CHAPTER ONE
Primus stood alone in his chamber, staring at the viewscreen which displayed the God Gun. Over twelve thousand years worth of work was finally drawing to a close. Any minute now, the Drilling would commence and the Beast would be repelled.
After today, not only would all of Cybertron see him as their god once more, but the rest of the universe would hail him as a hero for stopping what would surely have been universal destruction. The Cybertronian race would no longer be feared by organics and they would finally be granted a place in the Higher Realms. It was their destiny. Primus could just feel it.
Despite it having been so many millennia, it only felt like yesterday that Primus — or rather, his component Adaptus — had begun this project. Through Adaptus’ memories, he could still vividly recall traversing through the Warren and arriving at this very moment, bearing witness to the arrival of the Beast. It was at that point that he fled back to his time and immediately began preparations for the inevitable arrival.
The Lunarians, his network of blacksmiths, the Infinites, his alliance with the Destructons… so much had gone into this. At several points had he been forced to revise his plans or even abandon them entirely in order to start anew. He would have been lying if he had said that there had never been a moment where he feared would not be able to properly confront and repel the Beast. But through will, determination and even sheer dumb luck, he was finally confidently prepared for what was to come.
Behind him, he heard the door to his chamber open and he turned around to see the visitor. Upon realizing who they were, he bowed his head in reverence. “Creator,” he said quietly. “I am graced by your presence.”
“As I am by yours, Primus,” the Creator replied. His egg-shaped body entered the room atop a small hovering platform, tendrils brushing against the floor. When the Quintesson spoke, his voice was raspy and quiet, yet its words resounded loudly in Primus’ head. “I am very impressed by your work. You have more than surpassed my expectations.”
Primus’ single optic telescoped inward. “As I recall, you put more faith into Quintus Prime’s plans than you ever did mine.”
“Quintus Prime’s goals were… more closely aligned with our own,” the Creator carefully answered. “We were far more interested in simply bringing the Cybertronian race back to heel than being involved in your grand scheme. But seeing as how our attempts with both Thunderwing and Unicron have failed, you have become our last resort.”
“Well then, it is a good thing I never gave up, despite your lack of support.” Primus turned his back to the Quintesson, facing the viewscreen again. “The Drilling will commence once all of the component worlds are properly aligned. Once it does, our forces will be ready for whatever happens next.”
“Excellent,” said the Creator. “In the meantime, the others and I will keep ourselves entertained with the Cybertronians that we have captured, including the ones Lord Imperious has brought in.”
Primus shook his head. “I still fail to see the entertainment value in the barbaric displays you deem as ‘sports.’”
The Creator smiled. “Oh, I don’t expect you to. I will admit… it’s a very niche pastime.”
* * *
Stockade was no stranger to gladiatorial matches. Over a thousand years ago, back when he was a warden working at Garrus-1, he had sneaked into an illegal match or two during his off-hours. While he had never participated in the matches themselves, he had experienced enough of them to know what the crowds were like: Loud, boisterous, cheering on their favorite champion while hurling jeers and insults at the opposing fighter, often getting into their own fights whenever the referees made a judgment they did not approve of.
That was not the case here. Here, the crowds were silent. Heck, there was barely anyone in the stands besides the tentacled overseers and the rows of guards lining the walls.
As such, there were nothing to block out the painful screams that filled the arena every time someone was pitted against the Autobot who called himself “Guzzle.”
From what Stockade had heard from some of the others, Guzzle had killed a good number of the Mayhems’ members back on Earth, including one of their field leaders Polar Claw. According to what they had described, Guzzle’s method of dispatching Polar Claw and the others were not normal for an Autobot and that even his comrades had expressed disapproval at his actions and attempted to stop his rampage.
After witnessing Guzzle punch a hole through Silverhound’s chest and tearing the Monstercon’s spark out, Stockade knew there had been no exaggeration in those accounts.
Silverhound’s body had since been joined by those of the Sunktitcons Malodor and Zorillor. The last Monstercon of the batch, a Crowcon named Pilfer, was trying desperately to fly out of Guzzle’s grasp, but the monstrous Wrecker had the avian Monstercon’s thin legs tightly between his large hands.
“Ya not going nowhere, birdie!” Guzzle bellowed, cackling madly.
“Let me go!” Pilfer cried, flapping his wings frantically. “I thought you were an Autobot! Why are you—”
“I’m no Autobot,” Guzzle rumbled. “I’m your doom!”
He then pulled Pilfer closer to him and grabbed the Crowcon by the head. Even Stockade had to look away as the Wrecker proceeded to tear the screaming Pilfer in half.
Once the Monstercon’s screams had died out (in more ways than one), the tentacled overseer spoke out from his perch. “Congratulations, Guzzle of Yuss. You have won the match. We shall recess for thirty minutes.”
“Hell yeah!” Guzzle roared as he threw Pilfer’s remains into the empty stands. “Just keep ‘em coming! There’s nothing that can stop this tank!”
As the guards escorted Guzzle away, Stockade stepped away from the bars of his holding cell and dropped to the floor, propping his head against the wall.
“We are so dead,” he muttered.
“There’s gotta be a way out of here,” piped a diminutive bot named Tornado, sitting next to his fellow Star Seeker Ferak. “Right?”
“Wrong,” Ferak said bitterly.
Stockade hated to admit that he agreed with the former Decepticon engineer. In all his many, many years as a general, he had never ended up in a situation like the one they were in now. Under better circumstances, in which they weren’t unarmed and Stockade didn’t have a bunch of renegade pirates and mutant Decepticons, he might have been able to cook up some scheme to get themselves out of here. But that was not going to be the case.
“I notice they haven’t pitted any Autobots against him,” remarked Brimstone. “I could have sworn I saw them bring some in.”
“They’re probably being put to the back of the queue,” Stockade said. “Either that, or they have something else planned for them.”
“Knowing the odds, they’re probably suffering less than we are,” Ferak grunted.
Stockade said nothing to this. Somehow, he could not bring himself to feel that this was necessarily the case.
* * *
“…and you confess to being responsible for the crimes we have hereby attributed to you?”
Standing on a plank which oversaw a pool swimming with Sharkticons, the red and orange Autobot stared up at the tentacled aliens looming over him, fear and incredulity in his optical sensors. “I… I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“You are fully aware of what we speak,” retorted the Quintesson Prosecutor, his oblong green face twisted into a sneer. “Or is your designation not Skater of Operation: Volcano?”
“Well, I mean, it is….”
“Then you were among those constructed artificially for the Autobot mission which took place on the 6th chord of the 9th Cycle of 9006?”
Skater looked as if he was between anxiousness and utter confusion. “Yes… what does it matter to you?”
“It matters because you were not created as intended by your god, Primus,” the Prosecutor replied, his tone condescending.
“How would you know about that? Why do you even care?”
“Silence,” growled the five-faced Quintesson Judge, rotating his egg-shaped body to adorn a red, devilish face. “Your sentence has been decided.”
The Prosecutor turned to the Judge. “What is the verdict, Your Honor? Guilty or innocent?”
The Judge’s body rotated again, adopting a green, skull-like face. “Innocent.”
Skater’s body shifted in surprise. At that moment, a Quintesson Bailiff pulled a lever and the plank beneath Skater’s feet vanished, sending the Autobot plunging into the pool below. His screams were quickly silenced as the Sharkticons pounced onto him, eagerly diving into their next meal.
Star Saber watched this all unfold from behind the bars of his holding cell, guilt weighing down on his shoulders. Forcing himself to turn away from the gruesome scene, Star Saber directed his attention to the other bots occupying the cell with him. Drift sat cross-legged in a corner, his eyes closed in some sort of meditative state. Wing Saber stood nearby, leaning against the wall as he stared at his brother.
Star Saber diverted his gaze as he sighed. “I know you expect me to have some sort of plan.”
“I don’t,” Wing Saber replied, his voice quiet. “I was just hoping you did, because I’m at a complete and utter loss.”
“You’re not the only one,” Star Saber muttered. He looked back outside, towards the next cell over where Skater had been pulled from. Dipstick and Stormshot remained, looking apprehensive as the Quintessons pulled out the leftover pieces of their fellow M.T.O. soldier out of the Sharkticon pool.
“I honestly don’t know how we’re going to get out of this one,” he said quietly, doing all he could to keep the fear out of his voice. “If at all.”
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