TWO: THE DEAD COME HOME
T minus 90 minutes
Ironfist opened his eyes. That was his first sign that something was wrong.
The last thing he remembered was blackness. Before that, the monstrous machine known as Ragnarok had torn through him and his fellow Wreckers; Rotorstorm had his head blown off, Guzzle had been torn in two, the others… he couldn’t remember what state the others had been.
But he did remember the bullet in his head—the one that had entered his cranial unit in that incident on Kimia years ago—inching closer and closer to his brain module. After that, nothing. All of his systems shut off and he was gone. Or at least, he was supposed to be gone.
And yet, here he was, still among the functioning. At least, he was pretty sure this wasn’t the Afterspark or some nonsense like that. From the looks of it, he was in some sort of standard medical bay, with an Autobot insignia adorning the wall across from him. He slowly rotated his head on the berth he was laying on and saw that he was not alone in the room; sitting up on the medical slab next to his was a red and gray bot whom he recognized as Windcharger. There were others in the medical bay, some still in stasis lock, with each one being checked on by a medical officer.
One of the medics noticed Ironfist and Windcharger and walked over to them. Ironfist did not immediately recognize the medic but they had a red and white color scheme as was typical of those with his function.
“Ah. I see that you’re awake. I’ll notify Prime and let him know. Right now, you two should stay put so to better preserve your energon levels, as they are still a bit low and—”
“What the frag is going on?” Windcharger cut the medic off. “I thought I was dead! That… that… that thing crushed my head!”
“Your brain module was crushed yes, but your spark was recovered. It was kept in safe storage until your body could be properly repaired. You would have been reactivated sooner but we’ve, ah, been preoccupied with other things.”
“What about me?” Ironfist sat up and pointed to his head. “The bullet that’s been lodged in my head… it made its way to my brain module, didn’t it?”
The medic turned to him. “It did, but your systems were still operational enough that we were able to save you. You’ve been kept in stasis lock for the past two years until we could safely remove the bullet threatening your brain module. As you can see, the operation was a success.”
Ironfist put a hand to where the bullet hole would have been only to feel nothing but smooth armor plating. It was as if the incident had never happened to begin with; he didn’t even feel any sort of pain in his cranial unit…
“So, I take it we aren’t the only ones then, right?” Windcharger asked. “Anyone else being given the miracle treatment?”
“Oh, yes, plenty. It’s all part of Rodimus Prime’s new Golden Age initiative—”
“I’m sorry,” Ironfist interjected. “Did you just say ‘Rodimus Prime’?”
The medic smiled awkwardly. “Ah, yes, that’s right. It’s been two years since you….” He cleared his vocal processor. “I’ll have Ratchet send for someone to fill you in on what you missed.”
With that, the medic hastily departed from the medbay, leaving Ironfist and Windcharger alone to mull over their new lease on life. Ironfist took another moment to look around the medbay; he could swear that one of the bots laying nearby was Rotorstorm, judging by their blue and magenta color scheme, but they were too far away for him to be sure.
Raising a hand to his head, Ironfist shuttered his optics as he accessed his internal memory systems. To his mild surprise, he was still able to access the data logs he had written for his Wreckers Declassified series, some of them dating back centuries. He found it to be somewhat of a miracle that the data had survived the surgery.
With nothing else to do while they waited for the medic to return, Ironfist decided that he might as well kill the time by submitting another entry for his readers, if only to let them in on the big news.
That Fisitron was back.
* * *
T minus 1 hour
Autobot City: Earth
“This is a problem.”
“Why?” Kup grunted, gnawing on his cy-gar as he watched Rodimus Prime pace back and forth in his office. “Because someone else broke the news before you and stole your glory?”
“No!” Rodimus stopped in his tracks, bringing a hand to his helmet crest. “That’s obviously not… I don’t care about stuff like that, Kup. I’m just worried about the rumors that will start to spread because of this.”
“What? Rumors like the dead walkin’ among us? We already had this whole song and dance last cycle, lad, when Impactor and the Jumpstarters and the rest came back. People won’t be as surprised this time, now that there’s a precedence.”
“Right, except that had an explanation people could buy,” Rodimus said. “Shockwave was doing some crazy experiments behind our backs, and that’s why bots are back from the dead.”
“Uh-huh.” Kup raised an optic ridge. “And this is different because…?”
Rodimus sighed. “Because it isn’t Shockwave that’s behind it this time. It’s me.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Of course not.” Rodimus turned to face the viewport in his office, which gave him a view of the green landscape that surrounded Autobot City. “I mean, they would know regardless once I had given my official announcement. I just… I wasn’t expecting people to find out so soon.”
“Lots of people followed Wreckers: Declassified. Hell, even Ratchet does.”
“Right, and he already knows about… this. But there are others who, once this gets to them… well, the whole world is going to know.”
Kup removed his cy-gar from his mouth and flaked off some residue. “You’re talking about Swerve.”
“Yes, Kup. I’m talking about Swerve.”
* * *
T minus 55 minutes
“Isn’t this amazing?!”
Skids stared blankly at Swerve, having barely processed what the red and white Autobot had just said to him within the span of ten seconds. “Uh… can you run it by me again? Maybe slower this time? I heard something about an iron fist.”
“It’s Ironfist! You know, Fisitron?” Swerve raised his hands over his head, nearly knocking over the oil can he had been cleaning out off the counter. “He’s back from the dead! Hell, I bet he wasn’t even dead to begin with! I always knew he would pull through; it only took two years. But it’s not just him, either. Windcharger is back, too!”
Skids blinked. “Windcharger? I remember him. He was in my class at the academy. I had heard he had been killed by that… Megatron-Optimus fusion. Which I guess was actually Scourge, technically?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, because he’s back! At least, that’s what Ironfist’s latest entry says.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t hacked or anything like that?”
“Are you kidding? I was stationed at Kimia with him. I remember him having Brainstorm set up all sorts of firewalls to make sure no one got access to his databanks. Trust me, his processor is more secure than Teletraan One.” Swerve then paused, glancing around the room. Skids wasn’t sure why he was doing that, since they were the only ones in the bar. Swerve then leaned over the counter, fighting with his life to keep a massive grin from spreading across his face.
“You know what this also means, yeah?”
Skids again give him a blank stare. “You’re just gonna have to tell me, man, because I’m no good at picking up on your flavor of subtext.”
“It means that there’s a chance to bring Tailgate back.”
Skids leaned back at those words, as the weight of them hit him. He recalled that, about a year ago, at the end of the Crusadercons’ quest, both Tailgate and Cyclonus had been lured into the trap that had been Mederi—which was the “Cyberutopia” they had spent their quest searching for—and killed by the station’s euthanasia program. He hadn’t seen their deaths for himself, having been split off in a different group, but he remembered Swerve telling him about their deaths, and how it had impacted him after Mederi’s promise of an Afterspark had worn off on all of them.
He also understood why Swerve missed Tailgate so badly; it wasn’t just because they were friends, but because ever since the quest had ended, Swerve had been nostalgic for those days. Being stuck in one place, whether it be Earth or Cybertron, had taken a toll on the minibot’s demeanor, and the fact that the old Crusadercon crew (or at least its surviving members) had all been split up between different teams and missions certainly didn’t help.
To have Tailgate back in any way, shape, or form… it would go a long way to help Swerve return to those good old times. A time that was, relatively speaking, much more simpler compared to now.
Not wanting to dampen his friend’s spirits, Skids chose his next few words carefully. “I think we should wait until we learn more about how Ironfist and Windcharger came back before getting our hopes up. I mean, Ironfist and Windcharger’s bodies were at least recoverable, and I take it their sparks were able to be saved.”
“We brought Tailgate’s body back with us,” Swerve pointed out.
“Yes, but his spark was taken away. As was Cyclonus’, in case you forgot about him.” Skids raised his hands to stop Swerve from interjecting. “Look, buddy, I want to be hopeful like you. But I’ve been burned way too many times over the course of my life to get too optimistic about things. I’m sure Rodimus is aware about all of this and will say something when the time is right.”
Swerve frowned. “You miss them, too, don’t you?”
“What? Of course I do. We hung out with Tailgate all the time, and even Cyclonus wasn’t that bad once you got to—”
“I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about the good old days. The quest days. Do you miss them?”
Skids went quiet as he considered the question. He thought back to all the memories he had of those days; of all the happiness, the heartache, and everything in between. He thought of the people they had met and those they had lost.
And he quickly realized that he very much did miss the good old days.
It was the first time in his life that he had some form of direction. A direction that did not require him to be a secret agent that was cut off from the rest of the world. A direction where he could let loose and just be himself… and be accepted for it.
Ever since the quest had ended, he had found himself losing that direction… and now wasn’t quite sure whether or not he still had any.
Skids exhaled slowly as he lowered his head. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I do miss them.”
Swerve reached over and tapped him on the arm. “Hey,” he said, his old smile returning to his face. “This is our chance to bring those days back. You’re right, I’m sure Rodimus will say something about it. And if he doesn’t, then you bet your actuator I’m gonna bring it up to him.”
Skids raised his head back up and smirked. “Knowing you? I have no doubt you will, old buddy.”
* * *
T minus 15 minutes
“Hey, can you change the channel? I think that speech is about to start.”
The barkeep looked up from the glass he was cleaning out to give his patron an odd look. “Speech? What speech?”
“Y’know, the giant robot’s speech.” The man in the plaid shirt waved his hand aimlessly in the air. “I just wanna see it. Not everyday you see a giant robot on television and it not be a human-killing machine.”
The barkeep huffed as he picked up a remote control and started flipping through channels, taking the screen off the basketball game it had been playing. “I dunno, man, I don’t trust those things. You mean to tell me these giant machines have been living among us for, what, three years? And only now does the government come out and officially announce some sort of alliance? Something’s fishy, man, I tell ya.”
“Yeah, yeah. I think they’re showing it on LCTV.”
The barkeep landed on the channel in question. Appearing on the television screen now was a massive robot in red and orange armor plating, a flame decal displayed prominently on its chest. It stood at a podium, speaking to a crowd of mostly other machines as well as a few humans, most of them representatives from the newly formed Earth Defense Command. Because the camera had been adjusted to fit as much of the robot as possible, most of the people were so small one could barely even make them out. But no one was watching the broadcast for them.
The man in the plaid shirt whistled. “Talk about timing. Looks like it just started.”
A caption at the bottom of the screen identified the red robot as Rodimus Prime, leader of Cybertron. Expressing a smile that seemed almost human in nature, Rodimus Prime began to speak. “As I’m sure you’re all aware by now, some familiar faces have begun to pop up. Faces that many of us thought to be gone forever. Ironfist, the Autobot engineer whom some of you know better as the author Fisitron, has awakened from his two-year coma to publish the latest entry in his Wreckers: Declassified series.”
The plaid-wearing patron scratched his beard. “These guys do writing of their own?”
The barkeep simply shrugged.
“Everything he wrote in that entry is true,” Rodimus Prime went on. “The dead have come home. Bots like Windcharger here have been restored after being brutally killed by Guiltaur last stellar cycle. Others such as Ironfist’s fellow Wrecker Rotorstorm are still in the recovery process of having their life restored. This, my friends, is only the beginning.”
The barkeep grunted to himself. “So these guys can just bring themselves back from the dead like that, eh? Must be nice. Maybe they could’ve saved my uncle last month.”
Rodimus Prime gestured to a smaller orange robot standing beside his podium. It had round optical sensors that almost looked like spectacles on its face. “With the help of my good friend Rung here, as well as the legendary Vector Sigma itself, we have been able to produce new sparks that will not only give life to new Cybertronians, but old ones as well.”
The crowd on-screen erupted in uproarious applause. In sharp contrast, the audience of two at the bar watched on in either bemused or disdainful silence.
“Today marks a new chapter in the history of Cybertron. A truly golden age that has only been dreamed of by Primes before me but has now been given fruition by our efforts. Join me as we step into an Age of Restoration!”
The crowd grew louder and louder, so loud it was peaking the on-site microphones. Just as the barkeep reached for the remote control again, the scene abruptly changed to a hazy black screen. Through the grainy static one could make out a humanoid figure, wearing some sort of skull-like mask. Within the eyeholes of the mask glowed red pinpricks of light.
“The hell?” the barkeep exclaimed. “What is this, some sort of Max Headroom type crap?”
The mysterious figure began to speak, but its words were difficult to make out due to the quality of the video. It was as if every other sentence was being garbled out by static.
“You are being deceived.”
“Is this part of the thing?” the barkeep asked his patron.
“No freaking clue. I don’t think it is…”
“The Autobots are wasting resources to prop up a flawed system. Both theirs and ours.”
“Y’know,” the patron said, “I have heard about people protesting this speech. Some anti-robot activists out there. Might have something to do with that.”
“Hmph. Makes sense.”
“The only answer is chaos. Become that which is inevitable.”
“Yeah,” the barkeep said. “You’re probably right. This sounds like something a kid would write.”
“We are mayhem. And so are you.”
Just as abruptly as it had begun, the interruption ended and returned to the broadcast. The speech was no longer on screen and was instead playing the tail-end of a political ad. A dark haired woman in a navy blue suit crossed her arms over the words “Guiglione for Mayor.”
“—Megan Guiglione, and I approve this message,” the woman was saying seconds before the barkeep hit the remote and changed the channel back to the basketball game.
“Well, looks like you missed it. If you ask me, I still think these machines are trouble. Especially if they can just bring themselves back like that.”
The patron sighed. “Yeah. You might be on to something there. I just thought it would be cool to see a giant robot on TV like that….”
As the man returned to his drink, he failed to pay any mind to the young woman sitting further down the bar who had been watching the broadcast much more intently than either of them. When the barkeep came down to her side of the bar, she wordlessly put down the money she owed for her tab.
The barkeep eyed the money as he took it before affixing the woman with a skeptical look. “You’re sure you’re twenty-one? That wasn’t a fake ID you gave me, was it? ‘Cos if you ask me—”
“I didn’t,” the woman said before getting down from her stool and striding out of the bar.
* * *
T minus 5 minutes
“Okay… are we back on?”
“Uh, I think so,” said Blaster, rubbing his helm as he double-checked the monitors. “The networks have already cut to commercial, so that’ll give us some time to recuperate.”
Rodimus Prime took in some air to cool off his heating internal systems. “Right,” he exhaled. “In the meantime, can someone look into what the frag just happened?”
“Has something like this ever happened before?” asked Marissa Faireborn, head of E.D.C., as she stood among the few other human spectators.
“Hacked broadcasts?” Blaster replied. “All the time during the war. Since then, I don’t think the ‘Cons have really bothered with such tactics… assuming this isn’t the Decepticons.”
Rodimus frowned. “They did say something about mayhem though. Wasn’t that the name of…?”
Before he could finish his thought, Red Alert approached him along with a detail of armed Autotroopers. The white and red security director who looking around frantically, regarding everything and everyone as if they were a potential threat.
“Got here as fast as we could, Prime. Everything all right here?”
“I believe so, Red. Probably just some scare tactics. Still, I would start putting things on lockdown just in case. At the very least, get those human protesters outside to somewhere safe.”
Red Alert nodded. “Will do.” He turned to the Autotroopers behind him. “Start escorting people to safety. Stay close to the Prime in case anyone tries to pull something funny.”
One of the Autotroopers stepped forward, walking towards Rodimus.
“I’m sorry,” the white-plated Autobot said.
Rodimus frowned at the trooper. “Pardon?”
The Autotrooper dropped his gun and lowered the windscreen on his chest. A red light began to blink.
Red Alert’s optics went wide. “BOMB! EVERYONE OUT!”
Thinking quickly, Rodimus threw himself around the Autotrooper, covering the soldier with his larger body.
The bomb went off and the last thing Rodimus remembered was being surrounded by flames.
