner's enthusiasm for explosions.
“I have confirmation,” Heave called. “Big Shot sounded decidedly annoyed, though.”
Did the Racers foul their plans? Phaser wondered. Perhaps. Road Handler swears his team ignores the Battlers’ competitive streak but, in truth, he is as bad. That said, there is the chance he does not care – the Racers always claim the glory, no matter the efforts of their heavily-armed rivals.
“That's not our concern,” she said primly. “Whomever inflicted the blow, the fact remains the blow has been struck. Now comes our moment to attack. Missile Master, you may fire when ready.”
“Finally,” came the reply, “sweet relief!”
There was no countdown; the squad had agreed they all found such a procedure beneath beings of their intelligence. With a whoomp and the shudder of a shockwave, the missile leaped into Cybertron's night sky. Phaser watched it rise, marvelled at the perfect porabola it cleaved... then froze.
“He'll see it,” she gasped. “Dash it all, he'll see it!”
Blast Master was, again, at her side. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Curse me for a fool,” the femme spat. “Metrotitan cannot lock on to individual Micromasters because we are small, and use little Energon. But the missile... oh, the missile. It uses as tiny a portion of fuel as do we, but it's output is gaseous and therefore easily detectable!”
Barrage and the others de-coupled and transformed, gathering around their leader. As one, the squad watched the missile zero in on Metrotitan, make precise adjustments to its course, rocket toward the centre of the beast's torso... and get snatched out of the air by one of his massive hands.
Metrotitan, momentarily distracted from his itchy torment, regarded the weapon curiously. Its engine still running, the projectile vibrated between his thumb and forefinger and vented more exhaust smoke. The giant tried to laugh but, for some reason – damage to his synthesiser, perhaps – the noise came out corrupted, filled with static, and was somehow all the more hateful for it.
“Drat,” Phaser muttered.
-----
Sitting atop the Tower of Pion, he watched the Astro Squad's missile zoom into Metrotitan's grasp. No one had bothered to ask his opinion about this whole scheme. He'd faced the lunk before; he knew conventional weaponry didn't cut the mustard against the biggest Decepticon of all time. So he'd just kept his mouth shut as Star Convoy explained the plan, knowing only too well its single greatest flaw.
It didn't have enough Sunrunner in it.
“Boys,” he said, opening an inter-Autobot radio channel, “I want to appeal to your sense of community spirit.”
The line crackled. “Not interested,” rasped a deep, threatening voice.
“Such a gruesome, yet dulcet, tone,” Sunrunner continued, deliberately ignoring his audience's apathy. “Treadbolt, have you ever thought of singing? Because I had this great idea for a personal fanfare, but I'd be willing to have a theme song, instead, if you're willing to lay down a track.”
“We're busy,” came the snarling reply.
He smiled beneath his mask-like face plate. If you asked another Autobot, they'd tell you Treadbolt was a cold, creepy creature of the night – not a mech to be messed with. Sunrunner, meanwhile, got his jollies hassling the wing-shaped stealth bomber... and doing so for a good cause made the annoyance all the sweeter.
“You'll be even busier in a minute, when Star Convoy's grand plan fails and Metrotitan swats you Airies out of the sky.”
A pause. “Explain.”
“The galoot can't see us, but he can see the missile. You might have noticed he's snatched it out of the air... probably going to use it to pick his dental plates. I guess I could convince him to loosen his grip, so the thing can continue on its merry way to his hip joint. And I thought we jet-flying 'bots could maybe work together, given the others accuse us of thinking we're superior to them.”
“They think that because of you,” Treadbolt hissed. “You are convinced you're better than everyone, and that taints what they think of us!”
“Really?” Sunrunner asked, trying to sound innocent. “Well, then, this is the perfect opportunity to change their minds by saving the day!”
Another pause. “Lead us in,” Treadbolt said at last.
“Strike up the band,” Sunrunner whooped. He leaped from the top of the tower and transformed, angling himself toward Metrotitan. External sensors registered Treadbolt, Sky High and Eagle-Eye on his six. Perfect so far, he thought. If Eagle-Eye can remember to not look down... if Sky High can keep his syk-addled mind on the job... if Treadbolt can hum a merry tune... we might just have a shot at pulling this off.
He feathered his wing flaps and soared up, then angled his nose down. He waited until he could see the bolts on Metrotitan's oversized knuckles, then powered up his nose cannon. “Light 'em up,” he ordered.
Missiles erupted from the launchers on his back. They were joined, almost immediately, by sidewinders, air-to-air rockets and a single long, nuclear-tipped warhead. The weaponry slammed into the giant's fingers and tore them open, exposing servos and shredding wires. Normally, Metrotitan's armour would be too thick for a Micromaster's arsenal to do damage but, like every big mech on Cybertron, he was fighting the effects of Energon starvation. Instead of being impregnable, his outer plating was brittle and more easily fractured.
Metrotitan let go of the missile. Obligingly, the weapon resumed its interrupted flight and fell back on its pre-programmed course. Blaze joined Sunrunner and the Air Patrol as they scattered, wanting as much distance between them and the Decepticon as possible. He glanced through his rear sensors and saw the Battlers and Racers do the same. The two teams hurtled down Metrotitan's enormous legs, making for the relative safety of the ground. Nearby, the Astros were starting up the force field generator, behind which all the groundhogs would cower.
Sunrunner headed straight for his favourite perch. Once more atop the Tower of Pion he transformed, settled back, and waited for the fireworks.
The missile zeroed in on the hole and thundered into it, detonating right in the midst of Metrotitan's superstructure. Smoke billowed into the air as electrical discharges crackled across his red, blue and white metalwork. The giant blanched, oil flowing freely from his mouth and throat. He toppled forward, recovered, then staggered again. He was grievously harmed, half-dead, but still would not fall.
“Slag me,” Sunrunner breathed. “What does it take to put this guy down?”
-----
He was at peace, and he was ready.
“Metrotitan must be stopped,” he said aloud, “no matter the cost.”
Star Convoy transformed. His body elongated and his arms contorted; he became a long-nosed tractor-trailer. He fired up his engines, pouring as much of his remaining Energon into them as he could. The Autobot commander had survived, this long, through conservation and sacrifice; neither would help him any longer. The eight wheels of his front section squealed, the twin tank-treads on his rear bit hard into Cybertron's surface.
At top speed, he raced up a half-destroyed freeway and angled himself toward Metrotitan. Star Convoy cleared the end of the ramp and continued, momentum carrying his immense bulk through the air and to a crashing finale against his foe's blocky upper body.
With a roar of surprise and agony, Metrotitan's torso fell backwards. His legs, however, remained exactly where they had been. It had been the plan all along – to break the Decepticon in half and thus end his threat forever. What Star Convoy had neglected to tell his mechs was that the missile alone would not be enough... the Autobot commander's own power would be needed for the final push.
“This,” he gasped, “is a good death.”
He transformed again, caroming nastily off his opponent. Metrotitan's armour had already turned the unmistakable steely-grey of death; that much, at least, had gone right. Star Convoy bounced off, slid along and crashed through what felt like half of Iacon. He tried not to cry out as pieces of armour, as his very limbs, were ripped away. Finally, mercifully, he slammed into a pylon and felt nothing more.
-----
He saw the Autobots gather around their erstwhile leader, heads bowed reverently. Their legendary infighting, their contemptible lack of martial discipline, faded away for a moment. In death, Star Convoy had finally managed to turn a bunch of turbo-revving punks into an army.
Not that it would matter for long. In minutes, everything would change.
He waited, optics fixed on Star Convoy's greying chassis... but it didn't happen. There were no flowery speeches, no beams of crystal light. His chest plate did not open to expose the treasure for which he longed. Star Convoy did not have the Creation Matrix within him.
He muttered a string of curses – a foul-mouthed eulogy for yet another plan. He needed time to reassess; to alter his schemes. No event was so bad he couldn't find a way to benefit from it.
Skystalker transformed into a small, orange vehicle and drove away.
-----
“One shred? You arrogant snot – you'd have all been slagged if I hadn't rounded up the fliers and kicked serious aft!”
Big Shot leaped for Sunrunner's throat. Free Wheeler and Swindler tried to push themselves between the warring Battlers, but to no avail. Flak and Sidetrack grabbed their long-time rivals and laid into them with fists and feet. The Racers retaliated, and the brawl intensified. The Astros and Aeries looked on.
“Whoa,” Sky High slurred, raising his hands as if calling for calm. “Dudes, mellow out. These negative vibes'll just bring us all down, you feel me?”
“Enough!” yelled a commanding voice.
Like the breaking of a trance, the fighting stopped. Every mech and femme in Autobase turned to look at Phaser.
“I'm well aware stress and anxiety levels within this organisation are at an all-time peak,” she huffed, trying and failing to maintain her composure. “I understand the emotional trauma that comes from trying to reconcile a literal giant-killing victory with self-inflicted regicide. But if every single one of you small-processored buffoons doesn't shut the bloody hell up right now, I'll have Missile Master use you for target practice! Now get the frell out of my laboratory!”
Muttering, still sniping at one another, the mechs... and Sidetrack... filed out. No sooner had the oversized hangar doors closed than tempers flared again. There were even a few small explosions. Phaser ran her hands over her face plate and helm and tried to calm down. It didn't work... but then again, how could it, when she had Star Convoy's corpse laid out in front of her?
“Just because my armour's red and white does not mean I'm a bloody medic,” she groused.
Before the war, Star Convoy might well have survived his injuries. Back then, the Autobots had been equipped with CR chambers – amazing facilities filled with liquid that stimulated a Transformer's natural nanite-controlled healing process. The larger mechs practically lived in them, when the first of the fighting broke out. Sadly, that meant they'd burned out rather fast and, due to the Energon shortage, there was no way to replace them. Without a chamber, and with his own power levels so low, Star Convoy hadn't really had a chance. Phaser suspected the noble mech had known that, and acted anyway.
Micromasters didn't need CR chambers or med bays. Though many times smaller than a standard mech, Micromasters had – through an odd quirk of design – just as many nanites as their larger brethren. While they could be injured just as easily as a “traditional” Transformer, a Micromaster healed its wounds twenty times faster... and that made a force of them almost impossible to stop.
“I'm rather unsure just what it is I'm expected to do with you,” Phaser said, addressing the corpse. “I mean, you're dead and nothing I can do is going to change that. An autopsy would be a waste of time; we were all there, we all saw how you died and what killed you.”
She climbed up onto her fallen leader's chest and looked into his burned-out optics. Her voice softened. “As inconsequential as it might be, given all you did for us and for Cybertron, the only service I can provide is to clean you up for your funeral. Oh, Star Convoy... whatever will we do, now that we've lost you?”
The mighty Autobot's optics flashed with yellow light.
“Aiee!” Phaser shrieked, toppling over backwards.
Beneath her, colour raced through Star Convoy's armour. It was faint and indistinct – not the bright, vivid hues of the living, but not the monochrome of the dead, either – and made the commander look something like a ghost... or the walking dead.
Coughing and spluttering, Star Convoy reached out and gripped Phaser between his thumb and forefinger. “The Matrix,” he gasped, each word corrupted by static, “has sent me back. One last task to perform. The Prime must be warned.”
“The Prime?” Phaser asked. “Cybertron hasn't had a Prime for millions of years!”
“He is among us,” Star Convoy rasped. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far, far away. “He walks among us, as did they all, not knowing until his time comes. Primus to Prima, Prime Nova to Sentinel Prime. Then the greatest of all time... Optimus and Rodimus Prime... and, now, him.”
He fixed Phaser with a desperate, manic stare. “Sunrunner,” he breathed. “You must bring Sunrunner to me. My time in the light grows dim, while his is about to begin.”