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        To Chapter Twenty-Three
 

        "Air Raid, where are you going?" Silverbolt came walking up behind the smaller Autobot, frowning. "You left your post without saying a word—is everything all right?"

        Air Raid, his back to the Aerialbot leader, rolled his optics. "Yeah, I’m fine. I just. . .I just wanted to be alone with my grief for Springer, is all." It sickened him to say those words—no self-respecting Decepticon would ever say such a thing—but he needed the cover of Air Raid’s persona in order to walk unmolested on the streets of Cybertron.

        "I understand, Air Raid." Silverbolt’s voice grew quiet, and Air Raid could hear his steps on the steel ground as he drew closer. He put one hand on Air Raid’s shoulder. "We are all grieving for Springer. He was one of the best of us. But his loss, and now the loss of Arcee, cannot be faced alone. Come, return with me to our Aerialbot brethren, and we shall grieve together."

        Air Raid had had enough. His mouth opened, and very slowly, his voice a deliberate growl, he said, "Get your hand off me, Silverdolt. Now."

        Silverbolt drew back, his face a mask of confusion. "Wh-what’s this, Air Raid? I’m only trying to help! Don’t shut me out, brother!"

        "I’m not your brother, you idiotic Autobot clod." Air Raid turned around, a dark shadow across his face. His optics narrowed as he stared at Silverbolt. "I’d advise you to go back to your whining compatriots before I blast you. . .but I’ve been looking forward to shooting you for quite some time."

        As Air Raid spoke, Silverbolt’s optics widened in dawning horror. Air Raid didn’t seem to realize his voice was changing as he spoke. . .but it had, and Silverbolt recognized it all too well, now. "Starscream!"

        Air Raid shrugged, smiling, and before Silverbolt could react, drawing his own weapon, Air Raid had unleashed a half-dozen staccato laserfire bursts into his chest, shorting out vital circuitry and severing necessary fuel lines. Silverbolt’s mouth worked soundlessly as he fell to the ground, thin trails of smoke trickling out of his wounds. Air Raid looked around to see if they were being watched and, seeing no one, walked calmly over to kneel next to Silverbolt’s twitching body.

        "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, Silverdolt." Air Raid spoke quietly, calmly, in the voice of Starscream. "It’s bad enough that I’m trapped in this pathetically weak body. But to have to put up with your senseless Autobot prattling?" He put the gun to Silverbolt’s head and smiled. Silverbolt, feeling the cold press of the metal, tried clawing his way weakly forward even as his coolant, hydraulic fluid and fuel leaked onto the ground beneath him. "Really, Silverbolt, you should thank me. I’m doing the Autobots a favor."

        The muffled sound of Air Raid’s pistol made Starscream think wistfully of his own powerful null rays.

        Cliffjumper frowned at the overly-loud music blaring from the jukebox next to the doorway. The Drive Train was a lowbrow oil-and-filter place on the fringe of the galaxy, catering only to the worst kind of clientele. The bots that traveled in these circles didn’t deal with the Autobots or the Decepticons. . .many of them had fled the wars on Cybertron and beyond like cowards, to try and make their own way through the universe. Cliffjumper didn’t like any of them, never had, never would. But he knew he needed at least one of them, especially now that he himself was one of them.

        He sneered. That wasn’t right—he hadn’t fled the war, no way. But he wasn’t going to fight it Rodimus Prime’s way, that was for damn sure. Rodimus wasn’t the sort of leader Optimus Prime was—he didn’t have the instincts Prime had. Hell, he was part of the reason why Prime had died back in Autobot City. He hadn’t seen it himself, of course—but he’d heard talk, and the talk he heard, he didn’t like.

        So let the Autobots follow Rodimus around if they wanted to, just because he had some kind of holy trinket in his crankcase. But Cliffjumper had his own agenda. He was gonna bring down that slaughtering monster Cyclonus if it was the last thing he did. He remembered the blood on his hands and feet. . .he remembered the carnage at Darios IX. It was something he would never forget.

        He looked around the bar, trying to spot his target. He’d been to several of these dives since he’d left Cybertron, and now he finally had a lead as to where his bot was. He saw somebody up at the counter who fit the description, and started walking toward him.

        "Ey! Lookit the runt!" The sound of a run-down vocoder erupted into harsh barks of laughter, and Cliffjumper turned to look at its owner. The robot was sitting at a table Cliffjumper was walking past, and was obviously drunk on the high-petrol energon this place was serving. He leaned over and patted Cliffjumper on the head with one ragged hand, two fingers of which had been lost long before. "’S otay, runt, someday you’ll grow big and strong just like the rest of us."

        Cliffjumper glanced around, saw several of the patrons watching. A couple of them were snickering, including his target. He turned back to the drunk and smiled politely. Then, he grabbed the fellow’s arm and braced himself, using his smaller size to lever the drunk up and over, onto the floor behind him. The drunk landed with a rattled thud and his arm pulled off his body, remaining in Cliffjumper’s hand. Cliffjumper stared at it in disgust, then threw it onto the unconscious drunk’s chest. He looked around, seeing if anyone else wanted to challenge him. . .and everyone else had already turned back to their drinks. Everyone, that was, except for his target, who nodded approvingly.

        Cliffjumper brushed his hands off and walked up to the blue robot. He was a bounty hunter, legendary among the Autobots for his crusade to rid the universe of the Decepticons who had fled the Great War to sow seeds of conquest outside of Cybertron. He was a deserter, yes, but one with his own agenda—an agenda that Cliffjumper could appreciate.

        "You Defcon?" Cliffjumper asked.

        Defcon’s optics shifted to the Autobot symbol on Cliffjumper’s belly, then back up to Cliffjumper’s face. "That depends on who’s askin’."

        There was a clattering near the doorway, drawing both Defcon and Cliffjumper’s attention. Somebody was trying to shove a credit chit into the jukebox, which was itself trying to transform into its robot mode. The two robots wrestled for a moment, with the jukebot finally tossing the other aside and sidling up to the bar for a drink.

        Cliffjumper turned back to Defcon. "The name’s Cliffjumper. I’ve heard you’re a legend, and I want you to prove it."

        Defcon took another gulp of his energon beverage. "I don’t have to prove anything."

        Cliffjumper would not be deterred. "I’ve heard you hunt Decepticons. Well, I’ve got a Decepticon I wanna hunt. Name of Cyclonus." Cliffjumper showed him a holo of Cyclonus, taken during the Autobot recapture of Cybertron. It was a bit blurry, but the Decepticon in it was recognizable enough.

        Defcon stared down at the holo. "I’ve heard of him. He’s their leader now, or something."

        "He’s a filthy murderer, and I want him. Bad."

        "So why do you need me? I mean, if he’s that bad, why aren’t the Autobots doing everything they can to find him and shut him down?"

        "Because Rodimus Prime’s more concerned about the Autobots doing what he says than going after the Decepticons."

        Defcon shook his head sadly.

        "Are you telling me no?" Cliffjumper asked.

        "Not at all. I knew Optimus Prime, back before he left Cybertron. We’re all poorer for his loss." Defcon stood up. "I don’t suppose you know where we can find Cyclonus?"

        "Nope."

        "And I suppose he’s surrounded himself with the best, most powerful Decepticons?"

        "Most likely."

        "Anything else?"

        "Perceptor thinks he was created by Unicron. Nobody heard of him before that."

        "So. We’ve got a powerful Decepticon in the heart of the Decepticon army, possibly created by the Planetkiller, and even if we manage to take him out, we’ll probably be gunned down by his followers."

        "That’s about the extent of it, yeah."

        Defcon smiled. "Just my kind of assignment."

        Rodimus Prime, gun in hand, rushed to the plain outside of Iacon as soon as he heard the perimeter alarms begin to sound. He was grateful that there was some new action, close to home, that would get his mind—get all their minds—off the death of Springer. He didn’t know how long it would be before the Autobots finally grew tired of his leadership and let their mutiny show, tearing the Matrix from him and giving it to a new leader selected from their own ranks. But, so long as there was always some new threat, some new force to keep them occupied, he was safe.

        Soon enough he was joined by Ultra Magnus and several others, including Goldbug and the Witwickys, and they stood together outside Iacon and searched the skies with their optics and eyes for the threat. They found nothing.

        Rodimus activated his inter-Autobot radio. "Hubcap, what is it? Why are the alarms going off? We don’t see anything."

        Hubcap, deep under the surface of Cybertron at the auxiliary Command and Control center in the most protected area of Iacon, came through loud and clear thanks to the powerful transmitting equipment there. "We’ve got something small coming in, no bigger than maybe you and Ultra Magnus put together. No readings on it yet, and I can’t get a clear visual—whatever it is, it’s come in on a trajectory putting Cybertron between it and Moon Base One. Not that that would matter anyway, since Moon Base One’s sensor net is still down—"

        "Never mind that, Hubcap," Rodimus snapped. "Is it something natural, a meteorite or something?"

        Hubcap, unseen, shook his head. "Nope. It’s too slow for that. My guess would be an incoming Decepticon."

        Rodimus narrowed his optics and signaled Goldbug to get into the lone perimeter gun that had been repaired in front of Iacon. The field before them was still littered with the wreckage of the battle that had only recently been fought there. Could it really have been only a couple of days? Shocking, to think things could have gotten so bad in so short a time. Optimus would have never allowed the Autobots to fall so far, so fast.

        And yet Megatron was able to force him off of Cybertron. You still hold your ground here. Such thoughts had been occurring to him more and more often since he had seen Optimus at Arcee’s departure. Optimus was the one who died, not him. Optimus was the one who gave the Matrix to Ultra Magnus, and Ultra Magnus’s short reign as leader cost the Autobots Autobot City on Earth and the Matrix itself.

        Rodimus Prime was tired of trying to live up to the expectations of Optimus Prime. Optimus was a legend, that was all—but legends are only inflated facts. The time had come for him to step into his own.

        The only outward sign of these thoughts running through Rodimus’ mind was a grim set of determination on his face.

        And then, finally, the incoming Decepticon became visible. Rodimus shrank backward in horror at what he saw, and the Autobots around him gasped at the sight.

        Galvatron, his body still battered and burned, one side of his face a gaping hole showing the durable endoskeleton underneath, flew out of the night sky like the Reaper of legend, the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse—Death itself. The madness in his rolling optics was apparent even at this great distance—his evil, measured by that which he carried in one hand, dragging behind him like a limp sack of spare parts: Springer.

        He finally stopped when he came to the center of the devastated plain, several hundred feet off the surface. It was a vantage point from which he would be seen and heard for miles around, and Rodimus knew he knew it. Galvatron had come to gloat, to shove the evidence of Rodimus’ failure as a leader down his throat, to show every Autobot on Cybertron that Rodimus could do nothing to keep his troops alive and happy.

        "Rodimus Prime, hear me!" Galvatron spoke, and his voice carried across the plains. He stared straight at the Autobot leader, smiling his death rictus, and held poor, shattered Springer up like a rag doll. "This is what shall happen to all who come to the home of the Decepticons! You have your world, and we have ours! Make no trespass there again! Or I shall have your head as surely as I have the head of this pathetic excuse for a warrior!"

        With that, Galvatron threw Springer to the surface, where the lifeless body impacted with such a force that it shattered into a dozen pieces, leaving its own crater behind in the steel surface.

        Rodimus did not look at the body. His optics were rooted to Galvatron’s. A bond existed between them, a bond of such pure and powerful hate that they both felt it, a bond that nearly overwhelmed Rodimus. Galvatron was furious at his double humiliation at Rodimus’ hands. Rodimus, because Galvatron had killed one of his old friends and now brought his corpse to Cybertron, to mock him with it.

        Rodimus could sense Ultra Magnus next to him reach out to touch Rodimus’ shoulder. Kindness, even with the evidence of his failure before them all? No, it was a show for the other Autobots, a demonstration of how wonderful an Autobot Ultra Magnus really was. A play for leadership, should Rodimus ever lose the Matrix. . .one way or another.

        He brushed Magnus’ hand off his shoulder. Then, still staring straight into Galvatron’s optics, he said, quietly, focusing all his anger and hatred on the word, feeling it roll in his mouth like a human would a fine wine, "Fire."

        Galvatron’s optics opened wide in shock as the perimeter gun next to Rodimus Prime came to life, its energon cycler whining to life and firing off a shot within a second of Rodimus’ command. The shot struck true, dead into Galvatron’s gut, and Galvatron was hurled into space again by the force of the explosion, his chest and abdomen torn open in a fatal wound.

        Rodimus could hear his screams for a long time afterward.
 

        To Chapter Twenty-Five