Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 1.2 Nights Before
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 1: Twilight of a Golden Age
2: Nights Before
The East Ridge Plaza
Praxus
Cybertron
The East Ridge might have been home to the high and the mighty but it was not as impressive as it sounded. As with everywhere else, lighting restrictions had left the nights dark and lifeless. The broad-spectrum illuminations that had once blazed from every building lay dormant and their low-energy successors did little to make the place look attractive. In fact, they only added to the gloom that seemed to hang over the streets.
Guaan, however, was undeterred and the interior of the oil-house into which he led Aratron fitted the picture of the elite end of town considerably more than its exterior. Everything was clean and polished and if not brightly then artistically lit. Those present fitted their surroundings perfectly. They were all high-end models, fitted with the latest mods and the best bodywork going. Several groups were clustered on the various platforms ranged in a spiral up the main room, chattering loudly on most of the major wavelengths. The largest crowd was clustered around an ornate mech who was regaling them with his personal opinions on life, the universe and everything.
At first, Aratron paid little attention to the rant. He was too busy being distracted by the way members of the mech’s audience kept pressing against each other, blue sparks fizzing as they touched. There was not exactly a taboo against ‘crackling’ but it was definitely not something Aratron had ever considered doing in public.
“…would know if you’d ever seen it,” the vocal mech was saying when he finally tuned in, “An absolute waste of good materials, if you ask me. Hideous and inefficient. The whole line should be reformatted.”
“I’ve heard it’s quite a popular form on the gladiatorial circuit,” a feme sitting on the shoulder of one of the other mechs put in tremulously. As soon as she said it, she covered her mouth with both hands, shocked at her own audacity in mentioning something so risqué.
The orator was unfazed. “No doubt. Big and ugly probably strikes about the right note with the barbarians who like that sort of thing.”
“Ever seen a match?” the mech acting as the feme’s perch asked curiously, stirring a beaker of oil with his finger.
“Absolutely not! What a terrible thought!” Loud-voice’s delicate white fins flapped and curled indignantly. “If you ask me, the Magnus should stamp it out - literally if that’s what it takes.”
“Bit hard to defend when it’s part of the state games,” a thickset green mech pointed out.
“Hah! Properly refereed and adjudicated and even then it’s a brutish sort of sport. No skill, no artistry - simple violence played to a crowd. Merely encourages the menial classes to brawl and damage themselves when they should be working. Small wonder there’s unrest when those supposedly leading us actively encourage aggression in the dregs.”
“Have you heard about the latest outrage?” The feme again, clearly excited at being able to report another scandal. “An entire sky-dock in Tagan Heights! They say it was the foremech! Can you believe that?”
“Absolutely,” the orator said vehemently, “They may be brought online as a higher grade but they’re surrounded by menials day after day. It’s hardly surprising that they degrade.”
As he was listening to this new proclamation, the big green mech noticed the two newcomers standing nearby. Their drab silver bodies and black trim made them stand out in the upmarket oil-house as much as the clientele’s gilt trim would have made them stand out in a Polyhex slum. Slowly but inevitably, the rest of the group turned to see what their companion was looking at.
Gauun’s expression was painfully cheery. “Oh, don’t mind us. It’s all really fascinating - very interesting theory. Do you think if we hang around with clean-living elite types like you, we’ll end up raising our grades just like that? I mean, if hanging around with ‘dregs’ brings it down, it’s only logical that hanging around with over-revved shine-freaks like you would take it up. Right? Oh, sorry, did I say that last bit out loud? I mean, over-revved, over-fuelled shine-freaks like you.”
“I think,” began Loud-voice with chilly and forced calmness, “you must have come through the wrong door.”
“I don’t think so. This is an oil-house and we want oil, so I think we’re in the right place. We were going to order when we got distracted by your stirring lecture on the times we live in. Isn’t that right, Wheels?”
“Yeah,” Aratron agreed cautiously, eying the now distinctly miffed mechs around them, “Right.”
“I very much doubt you would be able to afford the quality of oil served here,” Loud-voice grated, his optics burning brighter green with every word, “And even if you could, I suspect it would be too rich for you to handle.”
“Too weak, more like,” Gauun corrected, before adding amiably, “But we’ll try it anyway.”
And with that, he led the way to the bar.
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The Palace of Law
Vos
Cybertron
“The disruption to the Tagan Heights is affecting our traders less than we feared. We will still be able to achieve our quotas, although there may be some delay in doing so.” Lord Vvnet paused, blue armour flaring a little, as Lord Geneion indicated he wished to speak.
“Some delay?” The flyer’s voice was scratchy with age. “What is that supposed to mean? We have roads to build - a city to maintain.”
“Not to mention war wings to equip,” Lord Myyoc put in, tail flicking back and forth, “If your traders are going to be even a cycle late, my timetables will be thrown into disarray.”
Vvnet pressed her fingers together and glanced at the war minister irritably. “Around four cycles’ delay will be unavoidable but I hardly think you can be doing your job particularly well if that is all it takes to throw you into disarray.”
“My lords…” Lord Taynset’s soft voice cut through the squabble before it could begin. “This is not the Prime’s council chamber. We all work towards the same goal. Let us do so with some measure of decorum. Now. The trade delays are not a matter over which we can exert much control, so I suggest we move on to consider matters on which our discussions will have some bearing. I believe Lord Sarristec wished to raise a point about the payment of the lower grade menials.”
Sarristec acknowledged the invitation, ducking his head. Taynset made him nervous and not just because he was the first among equals, the senior Lord of Vos. There was something about the sleek teal mech, with his neat, sharp wings and soft yellow eyes that spoke of total confidence, as if he had nothing to prove to anyone. Naturally enough, this made those around him feel precisely the opposite.
“Ah…yes. My Lords.” Brushing at an invisible speck of dust on his forearm, Sarristec gathered his thoughts. “It has come to my attention that the rations allocated to the majority of the menial grades working under our jurisdiction have been declining over the course of the past few mega-cycles. While this is understandable, I think the cuts have been more severe than was strictly necessary, especially when considering energy allocation elsewhere. I recommend an immediate three per cent increase in fuel rations, with a possible rise to four and a half per cent should it prove viable.”
There was a moment’s dumbfounded silence. “Are you suggesting,” Vvnet growled, that we squander resources on rewarding menials?”
“Absolutely not!” Sarristec bristled at the suggestion. “Rewards are for those who go above and beyond their duty, menials merely perform their function. But their functions are still vital to our city and they must have the strength to perform them. Besides…” A slightly sly note entered his voice. “It would go some way to prevent the civil unrest that threatens our neighbours’ stability. It would show, would it not, that we are a beacon of sanity in this world. There could be no question of the destruction of vital facilities here.”
He let the threat of insurrection and the lure of gaining face before the other cities sink in. Lord Omnitron, who had so far been silent, raised a questioning finger, dark optic strip momentarily brightening. “From where is this three per cent to be conjured?”
Sarristec smiled. “We must, of course, take the lead and sacrifice part of our allocated power for the good of the city. But,” he continued quickly, “I thought that most of it could be reassigned from the energy currently set aside for use by the officers of the Magnus and the representatives of the sundry High Council ministries that we are required to support. The fuel shortage is an issue of planetary importance, so they could hardly begrudge making such a small sacrifice for the sake of Vos’ continued stability. We do, after all, constitute a large part of Cybertron’s economic infrastructure.”
That pleased them. When in doubt, put one over on the central government. Taynset motioned for quiet, cutting off the murmur of approval. “I think we can all agree that, if Lord Sarristec’s proposal can be carried out, it will prove popular.”
Sarristec froze, the sudden recognition of a victory too easily won stealing over him. Had he over reached himself? A Lord he may have been but he was still a junior among the Conclave and he was arguing for a major shift in policy, one that would have consequences both at home and abroad. He knew the stakes, he thought he could get away with it, use it to bolster his support among plebs and elite alike. Was there something he had overlooked, some way in which Taynset could turn the proposal against him?
“And I believe that if it is to be carried out, it must be done so under the optic of the mech who devised it. That is only fair, after all.”
Sarristec’s ventilators began to turn somewhat more easily. That was as much as he had expected and he was ready both to turn it to his personal advantage and escape it if that became necessary. “I would be honoured by such an appointment,” he said, with as much grace as he could muster.
Another murmur of approval went around the table. Taynset inclined his head. “Then so be it. Congratulations, my Lord Sarristec.”
Bowing in response, Sarristec did his best to hide his satisfaction.
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Cybertronian Mining Site Dega-Tryptic
Anska
The liquid metal flowed slowly and painfully into the connection port, coalescing into the rudiments of an endoskeleton - and no more. The moment the joints and connections had reach the lowest level of structural cohesion, the flow of raw proto-matter was cut off and a jolt of energy stabilised the embryonic limb.
“Is that it?” Optrion asked, trying not to sound petulant.
“That is it,” Ratchet growled, jerking the dispenser hose away irritably, “I need to save it for more important patients than idiot squad leaders who ram their arms down tank barrels.”
Optrion chuckled to himself and stood up, flexing his new arm. “How long until I can get it properly rebuilt?”
“How should I know?” The doctor hauled the vat of proto-matter on towards the next repair berth. “How long until they stop dragging in mechs with holes in them?”
Abruptly serious again, the taller red and blue armoured mech surveyed the crowded field station. Soldiers in various states of disrepair filled every available berth, some transformed, some in vehicle mode, some stuck halfway between. More than a few were in need of new hands, limbs, wheels and treads. There was even a flyer, looming over the ground-bound troopers and looking very subdued, one of his wings hanging in tatters.
“Hey,” a voice called from behind them, “if you’re done fixing up the boss-mech, how’s about getting’ me a SCRAPPING HEAD?!”
Optrion looked round to find that they were being addressed by a battered green tank, who was glaring at them from his seat on an upturned crate. Or would have been glaring if everything above his jaw had not been missing.
“Slag you, Bombshock” Ratchet retorted with the cool professionalism for which he was noted, “Frag me, if I’d known you had enough left in you to reroute your vocal processors, I’d have added an extra hole or two to keep you down.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” ‘Bombshock’ fumed, “I spend all my time keeping your pearly white skidplate in one piece and you don’t even fix me up when I need it.”
“Eh, shut up. It’s just your head. And it’s an improvement. You look less slagging ugly like this. You planning on standing there all day?” The white mech’s attention had switched back to Optrion. “Go do some commanding and get the Pit out of my light.”
Leaving the doctor to his patients, Optrion made his way out into the open, emerging into the red light of the Anska day. He stretched his arms experimentally, making minute adjustments to his balance to compensate for his newly evened weight. The freshly cast joints felt both stiff and weak but time would improve them. In a few cycles, he would be back to full strength and once the new armour was fitted, ready for battle again.
The camp was relatively quiet as he crossed it, those mechs not on guard either with the medics or on recharge cycles. A few were scattered around, cleaning weapons or fixing equipment. He nodded to another squad leader and took the rough path up to where the command platforms have been positioned, passing under the shadow of the bulky communications boosters. And for the second time in as many cycles, someone called out from behind him.
“So. Do you make a habit of disarming yourself at the same time as your enemy?”
The first thing anyone noticed - the first thing to notice - about Field Commander Megatron was his size. He was easily head and shoulders above most mechs. Even Optrion, by no means small himself, had to look up to meet his optic. The reasons for that were varied. He had not exactly been compact in the first place, formatted as he had been as a heavy labourer in Tarn, a city known for the stature of its progeny. A course of less than legal upgrades during his days as an ‘athlete’ had only increased his height and bulk. Adding to that the dermal armour and weapons systems fitted as standard to every member of the Cybertronian military, he had become a truly formidable sight.
Optrion snapped to attention, more than a little embarrassed to find himself addressed in such a manner by his superior officer. “Not a habit, exactly, sir.”
“Hm.” The silver grey mech looked down at the laser cannon he was cleaning. “And yet when a tank breaks your line, your response is to sacrifice a limb to destroy its offensive capabilities.”
“May I explain, sir?”
Megatron’s optics flickered to a slightly lighter yellow. “I think you had better.”
“The tank broke through by overcharging its motivator, sir, and opened fire on my squad at point-blank range. We were almost out of ammo and I doubted we would be able to breach its armour in time anyway. So, I…ah…”
“Jammed your arm down its main barrel,” Megatron completed.
“Yes sir.”
There was a protracted silence as he finished clearing out the cannon’s stock. Deftly, he jerked the weapon and slammed the casing closed again. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “An impressive piece of improvisation,” he said once he had regained his composure and pulled himself away from the support pillar he had been leaning against. He clapped Optrion on the still-armoured shoulder and stowed the laser cannon.
“I did what I had to, sir.”
“And did it well. I approve of commanders who are prepared take risks alongside those under their command - provided it pays off, of course.” He turned and beckoned Optrion.
“I looked up your record,” he added once they were in motion, “This battlefield saw plenty of the usual heroic nonsense but your actions stood out enough to arouse my curiosity - if only because of who you are. It’s rare indeed to see an Iaconian, much less an Iaconian officer willing to get his skin scratched in the line of duty.” This was said with considerable conviction and not a little contempt.
“You, ah, don’t like Iaconians, sir?”
“No,” Megatron agreed, “I do not. You, however, show considerable promise. You’re here for a start.”
Optrion hesitated then decided that some response to this was indeed expected. “I felt I could best serve Cybertron by helping defend it from outside attack.”
“Good. You would have been wasted as a ceremonial guard.”
It was high praise indeed from a mech famed for leading some of the most successful campaigns in Cybertronian history. Fortunately, before Optrion was forced to try to think up a suitable reply, a dark shape materialised on the edge of his vision, making him jerk to one side to avoid it.
The black quadruped chuckled softly as he dropped down from a barricade. He fell into step beside the commander, fangs glinting as he spoke. “Bentwing’s squad is on a return vector. They will be here within the cycle.”
“Excellent.” Megatron did not even break stride. “Is the ops-suite prepared?”
“Yes commander.”
“Then signal Bentwing to meet us there.”
“Commander.”
The quadruped loped dutifully away. Apparently suddenly remembering that the red and blue mech was at his side, Megatron turned back to Optrion, a flash of irritation crossing his expression. “It would appear we have no time to discuss your close-combat methods in more detail. I will need all squads prepped and on standby. Give your mechs a head-start and pass the word.” With that, he too quickened his pace and followed his subordinate towards the largest of the command platforms.
If he noticed Optrion’s reflexive salute, he did not acknowledge it.
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