This volume takes inspiration from Volume II of IDW's MTMTE series. As a result, some of the events and dialogue may seem familiar to those who have read it, but the story goes it's own direction.
Also, starting with this story, I'll be including a quote from the next chapter at the end as a little teaser. Just because.
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Also, starting with this story, I'll be including a quote from the next chapter at the end as a little teaser. Just because.
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Timeline: AD 2014 (1 month after XIV)
PROLOGUE
"Tell me: Just what is it with some Decepticons? Honestly, what exactly compels them to rebel? What makes them suddenly think that the cause just isn't worth fighting for anymore? What puts their goals and priorities above those of the Decepticon Empire?
"Take Black Shadow, for example. An extraordinary Decepticon, hand-picked to serve in the Warriors Elite, serving among the likes of Killmaster and Sixshot. He was destined for greatness! His first mistake was accepting half a billion Shanix from the Autobots to turn on our fleet of War Worlds. His second was crossing paths with us.
"Or how about Turmoil? A renown general devoted to the Decepticon cause, yet by failing to activate the Decimator in time, he shortly joined the casualties of the Dekkron Massacre in oblivion."
"And as for poor Switchblade? Well, he--"
"Is still alive."
Tarn blinked, not used to being interrupted mid-speech. "What was that, Helex?"
Helex jerked his head to the blue and gold mech restrained to a crimson electric chair. "His optics are still glowing; he must be still alive."
Tarn rested his chin on his hand. "You know what? I do believe you're right. Impressive; they usually don't last this long. Kaon, give him one last jolt and release him."
Energy surged from the chair into its victim, eliciting an agonized scream from the Decepticon. As Switchblade fell out, the chair morphed to its robot mode, empty black eyes regarding his victim coldly.
Tarn stepped towards Switchblade and knelt down next to him as he coughed up energon. "You are remarkably resistant. If I didn't know better, I would have though you'd been infused with ununtrium like the aforementioned Warriors Elite. What's your secret?"
"Tri-tritanium," Switchblade muttered.
"Tritanium, everyone!" Tarn announced to the others. "I should have figured from the gold armor plating. Excellent choice... but I'm afraid it won't do you any good here."
Switchblade attempted to crawl away from his aggressor but was immediately pinned to the spot.
"Now, now, you know what needs to be done. You simply can't get up and leave your post and expect to be let off easily. Cowards like you deserve to be punished."
"B-but... but--"
"But what?" Tarn leaned in closely, his forehead nearly brushing against Switchblade's. "Spit it out, dear. Primus gave you a voicebox for a reason."
"But... the war's over."
Tarn bent his head back and laughed loudly. "Why so it is, my friend! But that hardly means anything. In any government, law must be enforced and criminals punished. And we're here to fulfill that need."
He paused for a moment before saying, "You know what we need? Some music."
From unseen speakers came booming orchestral music. Switchblade cringed at the sound of it and started writhing in agony.
"Some people question my taste in music," Tarn said quietly, his baritone voice growing soft. "They say it's outdated, yesterday's news. And I say to them, 'Well, art is in the eye of the beholder.' And really, have you heard what they listen to these days? If I had the time or opportunity, I would gladly track down and destroy every last record of tasteless pop music. And the artists themselves, for good measure."
He leaned his closer, his mouth mere centimeters away from Switchblade's ear. When he spoke again, his voice was a deathly whisper.
"Have you ever heard of 'weaponized conversation?' They say I have a gift for it; that I can lower the timbre of my voice to match each pulse of one's spark; that I can gradually, gently coax the spark... into giving up. That's what they say. What do you say?"
No response came. Switchblade ceased moving as his optics went out.
Tarn rose to his feet. "Not much of a conversationalist, it would appear."
"Bored now," growled the largest of the five Decepticon law enforcers, grinding blades spinning in his chest cavity. "Who's next on the List?"
Another one of the five, the smallest of them with his spindly build, wrung his hands together as he gibbered in an ancient tongue.
"That may be true, Vos, but there's still the matter of finding him," Tarn said. "Kaon, continue scanning for his energy signature. Until then, we can pass the time by taking a trip to Clemency, in the Kol system. There we can find our next target."
Vos spoke again in his unique language.
"What did he do?" Tarn chuckled. "Why, he lived, Vos. He lived."
PRELUDE TO CHAOS
Part 1: Dark Justice
CHAPTER ONE
--Clemency--
Systems coming back online. Optical sensors adjusting.
"Cracked chest plate, split circuitry, cloudy optics... what a waste."
Vision adjusting. Proximity alert.
"Look at that chin though! That's the kind of chin that could shut up a whole room!"
Optics fully online. Proximity alert.
"Looks like he's K-class. We should salute him."
"Hey! Hands off, you pinheads! I haven't finished siphoning him yet!"
"Urgh...."
"...Did he just say 'Urgh?'"
"Must've been your imagination."
"Get away from me!" Fulcrum cried, awake and alert, as he kicked the magenta mech closest to him. A maroon and brown bot-- the one who had commented on his chin-- fell to his knees and spread his arms out to the sky.
"He lives! Primus has given him a second chance! It's a miracle!"
"That's no miracle," said a blue and gray one, backing away from Fulcrum. "That's some-- I don't know-- some weird zombie thing."
The maroon mech suddenly looked fearful. "Ahh! A spawn of Mortilus! Kill it! Kill it!"
A fourth one among their member, colored in teal, pulled out a gun and aimed it straight at Fulcrum. He quickly held his hands up defensively.
"Now, just a minute!" he said, smiling weakly. "Before you blow my brains out, how about we get a few things clear. One: I'm not a zombie. Two: I'm not really keen on dying. Three: You've hardly gotten a chance to know me. I could very well be a friendly guy-- a disarming guy! I'd disarm you!"
"You'd what us?" the blue mech exclaimed.
"Careful!" the maroon said. "He's using words to throw us off guard! Someone kill him quick!"
"Relax, guys," a fifth robot said, striding forward. He was colored in black, purple, and yellow-green. "He's not a miracle or a zombie, just alive. Misfire, give him back his fuel pump."
Befuddled by this statement, Fulcrum looked down and saw that the magenta bot was a carrying a spherical device connected to him by a cord.
"Why are you holding my fuel pump?" he asked nervously.
The one called Misfire rolled his eyes. "Duh, so I can siphon your energy. Why, were you needing it?"
"Well, yeah, so I can pump my fuel--"
"You know what, pinhead? You're a funny mech. Just for you, I'm gonna introduce the scrap out of everyone." As he began to place the fuel pump back into Fulcrum's chest, Misfire pointed a thumb at the blue mech, who had his arms crossed.
"That there is Crankcase. Most miserable guy I know. I mean, sure, if I had a hole in my head, I'd be cranky too, but he takes crankiness to the eleventh level. Isn't that right, Crankcase?"
"Bah!" was the rude retort.
"What I thought." His work done, Misfire draped an arm over Fulcrum's shoulder and pointed him to the maroon mech, who appeared to be praying.
"We call the twitchy neoprimalist over there Flywheels. Rumor has it that he has an incredibly rare form of psychosomatic hyperflexia; he can't tell a lie without changing shape."
"Not true!" Flywheels protested as he morphed into an assault tank.
Misfire then went over to the teal mech who had drawn a gun at Fulcrum, now sitting on a rock while admiring his fingers. "You may think Spinister here is your typical tall-dark-handsome-silent-kick-aft-ninja warrior, but it's all a ruse. The truth is, he is the stupidest person in the entire universe."
He then gestured at the black and purple mech. "And last but certainly not least is Krok, champion mecha-soccer player and military strategist. And unless you're Megatron in a new body, he is the highest-ranking amongst us and thus our unofficial, for-the-time-being commander!"
Fulcrum exhaled, his brain module still racking from this assault of information. "Well, that was relentless."
"My apologies," Krok said. "Misfire is usually less wired than that."
Fulcrum rubbed the back of his neck. "I see. So, why were you trying to siphon me?"
"Because we thought you were dead."
"Just because I was laying on my back?"
"No, because everyone else is dead."
Fulcrum looked around and saw what Krok meant. The barren fields of Clemency were littered with corpses, most of them Decepticons. This brought back memories of what had happened here; the Nightmare Engine, the bombing....
Turning away from the grim scenery, he said to Krok, "That still raises a whole lotta questions; namely why you were trying to siphon me-- or anyone, for that matter-- in the first place."
Krok hesitated before answering. "We're expropriation specialists. We take what we can from those who aren't using it any more."
"Aren't using-- you're scavengers, aren't you?"
Krok shrugged. "Call us what you like. Bottom line is, High Command doesn't care about us anymore. We're out on our own."
"Can we get a move on already?" Crankcase whined. "These 'Cons here don't have anything good on them."
"Then let's get going. Spinister, you carry Fulcrum since he hasn't got a useful alt mode-- no offense."
"Uh, actually, I'm fine with walking," Fulcrum said, eying Spinister warily. "Really, walking's great. I haven't walked in... in... how long has it been?"
"Since the Battle of Clemency?" Krok said. "About eight hundred and sixty years."
Fulcrum's optics widened. "R-really? It's been that long? And... and no one's bothered to check on me?"
"Well, you're K-class, aren't you? You're supposed to be dead. Mortilus know why you're not."
"It's because Primus has shined on his spark!" Flywheels exclaimed. "He has been given a new lease on life! He--"
"Can someone shut him up or shut him down?" Crankcase snapped. "I'm one mention of Primus away from tearing him open and taking his motor relay."
"Settle down, both of you," Krok ordered. "Let;s get a move in before everything goes to waste. And Fulcrum, you're free to walk, but don't expect us to leave anything for you."
With that, he converted into a stealth bomber and took off. Crankcase, Flywheels, and Spinister followed suit, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.
"Don't worry, pinhead, I'll walk with ya!" Misfire said, slapping Fulcrum on the back. "We can chat along the way! Hey, I never introduced myself, did I?"
"Please, you don't really need to--"
"They call me Misfire. Why? Long story. Actually, no, it's a very short story involving me, a machine gun, a misunderstanding, and a dozen dead Decepticons."
Fulcrum buried his face in his hands. Maybe I should have stayed asleep.
Next Chapter Preview Quote
"It all started with the Big Bang."
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