TRANSFORMERS
ETERNITY ISSUE 2 IN THE SHADOW OF DAWN Cybertron… Iacon… There were many stories told about where she stood, but there was only one that she believed. Arcee had never been so high before, the young Autobot alone on the balcony overlooking the horizon of the minor city state, and she marvelled at the view. She smiled, optics blue and full of wonder, Iacon filling the skyline with bold structures and the vibrancy of potential. Her city had grown experientially in recent years, and now it stood upon the cusp of becoming something special. It was whispered upon many lips, but rarely was it said out loud. Not yet. She looked down at the railing before her, tapping at it tentatively with the tips of her fingers, Arcee hesitant as she traced the outlines of indentations in the steel that had been placed there over a millennium ago. It was said that Alpha Trion had stood upon this very spot and, for the first time since his creation, had looked upon the sky with his own eyes. It was said that at that very moment, her people had become free. It was so long ago, it was impossible to imagine… But she believed. With a guilty sense of sacrilege, she wrapped her own digits about the railing, her fingers settling within the grooves that had been left there so many years previous by an Autobot that was more myth than memory. She looked out across the horizon and watched the sun rise with a new dawn, and she had to wonder what he might of thought were he still here to see it. “Arcee?” a voice called out from inside the building and, snapped from her revere, she turned about to greet him. “I’m out here, laying claim to all that I survey” she answered, the all too familiar mutterings that greeted her proclamation bringing a smile to her features. “Making yourself at home?” Wheeljack queried, the short stacked, stocky Autobot joining her on the balcony with a few erratic, jittery movements accompanying his arrival. Medic by design, engineer by necessity and ‘father’ by choice, the Autobots age was difficult to discern given the loss of records surrounding his construction, and his own, faulty memory. “Shouldn’t we be?” Arcee asked, well accustomed to her father’s involuntary eccentricities. “Maybe,” Wheeljack shrugged in response, an almost violent tick creaking his neck before he slammed his palm against the side of his own head. That seemed to knock something back into place, and a greater sense of coherency entered his optics. No-one was entirely certain what exactly was responsible for the mechanics irregular mental state, but everyone had their own theory. Few of them were kind. Only Wheeljack knew the truth. “This offer was genuine,” Arcee assured her father who, with darting eyes, was clearly still waiting for the other shoe to drop. His reputation was not what it had once been. “Jazz is your friend, remember?” Wheeljack nodded after a short moment, looking back inside the currently vacant workspace, free to do with as he pleased. Something that wasn’t… “Do you think it’s true?” Arcee interrupted his chain of thought as she looked back down at the railing, her fingers resettled in the grooves left by Alpha Trion. “Do you think that he stood here?” Wheeljack shrugged, leaning forwards to look at the indentations, “Maybe. I can name ten other places in Iacon alone that can boast the same claim. History is funny in that way, it depends on who is remembering it.” He looked up at the girl that he had adopted and, with an involuntary twitch of his right hand, he reconsidered his opinion. “Yes,” he nodded, not an iota of doubt remaining in his manner, “Alpha Trion stood right here.” Arcee smiled, as though his confirmation was all that she required, the young Autobot looking back out across the horizon and a new day. The price had been paid, the promise had been kept. They were free… ********** Praxus, Capital of Cybertron… Sentinel Prime had not felt so vital in centuries, his golden physique gleaming in the morning sun, his gaze only for the horizon, for the future. A month had passed since he had made his proclamation to every Autobot and Deception across the length and breadth of the Cybertronian Empire, one that had been met with a great deal of shock and, it was fair to say, no small amount of hysteria. He had upended their understanding of the cosmos and tonight… The Supreme Commander of the most dominant species the galaxy had ever known paused, his arms folded behind his back, taking in all that he surveyed. His Kingdom. Tonight, the Council would gather, the people would vote, and before the next dawn came, they would write a new chapter in history. They would evolve. “Yes, Magnus?” he did not turn about to greet the City Commander of Praxus, well aware of the dutiful Autobots presence, and his patience. “Battle Fleet Epsilon has re-entered the core system,” Ultra Magnus reported, his manner succinct and to the point as always. “The 147th will be deployed to Iacon by the evenings end.” “Excellent,” Sentinel smiled, clasping his hands together and surprising himself with how much the news pleased him. Turning about, Prime left the balcony and returned to his reception, joining one of his closest confidents more formally. “I was beginning to grow concerned that they would not make it in time. I should have known better than to doubt Elita One and the Indomitable. Your brother too, it is good that he will be joining us at such an auspicious time.” Ultra Magnus refrained from making comment. “Governor Pax,” Sentinel poured himself a stiff glass of refined energon. Usually it was too rich for his tastes, but he felt like celebrating. This would be a day worthy of it. He shook his head ever so slightly, holding the drink up and staring into its contents. He paused. He did not know why. “Orion Pax,” he mused, he thoughts trailing, something itching in his cortex, a reminder of something he was supposed to know. “Prime?” Magnus prompted, professionalism preventing the concern from entering his enquiry. “Yes?” Sentinel looked up, his perception clearing as though he hadn’t been distracted. He changed the subject quickly. “Is all prepared?” “In all the ways that we can control,” the City Commander reported, drawing no further attention to his Prime’s momentary lack of focus. He did not linger on how frequent those lapses were becoming. “Yes. If all goes well, by midnight tonight, the war will be over.” “The war is already over,” Sentinel declared, downing his drink and setting the glass aside, a hint of impatience entering his tone. “The war had been over for centuries, we just haven’t wanted to admit it. I will not be the Prime that drove a species to extinction over a matter of superstition.” ‘They will come back’, was a mantra that had been ingrained into the very spark of every Cybertronian since they had first gained sentience. It was their reasoning for every atrocity that they had committed since the war began, the very thought that the ‘Quintessons will come back.’ He would no longer abide by such reasonings. He would not commit genocide because of what might happen, regardless of how much others had protested. Prime sighed, returning to the balcony. Once, he would have been one of them. Not anymore. “We are the custodians of his branch of the cosmos,” he declared, Sentinel sweeping out his arm to encompass the horizon. “None can challenge us, not even our creators, and if we are to be the guiding hand over those beneath us, then we must prove that we are worthy of the privilege. We are not the Quintessons.” He lent forwards, his hands grasping the railing. “I will not allow us to become them.” ********** The Core System… When the Indomitable re-emerged into real space, it did so like a knife slicing through an open wound, the Spacebridge resealing behind it as though it had never been there before. On any other day, the Armageddon class battleship would have dominated the skyline of Cybertron’s orbit, but today, it was but one amongst a fleet of unaccountable size. Hundreds of ships, thousands, hundreds of thousands from all across the cosmos returning home on this most auspicious day. The Cybertronian’s had come home. The sight of it sent a chill through Elita One’s core, though she struggled to comprehend why. “Would you look at that,” Trailbreaker whistled from beside her command throne aboard the bridge of the Indomitable, the elderly Autobot always close to hand should the need arise to lay down his life in exchange for hers. “I still recall when the only fleet we had was the one we stole.” Elita cocked her eyebrow, the twitch of her lips betraying her amusement as she leaned in her throne to gaze up at her security. “Surely you mean liberated.” “Is that what we wrote down?” Trailbreaker queried, a chuckle emerging from his broad chest plate. “I still recall there being a great deal of stealing involved, little bit of looting to boot. Perhaps I wasn’t looking at it from the approved perspective.” “Perhaps,” Elita agreed, well aware that history was written by the victors. As she turned her gaze back out across the core system of her people, her homeworld ringed by a fleet of unimaginable scale, there could be no mistaking that they had become that very thing. All that remained was to decide what manner of victors that they would be. “Seems as though the Nemesis beat us home,” Trailbreaker observed, leaning forwards ever so slightly as he did so, his optics picking out the sister ship of the Indomitable. The two leviathans circled one another across the space lanes, each possessing the firepower to crack open entire planets, each in a class of their own. “I’m sure Megatron would be pleased to hear from you.” Elita drummed the tips of her fingers upon her armrest, feeling more pensive now than she ever had upon the eve of battle. Something was wrong. Something inevitable… “Commander?” Trailbreaker jolted Elita One from her trance and, regaining her composure, she stood up quickly, dismissing any and all sense of trepidation that threatened to worm its way into her system. “I’m sure he would,” she agreed, evidently having already decided that she would be doing nothing of the sort. “But I’m sure ‘Lord’ Megatron has enough on his plate without having to entertain old subordinates. In the meantime, we’ll be seeing our passengers off soon, and I would like to wish the new Governor of Iacon a fond farewell.” ********** When Hot Rod awoke, it was to a less than pleasant jolt. He grimaced, the young Autobot attempting to stretch but finding his movements restricted, the manacles about his wrists locking his servos tights. With a sigh of frustration, he remembered all to well where he was, his cold, cramp, steel environment coming into unwelcome focus. The room was entirely unadorned aside from the functional bench he was sat upon, the one bolted to the wall opposite his own, and the flickering illumination of a light up above. Hot Rod could almost swear that he was alone, for all of the noise his two compatriots were making, and his attention was first drawn back to the mech who stood at one end of the cell. He made a face, feeling intensely uncomfortable in the presence of the silent figure, the Vigilant had always made him uncomfortable. They stood like Cybertronian’s, could even act them at times, but they were no more than automations, machines without a spark, guns that could walk. The Vigilant did not acknowledge his reactivation, it merely watched with the impassivity of the mindless, its featureless mask revealing nothing. It simply watched. The Vigilant were always watching. “Relax kid,” the third occupant of the cell made himself known and Hot Rod, his shoulders stiff from inaction, turned his head about to look at him. He’d never met the emerald mech before, and all that he knew about him was that the Decepticon had already been there when Hot Rod had been hustled in. “They won’t bite unless you give them reason to.” Hot Rod made a non-committal grunt, no more at ease than he had been before. “It’s Springer,” the other mech continued on, his own posture filled with enough mild amusement to seem as though he was unaware of his own imprisonment. “In case you wanted to know.” He didn’t, but then, the young Autobot was feeling surlier than usual, “Hot Rod.” Springer smiled, ever so slightly, “You’re fourth gen, aren’t you?” Hot Rod opened his mouth to protest but, realising that it was pointless, slumped his shoulders instead, “Just barely.” Springer smiled even more, his head leaned back as he gazed at the ceiling, “Tried to break the mandate, didn’t you? What was your plan? Sign up under false credentials and become a war hero before anyone figured out that you’re not allowed to be there?” Once again, Hot Rod made a face, irked by the implied ridicule that he wasn’t certain was real or imagined, “It isn’t fair, it should be my choice to serve.” “I’m not disagreeing,” Springer placated, seemingly far more comfortable in his restraints than the young Autobot was. “But the law is the law, no fourth gen is to serve in the armed forces, either branch. Your hands are going to be clean, the Prime has decreed it.” “Primes don’t know everything,” Hot Rod muttered, looking down at his hands that had been forcibly rendered impotent. “Who is he to decide who I am?” Springer shrugged, not having an answer. Silence fell for a long moment, before the cell they occupied jolted violently. Hot Rod looked around, as though their blank environment had secrets to reveal. “Relax, kid,” Springer stretched as best he could, looking to the Vigilant who was silently guarding their only exit. “That just means we’re entering Cybertron’s orbit, I’ve been through far worse re-entries than this. You’re home.” “Great,” Hot Rod sighed, not feeling overly thrilled by the notion. “Don’t worry about it,” the emerald Deception finally looked directly at the predominantly crimson and yellow Autobot. “You’ll get a slap on the wrist, explained the error of your ways and do some community service. You’ll be back to figuring out what you’re supposed to do with yourself in no time.” “What about you?” Hot Rod asked, slightly irritated that his curiosity was getting the better of him, “What are you in for?” Springer grinned at that, but if Hot Rod had made a joke, he wasn’t aware of it. “From what I hear,” the emerald mech laughed, leaning his head back as he did so, “for being ahead of my time.” ********** Polyhex… “Is he still alive?” Minerva questioned, her tone laced with trepidation. She knew the answer, but now that she found herself in Grimlock’s presence, she found it difficult to reconcile the truth with what she was seeing. He was the oldest living Cybertronian, he had been there upon the first days of liberation, he had been the right hand of Alpha Trion, he was over one thousand years old, and he hadn’t moved in three centuries. He sat immobile upon his iron throne, the silent king monstrous even in inactivity, a beast who had made play at being civilised. The Decepticons revered him as though he were some manner of deity, the first of their kind to turn his guns upon his former masters, Minerva herself had struggled to believe that he was even real. There was no denying it now, her slender frame dwarfed by the gargantuan physique of the engine of war before her, she half expected him to speak at a moments noticed. She was surprised by how terrified she was by the thoughts that he might do so. “Yes,” First Aid replied, the slightly older Autobot distracted by his own duties. As the senior medic on site, it fell within his remit to ensure that Grimlock remained functional, however much the mech in question seemed determined to be anything but. A chord trailed from First Aid’s forearm and into his patients, and it was with detached indifference that he studied Grimlock’s vitals. They were the same today as they had been the day before, and they would be the same tomorrow. Nothing changed in Polyhex, not when it concerned the Silent King. “For all practical purposes at least.” “Why did he do it?” Minerva voiced the query without thinking, approaching the iron throne far more tentatively that she was comfortable with. First Aid did not rush the new medic, no-one responded well upon their first visit, no-one could look Grimlock in the eye upon their first meeting. Perhaps they were afraid of what they might see. “Why did he… shut down?” At first, First Aid didn’t answer, almost as if he hadn’t been listening, but when he did so it was with considered words. Truthfully, he didn’t know the answer, no-one did but Grimlock himself, and that left plenty of room to speculate. “In our creation, intentionally or otherwise, the Quintessons made us functionally immortal,” the medic mused, continuing to examine his patients read outs. “Unlike organics, we do not wither and cease to function due to the passaging of years, we can not die of old age. But we do age, like any living thing, we age all too much.” He paused, looking upon the former Master of the Decepticons. The first of his kind. “Perhaps he’d just… had enough.” With that thought, Minerva looked upon Grimlock with renewed perspective, the first Cybertronian, the only Cybertronian, to have voluntarily shut down. The Decepticon who the Universe would not allow to die. “That’s odd,” First Aid observed aloud, his brow furrowing in confusion. Pacing forwards, Minerva found his new-found concern overpowered her trepidation, joining First Aid as he tapped at the monitor built into his forearm. “Is something wrong?” “I’m not,” the senior medic furrowed his brow further, scrolling through the text that refused to find cohesion, “these readings are most irregular. I’m detecting neural activity that hasn’t been present in centuries.” “Is he waking up?” Minerva questioned, taking an involuntary step backwards. “I’m not,” First Aid cussed silently in frustration. “This doesn’t make any sense, its as if someone is talking to him, but we haven’t used these channels since the first days of the war. He’s picking up transmissions across what should be dead airspace.” “What are they saying?” “I don’t know,” First Aid confessed, not sure he wanted to, his own optics drifting to the Silent King sat upon his Iron Throne. “Red Sky,” he muttered, feeling as though the words carried with them the weight of history. “They’re just saying Red Sky.” |
Emma WoodsAuthor of DC2k's Supergirl, more than meets the eye Archives
January 2020
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