4.3.06

Phoenix to the Dust

By: Operation Ravage

            A set of candles burnt in the small Necronian house, and the elder sat down wearily as a group of children gathered about his feet.  He smiled downward at the children, and remembered a time, long ago, that he had anxiously awaited the stories as well.  He spread his arms outward as he prepared his tale.

            “Children, tonight’s story is about something that happened not too long ago.  Some of you might have even been alive for it.  I know that we, the Elders, remember it very well.  Tonight, I will tell you about the visitor from the stars--the Agent of Death.”

            At this point, a small female child rose to her feet, placing her hands behind her back and keeping her head bowed.  A sign of respect for her Elder.  “But Elder,” the little girl stated, “I think we’ve heard this story.  About how the Agent came from the stars, and killed our Priestess in vicious combat, and how a new Priestess was named.  And we also heard about what happened next, about how our Lady Nahara journeyed to the stars and helped end the eternal hunger, and how the Agent tried to kill her once more.”

            The Elder smile once more.  “Of course, child.  But that was not the end of the story--by all means, no.  The Agent of Death, having failed in his second attempt, found himself on the run--in a quest for his very survival.  And this is that story.”

            The Elder re-adjusted himself on the chair, and then began his long tale as the children listened intently.

            The planet Midian proved inhospitable to most visitors.  Mountainous, cold, the otherwise barren world housed a simple, tribal people.  Most of the Midians lived lower to the ground, where the snow melted and provided life-giving liquid water.  Groups of dedicated Midian monks survived atop the summits, relatively safe from the weather in their thick monasteries.

            Now, though, one of the monasteries was being used for a decidedly more diabolical purpose.  The five-faced figure stared down at the bodies of the slain Midian worshipers inside one of the temples, hovering only a few feet above the dried pools of blood that now soaked the stone floor.  “Is everything in readiness?” the Quintesson demanded.

            A green, lizard-like guard finished slitting the throat of the last monk and then turned his attention towards his master.  “Yes, my liege,” he responded.  “We are expecting our honored guest at any minute.”

            Click.  Whir.  The Quintesson rotated in place, now showing the face of Death.  “Excellent.  When he arrives, we will take proper . . . measures . . . with him.”  The Quintesson then let out a long, low laugh, causing the green executioner to cringe as it reverberated throughout the narrow hallways and corridors.

            A sentry situated near a slit-like window suddenly turned around, his eyes wide with apprehension.  “My liege,” he called.  “His ship.  It just touched down outside.  He’s approaching the monastery now.”

            As if on cue, the double doors at the far end of the hallway swung open, and their heavy wood forms banged against the stone walls.  A cloaked figure strode confidently into the dim light of the monastery, his robe trailing the floor behind him.

            He approached the Quintesson, and then extended a hand outward.  A collection of interstellar credits fell from his down-turned palm and clattered noisily against the stone floor.  A heavily-accented voice then emerged from underneath the hood of the robe, “there.  As we agreed upon.  100,000 interstellar credits.  Now produce the weapons.”

            The Quintesson rubbed his tentacles together in anticipation.  “Of course, Ravage, of course.  But must we be so blunt?  Surely you have enough time to discuss matters other than business?”

            “No.  I don’t,” came the reply.

            The Quintesson laughed again, the cackle sounding strangely hollow in the tight confines of the monastery.  “Of course, of course.  Off to wage your revolution again, yes?  Your name is feared throughout sixteen systems now.  Ravage, the renegade Predacon.  For the glory of the Decepticons.”

            No reply came from the shadowed figure, and the Quintesson whirred in place once more, showing a different face.  “Ah, but I must be boring you.  Guards!  Bring our customer what he requested.  An orbital ion cannon and five thermal explosives, all packed into a convenient case.”   

            A hover cart appeared from a narrow hallway near the end of the central corridor, and Ravage approached the armament carefully.  He rubbed a single hand on the orbital cannon, and then nodded in assent.  “Excellent.  This will do nicely.”  Ravage then opened the case, and ensured that all five explosives were in place.

            “I will take my leave now,” he stated.  “I bid you good day.”

            “Ah, but there is, unfortunately, a problem,” the Quintesson replied.  Click.  Whir.  Ravage noted with a sense of unease that the Quintesson resumed the face of Death.  “The Predacons placed a hefty bounty on your head, as have the Maximals.  Although it pains us to betray one of our best customers, we do need to make ends meet.  I’m sure that you understand.”  A pair of Quintesson guards moved to either side of Ravage, each one gripping an energy staff.

            Ravage pushed back the hood from his head, revealing his cat-like features.  He then smiled smugly at the Quintesson.  “Of course I understand,” he replied.  “I’ve prepared for this eventuality.” 

            His hands flew down to his sides, and the dual blasters sprang upward.  He then held his arms outward, and a pair of shots reverberated throughout the monastery as Ravage shot each Quintesson guard in the head.  He then tugged at the drawstring of the cloak, allowing the garment to flutter to the ground.

            Ravage rolled behind a pillar and assumed a crouching position as the other guards began firing at his position.  Bits of stone and plaster splintered and chipped from the walls as the shots missed their mark.  “Guards!  Execute him!” the Quintesson bellowed.  Ravage looked upward, and noted that the floating alien was waving its twin tentacles wildly as it tried to retreat down another hallway.  A gate clamored open near the entrance, and another host of Quintesson guardians spilled forth, ready to fight.

            Ravage primed a grenade, and rolled the small explosive across the floor.  The explosion went off a second later, and debris and severed limbs scattered throughout the central corridor.  Ravage then sprinted from his position, letting off a salvo of shots before diving behind another pillar.

            Ravage pushed his back against the pillar, and peered out to his left.  There were five guards remaining.  A sudden motion to his right caught his attention, and Ravage turned as another guard rounded the pillar where he was hiding.  Ravage dealt the Quintesson guard a backhand, causing the being to fall to his left.  Ravage then grabbed the sentry around the front of the neck, and, holding the guard before him, the former Tripedicus Agent used him as a living shield.

            The Quintesson guard absorbed six rounds intended for Ravage, and his body went limp in death.  Ravage exchanged fire, taking the remaining sentries out with five well-placed shots.  He then allowed the dead guard in his grip to slump to the floor, and then he placed the blaster in his right hand on the holster hanging from his side.  He removed an energon knife and held the blade upside down, and then sprinted down the narrow hallway after the Quintesson.

            Another sentry rounded the corner as Ravage ran, and he brought the blade downward, catching the guard across the face with the knife.  Ravage then whipped the weapon about in an arc, and jabbed the bio-organic being in the jugular.  A deluge of blood spurted forth, and Ravage withdrew his blade and continued his pursuit.

            He found himself in a large, single-story library, and he noted the numerous bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling.  The smell of dust and yellowing papers wafted across his olfactory sensors, but there was something else . . .

            A pungent odor, one that most decidedly did not belong in this monastery, or even on this planet.  That of a Quintesson.  Ravage could never forget such a foul stench.

            He rounded the corner, and found the five-faced figure cowering against a row of bookshelves, out of places to run.  He approached the Quintesson cautiously, allowing the full effect of inevitable doom to sink into his prey’s psyche. 

            “The verdict is innocent,” Ravage stated.

            The Death’s head rotated into place, and Ravage noted--with pleasure--that the Quintesson looked absolutely terrified.  Ravage reached down and grabbed hold of the creature’s tentacles, and deftly ripped them from their sockets.

            The Quintesson bellowed in pain, and Ravage placed a hand on the top of the alien being.  “Shhhhh,” Ravage crooned.  “It will be over soon.”

            He then pulled a sticky plastique explosive out of his satchel, and crammed it into the Quintesson’s gapping mouth.  “It’s unfortunate that you no longer have any limbs,” Ravage stated as he turned and walked away.  “Otherwise, you might be able to pull it out and spare your life.  But I’m sure that you understand.”

            A muffled scream bellowed out as Ravage left the library, and then the sounds of an explosion reverberated throughout the narrow hallways of the monastery.  Ravage picked up his cloak from the floor of the central room, and then placed it over his shoulder.  Retrieving his hover-cart full of weapons, the shadow agent took his leave of the planet Midian.

            It had been well over a year since his secession from the Predacons.

            Ravage piloted the ship through the outer edges of the system, carefully looking out for signs of pursuing vessels.  Running from threats now enveloped his entire existence.

            The Predacons proved much more dogged than he originally anticipated.  Sending agent after agent after him had began to wear on his nerves and battle senses, and Ravage sometimes wondered when and where the chase would eventually end.

            But other concerns wrapped around his mind.  His fledgling Decepticon army needed him still.  Recruiting proved difficult, slow, agonizing, but he somehow persevered.  Already, he commanded seventy-odd troops, each one proudly wearing the insignia of a warrior race.  The galaxy knew that the Decepticons had returned, and that they provided a grave threat.

            Already, Ravage ensured that the Maximals felt his wrath.  The assassination of the Maximal ambassador to Earth proved to be a particularly harsh blow to the Maximal Elders.  Ravage kept his Decepticons busy with other tasks, as well: arms procurement, kidnappings, ransom, whatever needed to be done to ensure that the Decepticons rose again.

            The Predacons, the proclaimed descendants of the Decepticons, feared him, although Ravage had yet to target them directly.  But the Tripedicus Council and their High Proctor, Cryotek, would feel the influence of his Decepticons soon enough.

            He approached a large asteroid, and then punched in the code for a secure radio frequency on the sub-space communicator.  The face of Smokejumper appeared on the screen a second later.

            “Welcome back, Ravage,” he stated.  “I take it that your journey to Midian proved fruitful?”

            Ravage shook his head.  “No,” he stated.  “We can’t rely on the Quintessons for our arms any longer.  They turned against us.  I left them a very clear message that I dislike such treasonous behavior, though.”

            Smokejumper nodded in understanding.  “But the weapons--you did get them, right, boss?”

            “Of course,” Ravage stated matter-of-factly.  “They’re on the ship.  Open up the landing hatch.”

            A small, crater-like opening on the asteroid suddenly opened, and Ravage brought his ship down gently through its entrance.  Asteroid ships were small in number and extremely difficult to track.  It proved the best possible base of operations for the Decepticons, but Ravage still moved them around frequently.  A smile came to Ravage’s face as he remembered stealing the ship from the black market merchant in the VsQs system.  

            The landing gear touched down gently, and Ravage looked upwards to ensure that the opening above closed shut.  He then lowered the ramp at the back of the ship and disembarked.  Smokejumper crossed the bay, a single rifle gripped in his right hand.

            “What’s the reason for the weapon?” Ravage asked.

            “Checking the ship,” Smokejumper explained.  “Just to be sure.”

            Ravage laughed.  “By all means, do so.  There’s no stowaways, though.  I didn’t leave anybody alive to do that.  When you’re done, gather a detail to get the ion cannon and the explosives out of there.  I want to get the cannon into orbit of our asteroid within the next two hours.  I’m retiring to my quarters.  You have command.”

            Smokejumper saluted smartly, and Ravage made his way down the corridors of the massive vessel.  He smiled slightly to himself as he remembered recruiting Smokejumper.

            A former colonel in the Predacon Strategic Air Corps, Smokejumper agreed to join Ravage’s band of Decepticons upon a chance meeting at the Point Horizon station.  The Colonel had stopped off at Point Horizon to refuel while on a journey back from delivering intelligence information to one of the rim worlds, and Ravage had approached the short Predacon as he sat in the corner nursing an energon drink.  Smokejumper revealed much to Ravage about his past, of his enlistment in the Decepticon air command under Cyclonus when the Decepticons still stood as a prominent faction.  It had not taken much to coerce the Colonel to his new Decepticon army after Ravage revealed his identity.  Smokejumper now served as his de facto second in command, providing training and logistics to the Decepticons that housed themselves in Ravage’s so-called “War World.”

            In fact, Ravage relied upon Smokejumper more than he liked.  There was still far too much of a loner in Ravage’s fuel lines.  Too much of the covert operative that relished in infiltrating enemy lines unseen--and unaided. 

            Ravage reached his chambers, and reached down and punched in his personal access code.  The room proved dark and small; exactly as he liked.  Let Smokejumper and the other officers have the large rooms closer to the top of the asteroid.  This suited Ravage just fine.

            He poured himself a small glass of energon drink, and took a seat in a chair.  He surmised that if he were to lead this new Decepticon force that he needed to stop going on these arms procurement missions alone.  It proved dangerous, and the Decepticons needed all the leadership they could muster at this point of time.

            But still . . . he liked it far too much.

            Ravage sighed as he pushed the thoughts from his mind, and then reached down and gripped a datapad.  Smokejumper ensured that intelligence summaries reached him whenever he left the asteroid, and Ravage sat back to read about the latest Maximal and Predacon developments in his dim chambers.

            In a darkened room atop a tall spire on Charr, the Tripedicus Council met in secret.

            Although there were over fifty members on the full Council, the true power ultimately fell to three beings; Sea Clamp, Jetstorm and Ram Horn.  The remainder of the Council simply provided the aura of democracy.  At this juncture, the three Predacons conferred into low tones underneath a dim overhead light.

            “I fear for the continued existence of the Predacons,” Sea Clamp began.  “The threat of Ravage continues to weigh upon us.”

            “Ravage has yet to pose us any threat,” Jetstorm argued.  “May I remind you, Sea Clamp, that it was Cryotek’s meddling in these affairs that eventually turned the Covert Agent against us.  Had he not double-crossed Ravage by sending Death’s Head after him, Ravage would still be under our control.”

            The final member, Ram Horn, considered the words for a long moment before adding his thoughts to the discussion.  “I must agree with Sea Clamp.  Either sanction Ravage or wage another war with the Maximals--at the time, the choice seemed clear.  Losing a finger to save the hand, I believe the expression goes.  But I must also agree that High Proctor Cryotek has been allowed far too much influence with our internal dealings.  Revenge against Ravage’s betrayal has engulfed him.  How many secret police agents have we lost to date?”

            “Twenty-six,” Sea Clamp supplied.  “Cryotek sent twenty-six agents after Ravage in the past year.  None returned.  The latest, of course, was Manterror.  A garbage crew uncovered his headless and charred corpse on Junk eight days ago.”

            “Uncharacteristic of Ravage,” Jetstorm stated matter-of-factly.  “Barbaric.  But the fact remains that he has not done anything against the Predacon Alliance.”

            “Need I remind you,” Sea Clamp interrupted, “about the Maximal ambassador to Earth that they assassinated?  The Maximals know that Ravage conducted that operation, and that he used to hold ties with the Predacon Alliance.  He’s doing us more harm than good, even though he no longer affiliates himself with us!”

            Ram Horn interceded again.  “Of course, it is the underlying goal of the Council to eventually route the Maximals from Cybertron and reclaim our homeland.  Ravage is working within his best capacity to accomplish that end.  His influence is certainly felt here on Charr.  Many Predacons have adopted him as a folk hero of sorts.”

            “Another valid concern!” Sea Clamp roared.  “He’ll turn the populace against us!”

            “Enough,” Ram Horn finally stated.  “I believe that we hold a two-thirds majority that Ravage is a threat.  However, continuing to send agents after him has not alleviated our concerns.  I move that we give High Proctor Cryotek a final chance.  Either the agent he selects brings in Ravage, or we stop sending agents after him and see what Ravage does with that relative freedom.  Ravage may yet serve our needs.”

            Jetstorm nodded in assent, but Sea Clamp looked abashed.  “I don’t like it,” he stated with a shake of his head, “but I’m willing to go along with it . . . for now.  But as soon as Ravage bites us, we must retaliate--with powerful measures.”

            The other two members of the Council nodded their heads in agreement.  They then departed the dim chambers, taking their plans with them. 

            Night fell over the planet of Necros, and the Maximal Valkyrie sighed as she watched the moon rise over the Eastern horizon.  Small, grey, crater-pocked--the moon of Necros resembled the planet’s surface in many ways.

            She stared down at the fields of sooty ash, and recalled a time, not but a year ago, that the native populace of Necros relied upon ritualistic cannibalism to survive.  But the Galactic Federation stepped in, sending humanitarian aide to the planet.

            The effect was immediate.  Although seeds took well to the soil, vegetables and crops proved incompatible with the Necronian diet.  Having never digested plants before, the Necronians quickly developed stomach pains.  Instead, the Galactic Federation brought in numerous types of livestock, a commodity that proved much more viable to the Necronian people.  Although the people still did not eat often--with such low metabolic rates, there was no need--they could at least sate the hunger pains that racked their bodies.  For the first time in their lives, they did not have to live in pain or want.

            The extra energy provided growth for the society, as well.  Already, the Necronians devoted much more time and effort into schools for children, and also taught their written word to every citizen--something that had only been limited to the religious leaders a year before.

            She stood in the tower of the religious chambers, staring down at her adopted people as they went into their houses for the evening.  A glance outward, and she could see the humanitarian camp.  It was amazing, the amount of support that the Necronians received.  Maximals, humans, Junkions--even the Predacons supplied a single representative, although Valkyrie surmised that it was purely for political appearances.

            What gall the Predacon Alliance has, Valkyrie thought bitterly.  She remembered them sending their best agent, Ravage, to kill her comrades and capture her on Necros last year.  Now, here they were, supposedly giving humanitarian support.  It infuriated her, but she supposed that quite a bit of her current situation was her own doing.  After all, she disavowed any participation that the Predacons held with Ravage in an effort to spare a costly war.  She looked up at the stars, thinking back to the murderous covert agent that nearly took her life on two occasions.  He still existed, she supposed; she received reports from the Galactic Federation that a new batch of Decepticons had emerged.

            Irony.  She recalled how she explained Ravage away as a rogue Decepticon--and he became exactly that.  Believed to run a terrorist cell, Ravage now conducted operations throughout several systems, ensuring that the original Megatron’s intent of a Decepticon Empire was being realized.

            She heard footsteps behind her, and Valkyrie glanced over her shoulder to see Wolfgang standing at the entrance to the chambers of the Necronian tower.  She smiled as the fellow Maximal approached, and then turned her attention back over to the landscape.

            “It’s amazing,” Wolfgang surmised.  “What we’ve accomplished here in so little time.  We’ve given new hope, new life, to a civilization that had none before.  You’ve done well.”

            Valkyrie laughed slightly.  “It’s not my doing,” she stated.  “Although the Necronians still regard me as their spiritual leader, they’re slowly becoming more self-reliant.  I believe that I can finally convince them to elect one of their own into this position before too much longer.”

            “Really?” Wolfgang asked.  “You think that after millennia of being told who their leader is going to be, that the Necronians will learn about the democratic process?”

            “I think so,” she stated.  “They’re learning fast.  All they needed was a little bit of help and a chance.  Primus willing, they’ll continue along this course.”

            “What do you mean?” Wolfgang asked.

            “I’m still worried that the Predacons will mess this up,” Valkyrie sighed.  “I know that they are not sincere.  I’m worried what they’ve got up their sleeve.”

            “Ravage?” Wolfgang asked.

            Valkyrie shook her head.  “No.  I don’t think that’s it.  I know he’s still out there, somewhere.  But I think that his days of interfering with the Necronians--and me--are over.”

            Cryotek rubbed his optics as he stared out at Charr’s midday sun from his office chambers.  That morning, the Tripedicus Council put forth an ultimatum; to bring in Ravage with the next agent, or to cease and desist.

            His body shook with rage.  A year later, he still had trouble grasping the fact that Ravage betrayed the Predacons.  His most loyal, most dedicated agent, now a Decepticon terrorist.  His optics drifted towards his desk, and he picked up a datapad and read a news report.

            He scanned the report carefully, looking over the crime reports in Charr’s capital city of Cypopulus.  The crime rates remained relatively low for fear of the Predacon secret police.  He read about a break-in at a shop, a mugging in the hover transit system, the vandalization of a government office . . .

            But his eyes stopped as he looked at the picture.  The Decepticon insignia had been painted on the exterior of the building.

            Even though he no longer remained on planet, Ravage was turning his own populace against him.  Cryotek roared in anger, and then threw the datapad across the room.  It collided into the far wall, where it shattered and slid noisily to the floor.  Cryotek stopped and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down.  Such displays of rage would not go over well with his new--and final--agent.

            The inter-office intercom cut on a moment later, and the secretary droid in the reception room spoke, “sir, your requested guest is here.  Should I go ahead and send him in?”

            Cryotek sighed again, still trying to regain his composure.  “Yes,” he finally stated.  The door slid open a second later, and the massive, purple, winged figure entered the spacious office.

            “General Razorclaw,” Cryotek said as he rose to his feet and extended a single hand outwards in greeting, “the pleasure is all mine, to be sure.”

            Razorclaw smiled and returned the handshake before taking his seat.  Cryotek did the same, before asking the next question.  “So?  How does the revolution on Cyran Nine go?”

            Razorclaw nodded his massive head once.  “Well.  We nearly have the native populace subdued.  But I know this isn’t the reason that you requested my presence, High Proctor.  If you don’t mind, I’d like to get straight to the matter at hand.”

            Cryotek laughed.  “I should know better than to try to small-talk the best general in the Predacon army,” he stated.  “Very well.  The reason that I summoned you here today is to remove you from your current assignment.”

            Razorclaw’s mouth fell open.  “High Proctor, I must protest.  The insurgency on Cyran Nine needs my continued presence.  It would be folly to remove the division’s commander now!”

            “I trust that the Cyrans are subdued enough,” Cryotek stated.  “General Scourge has relieved you already.  I summoned you here today to discuss your new assignment--Ravage.”

            “The Decepticon terrorist?” Razorclaw asked.  “High Proctor, surely there must be Predacons better suited than an infantry general to hunt down a rogue agent.”

            Cryotek placed his upper appendages on the top of the desk and leaned over, staring the General in the optics.  “I will give you anything you need.  Any equipment, weapons, troops, you name it and I will provide it.  Ravage poses a much greater threat than I think you realize, General.  He must be brought to face justice.”

            “High Proctor,” Razorclaw stated, rising from his chair, “I have met this covert agent of yours before, and I do not believe that he will target the Predacons directly.  He has a sense of loyalty and honor, and much of the population--and my own troops--support him in his cause to restore the Decepticons.  Already he has--“

            “Tread carefully, General,” Cryotek hissed through clenched teeth, “for what you say borders on treason.”

            Razorclaw stared daggers at Cryotek for a long moment.  He then drew himself straighter and offered a salute.  “As you command, High Proctor,” he finally stated.  “If Ravage is my objective, I will bring him to you.”

            As the interior lights fell dim to simulate night on the asteroid ship, Ravage dreamed.

            His dream was one of a memory--an event that occurred a year prior.  He found himself locked in battle with the bounty hunter Death’s Head once more, felt the axe sink into his armor skin.

            Suddenly, he saw himself falling in a rain of internal mech fluid and glass.  His left arm flopped by his side, nearly useless from the axe wound.  He pulled the energon dagger from his belt and frantically tried to find purchase in the side of the building.

            Finally, after a seeming eternity of spiraling through space, the knife sunk home and his descent halted.  Ravage hung by the blade for a relief-filled minute, and then his optics scanned the sides of the building for an entry point.  He finally managed to kick in a window, and then struggled through its shattered frame into the dark office beyond.

            He fell to his knees, realizing that he needed to get moving, lest the Maximals find him.  He pulled--painfully--at the axe that still remained wedged in his shoulder.  Finally, the massive blade pulled free, and Ravage allowed it to fall to the floor with a massive thump. 

            He then remembered the hurried retreat out the front of the building, relying upon the personal cloaking device that he used to initially infiltrate the tower.  Finally, he managed to escape to a spaceport, and take one of the numerous ships that stood empty.

            The dreams dissipated, and Ravage sat up inside of his dark chambers.  He sighed heavily.  The dream had become a recurring one, and while not technically a nightmare, it still staved off stasis.  Ravage emerged from his chambers and took the elevator to the bridge.

            “Attention on the deck!” Frostbite, the night captain, called as Ravage entered.  A wave from the former Tripedicus Agent sent the Decepticons back to their tasks.  Frostbite approached Ravage, his bladed arm hanging awkwardly at his side.  “Anything we can do for you, sir?” the blue, wolf-like Decepticon asked.

            Ravage shook his head.  “No,” he stated.  “I just came up here to check on the ship, that’s all.  Anything to report?”

            Frostbite pulled forth a datapad.  “Not too much, sir.  A small freighter came by the asteroid ship about three hours ago, but it didn’t hang around.  We took no action against it, since it didn’t pose us any threat.”

            Ravage stroked his chin.  “Interesting,” he mumbled.  “A freighter, you said?  We’re not anywhere close to the interstellar trafficking lanes.”

            Frostbite shrugged.  “We checked the markings, sir.  We identified it as Cthulian.  Pardon my saying, sir, but that explains it right there.  It continues to astound me that race of tentacled, bug-eyed monsters mastered space travel at all, much less something like walking upright.”

            “Cthulian,” Ravage repeated, and then snorted a laugh.  “I suppose you’re right.  The entire race couldn’t maneuver their way out of a box.”  Ravage took the datapad from Frostbite’s hand, and then looked over the log.  Seeing nothing else that interested him, he returned it to his fellow Decepticon.  “I’ll be in my quarters,” he finished.  “A day of reckoning is quickly approaching, don’t forget.”

            “Of course, sir,” Frostbite smiled.  “The raid on the weapons plant.  Colonel Smokejumper has been making rehearse this every day for the past month.”

            Ravage nodded in assent.  “We’ve got to make sure that this goes off properly,” he stated, as he turned to leave.  “We not only need the weapons, but it’s striking out at the Maximals and their ridiculous Pax Cybertronia.  We’ll convince the Predacons that they’re outdated yet.”

            Charr.  Two weeks later.

As the sun bored down relentlessly on the scorched planet, and Razorclaw continued to gaze over the intelligence products provided him by his newly acquired task force.  The general sighed, and disgustedly pushed a datapad away from him.  The hunt for Ravage was taking longer than he liked, and Cryotek grew anxious for results. 

            A diminutive Predacon approached Razorclaw from the left, and the large general accidentally knocked the small analyst over, sending a stack of datapads tumbling to the floor.  Razorclaw mumbled a word of apology and helped the soldier to his feet.  However, the excited analyst scarcely seemed to notice.  “Sir!” he exclaimed.  “I think I might be on to something!”

            Razorclaw crossed his arms, a slight smile on his face, unable to hide the humor he found in the young soldier’s enthusiasm.  “Well then,” he stated, “don’t keep me waiting.  Let’s see it.”

            “Excellent,” the analyst stated, rubbing his hands together gleefully.  He punched a few keys into the datapad, and then turned in the direction of a large screen monitor.  “If you’ll please turn your attention in the direction of this screen, sir,” the analyst stated, “I’ll show you what I’ve found.

            “I conducted a detailed analysis of Ravage’s practices during his time with the Predacon secret service.  He is slow, meticulous, one to cover his tracks.  As a terrorist leader, he is one who would attempt to diversify his operations, to keep them as random as possible, to keep us guessing where he is to strike next.

            “But this is where I believe he failed.  Ravage spent too much time plotting his operations.  A simple map shows this shortfall.”

            A map of the quadrant flashed on the screen, along with red dots to designate areas that Ravage conducted an attack.  Razorclaw stared at the screen intently, and finally he said, “I don’t see much pattern.  It seems radically diversified.  What do you make of it?”

            The analyst smiled, and then a red line connected all of the points.  Razorclaw found himself looking at a generic, circular shape.  “Let me guess,” Razorclaw stated, “you think he’s at the center of that circle.”

            “Nearly, sir, nearly,” the analyst continued.    The screen zoomed inward, and Razorclaw found himself staring at a picture of an asteroid belt.  “And what makes you think that Ravage is there?  Seems to me that it’s a pretty bad place to set up an area of operations.”

            “Maybe so, sir,” the analyst continued, “but I did some checking.  First, a survey ship--Cthulian in design, but manned by Sodians--was conducting a check of the asteroids in the belt as part of a study.  They noticed a previously unfound asteroid, and assumed that it must have been a wayward comet that ran out of steam and became trapped in the asteroid belt’s gravity.  They reported this finding to a scientific journal upon their return.

            “Secondly--and here’s the prize intel--a merchant on VsQs reported an asteroid ship of his as stolen.  Asteroid ships were often used by the Quintessons during the days of the Great War, and while most have been destroyed, there’s still a number of them out there.”

            Razorclaw stared at the screen for a long moment.  “So you think Ravage is in the Nepesh system.  No habitable worlds, only a blue star, three gas giants, and that asteroid belt between the second and third planet.  A bit out of the way to conduct terrorist operations, to be sure.”

            “Which makes it perfect for Ravage, sir,” the analyst pressured.  Razorclaw rose from his seat and crossed his arms as he thought deeply.  “I’m wary, but it’s the best we’ve got.  I’ll get a scout ship to investigate the asteroid belt immediately.  You very well may have just found the target we wanted.”

            The assault vessel stayed low, cruising at a speed of about three hundred miles per hour only about two hundred feet off the ground.  Ravage stared out at the other ships, which had assumed a wedge formation alongside his. 

            He turned his attention back into the seating bay, staring at the rows of Decepticon soldiers about to embark on this mission.  With a glance out the front screen at the weapons facility in the distance, Ravage turned his attention back to his soldiers.

            “Decepticons,” Ravage stated, “we are embarking on our most daring raid to date.  Before us lies the Maximal weapons facility.  I’m not going to bore you with the mission details; you’ve all received your briefings already from your officers.  But I will tell you what I expect.  I expect all of you to fight proudly as soldiers in the new Decepticon Army.  I expect for you to leave no survivors.  I expect for you to bring the arms and ammunition we need to carry out our missions.  And finally, I expect for this place to be completely destroyed upon our leave.  Any questions?”

            Not a Decepticon moved or replied to this question.  Ravage thrust his right arm into the air.  “Decepticons forever!” he exclaimed.  The troops returned the gesture, each one raising their right hands in a clenched fist of defiance. 

            “Decepticons forever!”

             The planet in which the Maximal facility lay was desolate, barren, with no native life forms and an atmosphere that consisted mainly of carbon dioxide.  The compound contained high walls, with only a single hover train station providing the Maximals access to the spaceport seventy kilometers away.  When the Decepticons struck, the Maximals had no hope of escape.

            A pair of Maximals stood atop the southern wall, discussing their upcoming leave time.  A loud rumbling in the distance suddenly earned their attention, and the twin sentries turned their attention outwards, trying to detect the source of the racket.  The drop ship appeared over the horizon suddenly, and one of the guards ran to raise the alarm.

            Too late.  The lead drop ship fired its front blasters, incinerating the two Maximals before they could get off the wall.  A set of missiles dropped from the right flank of the drop ship formation, and the warheads locked onto a Maximal control tower.  The explosives went off, engulfing the structure in flames.  The tower shook and fell, knocking its occupants to their demise.

            At this point, the drop ships concentrated raking fire across the ground, and the ships finally began to hover in place over the central courtyard.  Cable lines were flung out of the ships, and the Decepticon forces rappelled their way to the ground.

            Ravage watched his soldiers throw themselves out of the ship, relying purely upon the thin cables to keep them safe during their descent.  The Decepticon founder turned towards Smokejumper.  “Colonel,” Ravage roared above the racket of gunshots and explosions, “I’m going down with one of the squads.  You have command here until I return.”

            Smokejumper shook his head.  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think that you should do that.”

            Ravage snorted back a chuckle.  “Probably shouldn’t, but I’m going regardless,” he stated.  “You know the rules of ground combat better than I, Colonel.  I’m just a former agent, used to sneaking around by myself.  I only have the loyalty and the dedication to the Decepticons; you have the ability to lead them.  That being said, I’ll see you after the battle.”

            Ravage reached outside the ship and took a firm grasp of the cable, and then quickly made his descent to the warzone below.  The old thrill returned to him, and Ravage pressed his body low to the ground to avoid a burst of machine gun fire that erupted overhead.  Ravage noticed that the drop ships were departing the courtyard at this point; they would return upon the completion of the mission.  

            He pressed his body against the back of a large packing crate and then spoke into his communicator.  “First platoon,” the heavily-accented voice pounded, “what’s the situation with the control tower?”

            “Bad, sir,” the platoon leader responded.  “The control tower managed to get a machine gun nest up before we could cordon it.  We’re pinned down.”

            “But the communication lines have been cut, correct?” Ravage pressured.

            “Affirmative.  The drop ships took out the satellite transceivers easily enough.  Our main concern is that the Maximals will be able to bring their defense grid back on-line from the tower.”

            Ravage snorted in disgust at this news.  If the Maximals managed to bring the outer wall’s automated guns back on-line, his unit of Decepticons would take heavily casualties.  Ravage turned his attention towards the command tower and took off in a steady jog, keeping a wary eye open for bursts of machine gun fire.

            He pushed his back against a crate as a volley of bullets passed overhead, and Ravage could hear their hiss as they cut through the thick air of the planet.  Dust kicked up as the rounds sank into the ground only a few meters from his position; Ravage suddenly remembered himself fighting in the Great War, long ago.  The same feeling of unease, of excitement, of impending doom returned, and he reveled in the apprehension that washed over him.  It made him feel alive again.

            He peered around the corner, and noticed the control tower standing about five hundred meters to the northeast.  So close, and yet it might as well be on another world.  On the battlefield, running half a kilometer under heavy machine gun fire was a move only for the suicidal or the selflessly courageous.

            He noticed that the Maximals established the machine gun nest at the base of the tower, and that a pair of Maximal sentries manned the automatic weapon.  Ravage estimated that he had only between five to ten minutes before the Maximals succeeded in re-routing their primary power back to the perimeter defenses.  He needed to move quickly into the control tower if he hoped for his Decepticon raid to succeed.

            Ravage noticed a long shadow being cast by a supply building that ran the length of the half-kilometer; he figured that he could blend into the shadows easily enough if he could get out from his position long enough to reach the building.  Ravage gripped his communicator.

            “Second squad, first platoon, this is Ravage.  Give me covering fire.  My coordinates are being transmitted now.”

            “Affirmative, Ravage.  We are en route,” came the reply.  A moment later, another burst of fire rang out, distracting the Maximal machine gun next.  Ravage used the opportunity to slip from his hiding position and then pressed himself flat against the side of the supply building, concealing his entire form into the shadows.  He was then able to move quickly along the wall until he found himself parallel to the machine gun emplacement.

            The Maximals seemed completely transfixed with the Decepticon positions before them, and so did not notice Ravage as he approached them from behind.  The Decepticon leader withdrew a long energon blade and held it outstretched in his right hand.  He then seized the gunnery spotter around the neck and made a cruel cut across the Maximal’s jugular.  The sentry fell to the ground without making a noise, dead before he realized what had happened to him.

            The gunner let off the trigger as he heard his comrade fall to the ground with a loud thud.  He looked upward, towards the shadowy figure that now stood over him.  Ravage lashed downwards with the blade, catching the Maximal across the face.  The gunner bellowed in pain and raised his hands to his scarred optics.  Ravage followed up the attack by driving the blade into his opponent’s abdomen, and then he gripped the Maximal about the neck and gave a harsh twist, breaking the neck assembly in five different locations.  The Maximal fell over with a gurgle, and Ravage lobbed a grenade underneath the tripod of the machine gun.  He then pressed himself against the ground as the explosive went off.

            After the loud explosion sounded, Ravage gripped his communicator once more.  “First platoon, this is Ravage,” he announced.  “The machine gun is destroyed.  Follow me to the base of the control tower and conduct a cordon of the area.  Over.”  Without waiting for an affirmation to his order, Ravage stole into the front entrance of the tower, and then carefully made his way up the thin, metal stairway inside.

            Inside the tower’s control room, a small band of Maximals prepared for their final stand.  “The machine gun nest cut off,” the Maximal in charge, Bonecrusher, stated.  He then handed a shotgun to another Maximal.  “Defend the door,” he ordered.  “Don’t let anybody through.  We’ve got to get the defense grid back on-line, or we’re on a one-way trip to the Pit.”

            The lights in the tower flickered once, then twice, before going on completely, casting the Maximals within in darkness.  “What’s that?” a young Maximal named Bantor fretted. 

            “Somebody cut the generator,” Bonecrusher explained.  “The guns run off a different power grid; keep working on them, get them back on and shooting.  These invaders are just trying to intimidate us by cutting the lights.”

            A couple of gunshots then went off, and a bright plumage of sparks erupted from the door’s control panel.  “Somebody’s coming in!” Bantor yelped, his eyes widening with terror.  Sure enough, the entry doors slowly hissed open, and the thick carbon dioxide fog from the planet’s atmosphere began seeping into the room.  The door finally clamored all the way open, but the expectant Maximals did not see the adversary they expected.  Instead of a platoon of angry Decepticons, the entry stood empty.

            “There’s nobody there!” Bantor exclaimed.  “I’m getting out of here, before those Decepticons come back and finish us for good!”  The young Fuzor then picked up his shotgun and ran for the door, ignoring the comrades behind him.

            “Bantor!  No!” Bonecrusher cried out.

            His warning came too late.  Bantor screamed and fell down dead, the victim of an unseen energon knife that scoured his face and neck.  Bonecrusher stared unbelievingly at the body of the dead Maximal before backing slowly away from the door.

            Another set of gunshots erupted in the darkness of the control chamber, and a pair of Maximal technicians fell over in death.  Bonecrusher spun, looking for his unseen assailant.  Only the thick green fog of the planet met his search.

            He turned once more, and found the remaining Maximals in the chamber dead, the victims of gunshot wounds to the face.  A deep, guttural laugh sounded in the darkness, and Bonecrusher imagined that he could feel his inevitable doom seeping into his circuits.

            A sudden motion to his right caught his attention, and Bonecrusher’s gaze drifted.  He found himself staring at a blaster, its barrel positioned only inches from his head.  “Personal cloaking device.  Brilliant,” he mumbled.  Ravage didn’t respond with words; a precise pull of the trigger spoke volumes for the shadow agent.

            Ravage watched the body of Bonecrusher sink to the steel floor, and then he triggered his communicator.  “All units, this is Ravage,” he announced.  “The threat in the control tower has been neutralized.  I repeat: the control tower is neutralized.  Preparing demolitions now.  If you are in the vicinity of the tower, I suggest that you move.”

            Without awaiting any further reply, Ravage drew a set of thermal charges out of his satchel and placed them at the foot of a control panel.  He then set the timer on the charges for one minute.  With a final look back, he took his leave of the tower.

            He descended the thin stairway quickly, and then took off in a sprint across the main compound, narrowly avoiding a final blast of Maximal machine gun fire.  He dove behind a crate and checked his timer.  Ten seconds.

            The tower erupted into a blazing inferno, and several fuel tanks that had been stacked near the building also exploded.  Ravage gave a grim smile of satisfaction as he witnessed the destruction of the Maximal arms depot.

            A movement toward his left startled him, but Ravage was relieved to find it to be Smokejumper.  “Colonel,” Ravage asked, “how has the mission gone?”

            “Excellent, now that the control tower is destroyed,” Smokejumper responded with a smart salute.  “The Decepticons are just cleaning up right now.  As per your orders, we took no prisoners.”

            “Casualties?” Ravage ventured.

            “Two, sir.  Wind Tunnel and Slugfest.”

            “Pity,” Ravage sighed.  “I knew Slugfest well.  I used to serve with him in the Decepticons.”  The Decepticon leader gave a moment of thought toward his dead comrades, and then returned his attention to Smokejumper.  “You know what needs to happen next, Colonel,” he concluded.

            Smokejumper nodded.  “The explosives are being placed now, and the drop ships will arrive in the next five minutes.  We’ll load them up with weapons and explosives from the armory, and then we’ll remote detonate this dump as soon as we get into the air.”

            Back in his private office on Charr, General Razorclaw anxiously awaited the results of the scout mission to the Nepesh system.  He had sent the scout shuttle out nearly fourteen hours prior, and had not heard from the away team as of thus far.  The waiting began to wear on his nerves and patience, and he gulped a small glass of energon out of anticipation.

            An incoming visual transmission interrupted his thoughts, and Razorclaw looked upwards, hoping to see his scout team reporting in.  Instead, however, he found himself staring at the face of Cryotek.  “General,” the High Proctor stated, “have you found any leads yet?”

            “I understand your eagerness, High Proctor,” Razorclaw stated, “but we haven’t made any progress since the last time you checked in.  I still await word from the scouts myself.”

            Cryotek gritted his teeth.  “You’ve had two weeks, General, and you have yet to make any substantial progress,” he snarled.  “My previous agents may have died, but they at least found where Ravage was!”

            “Exactly, High Proctor,” Cryotek stated.  “Any fool can go out, ask questions of bounty hunters and scoundrels, and get a pretty good idea of where Ravage is lurking and where he intends to strike next.  And time and time again, Ravage caught wind of it and made sure that your agents died before they could make use of that information.  I’m conducting this mission in a controlled, precise matter, one that limits our casualties and makes sure that we take Ravage out where it will hurt him the worst--at his base of operations.  This takes time, High Proctor.”

            “Time,” Cryotek replied with a grimace, “is a luxury that we are quickly losing, General.  I require results.  Report to me as soon as you acquire them.  Cryotek out.”

            The screen went dead, leaving Razorclaw alone with his resentment.  The General gave a massive sigh and sunk into his chair, wondering when his scouts would finally report to him.

            Unexpectedly, the screen hissed to life once more, and Razorclaw saw himself facing his scout platoon leader.  “General Razorclaw,” the Predacon stated with a salute, “I give you the latest update on the Nepesh system.  After a thorough check, we found a single asteroid that our sensors detected as mostly hollow.  Our instruments indicate that five beings currently reside within its hull.”

            “Excellent,” Razorclaw stated.  “That must be it.  But why only five beings, I wonder?  A skeleton crew, perhaps?”

            “My thoughts exactly, sir.  I recommend that we stay in place for a while longer.  We have a perfect hiding position right now; the magnetic interference that the blue star is giving off hides our electromagnetic signature.  I will give any further reports as I receive them.”

            “A good plan, Lieutenant,” Razorclaw stated.  “I anxiously await your report.  General Razorclaw out.”

            The Nepesh system.  Six hours later.

            The Decepticon drop ships returned to the War World, and the jubilant soldiers on board looked forward to a spot of good energon and a long rest cycle.  As the troops disembarked from their ships, Smokejumper called them to the position of attention.

            The Colonel gave a slight nod of satisfaction as he looked over the assembled troops in the bay of the asteroid ship, and then gave the order for “at ease.”  Each Decepticon placed his hands behind their back, turning their attention in the direction of their Colonel.

            “Decepticons,” Smokejumper stated, “you have each performed admirably today.  For that, I thank you.  Every day, our influence grows.  We will remind the universe of why the Decepticons were once feared and honored!”

            A slew of fist rose into the air at this comment.  “Decepticons forever!” the assembled platoons bellowed.  Smokejumper waited for the roar to die down, and then continued his speech.  “When I look into this army, I don’t see the Decepticons of old.  I don’t see the Starscreams, the traitorous backstabbers.  I don’t see the Shockwaves, the boot-licking simpletons.  I only see an assembly of completely dedicated soldiers, committed to their ideologies.  The Decepticons will rise to a prominent faction once again.  And this time, nothing will hold us back!”

            A roar of approval went up from the crowd, and Smokejumper gave a slight smile underneath his mouth plate.  “Now, I believe that our commander has a few words that he wants to put out,” Smokejumper concluded.  “After which, you are all released to your personal quarters until 1500 hours tomorrow, standard galactic time.”

            A cheer went up from the soldiers at this news, and Ravage approached the front of the formation.  “Decepticons,” the cat-like Transformer stated, “you have performed above and beyond my wildest expectations.  When I worked under the original Megatron, plotting, conniving, and backstabbing proved to be the norm, not the exception.  It does the fuel pump of this old warrior proud to see such loyal Decepticons today.  Without further ado,” Ravage announced, drawing out the words slowly, “I believe that some rest and relaxation is in order.  Dismissed.”  A final cheer went up from the assembled Decepticons, and the soldiers scattered to enjoy some down-time.

            Smokejumper offered a final salute before he made his way from the hanger, but Ravage gripped the former Colonel by the crook of the arm.  “Smokejumper,” Ravage stated, “you and I have some things that we need to discuss.”

            “Of course, sir,” Smokejumper replied.  Ravage glanced about cautiously before continuing his words.  “We need to move the War World,” he finally supplied.  “We’ve been in one location for too long.  I’m concerned that either the Predacons, Maximals, or bounty hunters will make a connection and close in our position before too much longer.”

            Smokejumper nodded his head in understanding.  “I agree, sir,” the smaller Decepticon stated, “but it is my recommendation that we wait until 1500 tomorrow.  We’ve already given the soldiers their down-time, and it would hurt morale if we suddenly grabbed a handful of them to work the engines and controls.  I say we give it another day, and then we can put in a course for the Psycantis system.”

            Ravage bit his bottom lip; Smokejumper could tell that he did not like this recommendation.  After a long moment, though, Ravage relented.  “All right,” the former Tripedicus Agent agreed, “we’ll wait until tomorrow.  But then, we must make haste.”

            After hours of waiting, Razorclaw’s patience paid off.  A signal from his scouts suddenly entered the transmission screen in his office, surprising the general.

            “Lieutenant,” Razorclaw demanded, “have you found anything else of value?”

            The younger Predacon officer nodded in assent.  “Yes, sir.  A group of ships returned not long ago.  We weren’t able to detect their electromagnetic signatures--they stuck close to the gas planets and used their gravity to mask their approach--but we made visual confirmation.  Even if it’s not Ravage, it’s mighty suspicious activity.”

            Razorclaw stroked his chin as he thought.  “You’ve done well, Lieutenant,” he finally stated.  “Return to Charr with your platoon to reconsolidate your equipment and gets some R and R.”

            “And what about you, sir?” the other Predacon ventured.

            Razorclaw smiled.  “An all-out raid on his asteroid ship in the middle of the night will be one of the last things that Ravage expects, particularly after a successful mission.  We just received word that a Maximal weapons depot was found completely destroyed; the Maximals chalked it up to Ravage.  This time, he’s out of places to run.”

            Ravage carefully pushed his way through the crowds that now filled the lower decks of the asteroid ship, determined to get some rest before he moved the War World.  The promise of a late return to duty certainly affected the troops; the vast majority now stood in the walkways and hallways, engaging excitedly in conversation as they related their battle tales to one another.  Ravage faintly heard the sounds of a popular Charrian song seeping into the narrow walkway, and the groans and cheers of a gambling game in another room.

            Affixing an exasperated smile, Ravage finally pushed his way into his personal quarters.  Although he enjoyed the solitude of these tiny chambers, the loud noises outside made him yearn for quieter quarters further up the ship.  He tried to block the ruckus out from his audio receptors as he turned his attention to a schematic of the asteroid ship that hung against the left-hand wall.

            Ravage had created a contingency plan in the event that his ship was ever boarded; he ensured that all of the escape vessels were housed mid-ship, where Decepticons from the top and bottom had an equal opportunity to get into a pod.  The pods themselves were highly maneuverable, contained great speed, and were equipped with light weaponry.  In addition, there was a voyager-class vessel that could hold roughly fifty personnel.  Ravage sincerely hoped the he would not have to test the defensive measures of the War World at any time in the future.

            A sigh escaped his form.  Bad feelings about the coming night filled his being, and he realized that he should have ordered Smokejumper to move the ship then and there.  But Smokejumper had been right; it would have hurt their morale.  He poured himself a small glass of energon and gulped the drink hurriedly, allowing its tangy and sour goodness to cascade its way down the back of his mechanical throat.

            He glanced at the schematic once more, and then pulled out an old history data book.  The book was thin, an off-shade of gray, and held a dinged and cracked screen.  But Ravage still treasured this book above all.  This book had been written before the Maximals rose to power, and so contained the whole truth surrounding the Decepticons.

            He scanned through the images for several minutes, recalling the different actions and mannerisms of Starscream, Swindle, Motormaster--by the Pit, even Reflector.  He finally paused on the image of Megatron; there he was, his original and most beloved leader, standing tall and proud with his fusion cannon hanging by his side.

            A fog of a memory returned to him--another one from his excursion on Cybertron a year prior.  He had encountered a decrepit Empty on a train in Polyhex, and the old Transformer recognized him immediately as being a former Decepticon.  And yet, Ravage and the old Autobot held no animosity towards each other; there was only an undercurrent of sadness and regret, the undeniable feeling that the universe had forgotten them and their plights.

            But not now.  Ravage stared down at the image of Megatron, and a sense of pride pounded throughout his circuits.  “It’s been far too long, Megatron,” Ravage stated out loud.  “We’ve had far too many false leaders and lies these past few centuries.  Unicron.  Cyclonus.  Scorponok.  The Predacons.  Even your own fractured sanity as Galvatron.  But no longer.  Now, your dreams of a Decepticon empire are being realized.”

            Ravage shut off the data book and returned it to its revered place on his nightstand.  The lights went out in the chamber, casting the new Decepticon leader into darkness.  And with the darkness, Ravage found sleep--and an overwhelming sense of security. 

            Five hours later, General Razorclaw assessed the asteroid ship from aboard the bridge of his cruiser, aptly named the Shadowfall.  Ravage is indeed resourceful, Razorclaw thought with a sense of admiration as he peered upon the former Tripedicus Agent’s rocky vessel.  Completely surrounded by space dust and ore, the ship was completely indistinguishable from ordinary asteroids--but only to the naked eye and rudimentary sensors.  The detailed instruments of Razorclaw’s vessel detected the asteroid as fake right away.

            The General conferred momentarily with his executive officer as the two sized up the situation.  “Our intelligence officers believe that Ravage will have his guard down after the successful mission on the Maximal weapon facility,” Razorclaw stated.  “I’m inclined to believe them.  A year of unfettered successes will have left Ravage self-confident, and thus he’ll lower his guard as a result.”

            “Sir, I recommend simply blasting the asteroid ship, using our ion cannons,” the executive officer, a short Predacon known as Snapper, offered.

            Razorclaw stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “No, I don’t think so, Colonel,” he stated.  “Cryotek made it quite clear that he wanted Ravage alive, if possible.”

            “Sir,” Snapper interjected, “if we are to board the vessel, we will take casualties, perhaps heavy.”

            “I know,” Razorclaw responded with a shake of his head.  “I’m not entirely comfortable with that prospect.  But Cryotek and the Council stated their intentions clearly.  Instead of using the ion cannons, we’ll use the standard blasters on the cruiser to disable its outer defenses and then we’ll conduct a boarding of the ship, starting at the bottom level and working our way up to the bridge.”

            Snapper nodded once and offered a salute.  “Understood, sir,” he replied.  “We will be ready to undertake this mission within the next half-hour.”

            Ravage awoke after several hours of stasis, a feeling of unease beginning to creep its way into his fuel lines.  Something seemed out of place, amiss.  He regularly experienced the feeling during his time with the original Decepticons, when he spent much of his time sneaking through the shadows into Autobot encampments. 

            The familiar feeling of expectancy, of tension--perhaps even a twinge of fear.  He pushed the intercom located on the right wall, and then spoke into the microphone; “bridge, Ravage here.  Report.”

            The voice of Frostbite sounded slightly confused by the urgency in Ravage’s voice.  “Nothing as of thus far, sir.  Seems to be a fairly quiet night cycle.  Is there anything that you need?”

            Ravage sighed; perhaps the euphoria surrounding the Maximal weapons facility was wearing off, and he was being overly-cautious.  “Negative,” he replied.  “Disregard.”  He let his finger off the intercom and turned his attention to the view port located at the rear of his tiny compartment.  The stars twinkled merrily in the inky blackness of space, and Ravage rested his gaze upon the red gas giant that spiraled nearby.

            A sudden blue burst appeared from the lower right-hand corner of the view port, and Ravage squinted with curiosity at this phenomena.  His optics suddenly grew wide with realization, and he sprinted for the intercom again.  “Bridge, Ravage,” he bellowed.  “Incoming plasma bursts!  Prepare the War World’s defenses!”

            He felt the asteroid shudder as the rounds found their mark, not too far beneath the ship’s bridge.  Ravage looked outward again, and made the dim outline of a ship emerging from behind another asteroid.  “Bastards,” Ravage mumbled, “using the magnetic interference caused by the gravity to mask your approach.”

            He then keyed the intercom again, resonating his voice through ever deck, every hold, every chamber on the asteroid ship; “Decepticons!  We are under attack!  Prepare to repel boarding parties!”

            Aboard the bridge, Frostbite bit his bottom lip in apprehension as Ravage’s orders echoed throughout the War World.  The blue and purple Decepticon mentally berated himself for not detecting the incoming vessel, but he quickly pushed the thoughts from his mind.  There would be time for regrets later; right now, he needed to concentrate on their current problems.  Frostbite pushed the intercom for Smokejumper’s quarters.

            “Colonel,” the younger officer stated, “we’re currently under attack.  Request your presence aboard the bridge.”

            Without waiting for a reply, Frostbite then called down to the weapons section.  “Is the orbital ion cannon still on-line?”

            “Affirmative, sir.”

            Frostbite breathed a sigh of relief; they still had some capabilities, it turned out.  “Can you target the invading ship?” came the next question.

            “Roger that.”

            “Target the starboard engine of the ship, then,” Frostbite ordered.  “Disable the engine, then turn your attention towards the bridge.”

            “Sir, the ion cannon will need approximately thirty seconds to recharge between blasts.”

            “You don’t think I know that?” growled Frostbite.  “Destroy those engines, and do it now!”

            Razorclaw stroked his chin and plastered on a bemused smile as he watched the first wave of boarding shuttles depart for the asteroid.  Ravage’s response time seemed rather slow; the General surmised that Ravage failed to emplace defensive measures, instead relying purely on his asteroid ship’s camouflage to avoid detection.

            The shuttles drew even with the asteroid’s lower circumference, and the boarding bridges latched onto the rocky sides of the ship.  Razorclaw turned his attention outwards, and then noticed a strange, oblong shape coming around the left-hand side of the potato-shaped asteroid.

            His optics suddenly grew wide with realization.  “Target that satellite and blow it up!” he bellowed.

            The order came a second too late.  The orbital ion cannon punched a clean hole through the General’s starboard engine, causing the entire vessel to shake.  A set of plasma bursts departed the ship a second later, destroying the ion cannon.

            Razorclaw let out a low groan of exasperation, and then demanded, “ensign.  Report.”

            “Starboard engine heavily damaged, sir.  If they launch escape pods, or even a shuttle, we wouldn’t be able to follow.  Estimated time to engine repair: an hour and a half, at least.”

            Razorclaw sighed.  “Pull all available qualified personnel and get them down to the engine room,” he said.  “Launch the next wave of boarders.”

            Ravage drew his dual blasters, expecting to encounter invaders at any moment.  He did not know where the boarding craft had docked, but he realized that he needed to get to the bridge so that he could more accurately address the current crisis.

            Keeping his blaster leveled upwards, Ravage cautiously stepped into the hallway.  Heavy smoke hung low in the air, and Ravage found fallen debris and flames blocking the hallway on his right-hand side.  The screams of wounded and dying Decepticons floated from between the cracks of the heavy rubble, and the Decepticon leader frantically began throwing the heavy concrete and girders aside.

            “Ravage!  Thank Primus!” a voice sounded.  Ravage looked toward his lower-left hand side, and found the torso of Reptilion poking out from underneath the debris.  Ravage bent down low, giving a cursory evaluation of his prize interrogator.  He pushed some of the heavier bits out of the way and recoiled as he caught a glimpse of the wounds.

            Reptilion’s lower body lay completely separated from his torso; Ravage had no idea where the legs lay. 

            “It’s bad, isn’t it?” the lizard-like Decepticon rasped.

            Ravage nodded once.  “I’m not one to lie,” Ravage stated matter-of-factly.  “It’s survivable, but given our current situation . . .”

            Reptilion laughed once, and then the show of levity disintegrated into a series of hacking coughs.  “I understand,” Reptilion wheezed.  “It’s been . . . a pleasure, boss.  Thank you . . . for restoring our dignity . . . and our honor.”

            Reptilion reached upward, grabbing the barrel of Ravage’s blaster, and then pushed it against his own forehead.  Ravage nodded once in silent understanding.  His finger resting lightly against the trigger, the Decepticon commander gave a final, grim smile in admiration.  “Decepticons forever.”

            His finger pulled backwards against the trigger of the weapon, and a clean shot passed through Reptilion’s head.  The Decepticon fell limp in death, a look of peace across his face.

            Ravage disgustedly withdrew his blaster, giving a final look at the fallen form of Reptilion.  Such a waste.  Such a worthless, tragic waste.

            He glanced behind him, and noticed a small group of Decepticons running for the turbo lift.  Ravage sprinted towards the gathering, making his presence immediately known.  The younger Decepticons turned as they heard his footsteps approaching behind them, and showed immediate relief as their leader entered their presence.

“Current situation?” Ravage asked. 

A Decepticon pointed towards a map of the ship that hung on a nearby wall.  “According to the reports that we’ve received, sir, the boarding parties landed on the deck immediately above us.  A warning went out a minute ago that all turbo lifts on decks twenty through sixteen have been disabled.  That means we’re stuck.”

Ravage grunted out of exasperation.  He then triggered his personal communicator.  “Smokejumper, Ravage here,” he stated.  “What’s your current location?”

“Bridge, sir.  I managed to get here right before the boarding parties landed.  Internal sensors are tracking roughly one hundred and twenty invaders.”

“Outnumbered nearly two to one, then,” Ravage completed.  “And there’s probably more where that came from.  We know who fired on us yet?”

“Affirmative.  None other than the Predacons themselves.”

Ravage sighed.  “What’s your take on the situation?”

“To be frank, sir, the War World is lost.  Recommend immediate evacuation.”

“Slag.  Colonel, sound a ship-wide evacuation.  Trigger the self-destruct sequence--silent countdown.  Give us twenty minutes to get to the central deck.  We’ve got a cruiser there that’s big enough for fifty personnel.  We’ll fit as many as we can on that ship.  You remember the code words, correct?”         

“Of course, sir.  We rehearsed this scenario only last week.”

“I’ll meet you mid-ship, Smokejumper.  I’m counting on you to be there.  Ravage out.”

Ravage released the button on his communicator, and noticed that warning lights were already flashing on the decks.  Smokejumper’s voice cut across the ship’s intercom a second later; “all Decepticons, this is Colonel Smokejumper.  Execute drill Delta Echo Victor Two.  These are the final orders from the bridge.”

The Decepticon leader then turned to his small group.  “Decepticons,” Ravage announced, “we have twenty minutes to get clear of the ship.  There’s ten decks filled with Predacons between us and there, with no operational turbo lifts.  We’re going to make this work, but we must stay together and move quickly.  Assume a basic infantry-style wedge, and get to a ladder.  Move out.”

It did not take long for the small party to locate a ladder that led to the deck immediately above.  Ravage hoped that he would be able to find a central ladder shaft, one that would lead directly to the central deck.  However, the layout of the ship prevented this; Ravage would have to lead the band of Decepticons across half a kilometer of the deck above before they would be able to access the ladder.

Ravage mounted the first steps of the ladder and pushed aside the trap door that barred their way.  He peeked outwards, looking for any signs of Predacons.  Upon ensuring that the way was clear, Ravage pushed the trap door back into place and turned to the Decepticons below.

"The way is clear for now," he whispered, "but that might change at any time.  Keep your senses and your wits about you, and prepare for combat."

"How far is it?" one Decepticon hissed upward.

Ravage had not wanted to reveal the distance to them, but when fronted with such a question, he felt that he owed his troops an honest answer.  "Half a kilometer," he answered.

A long, still moment of silence reigned below.  A Decepticon finally stated, "that's preposterous!  It might as well be across the galaxy!  We've got an entire company of Predacons between us and the main ladder chute!"

"Belay that talk, soldier," another Decepticon chided.  "We don't give up that easily.  We'll make it the five hundred meters, and if we encounter any Predacons, we'll let them know exactly why we call ourselves the Decepticons!"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ravage couldn't help but crack a smile of pride at this comment.  "While I appreciate the words of encouragement," he stated, "we don't really have the time for grandiose speeches right now.  I'm going to check the floor above one more time, and then we'll move out.  If anybody wants to stay here and surrender to the Predacons, now is the time to let yourself be known."

Not a single Decepticon raised his hand.  "Good," Ravage replied, "for if you had, I would of had you executed on the spot."  Without saying any further words on the subject, Ravage pushed the trap door once more.  A quick visual check verified that no Predacons stood above, and Ravage pushed himself onto the upper deck and withdrew one of his blasters as he watched his fellow Predacons file out of the chute.  The Decepticon commander then took his place at the front of the wedge formation.

"Keep it tight.  I want security on all sides," Ravage hissed.  "Be sure to watch the six."

"Sir, I must protest you positioning yourself as the point man," a Decepticon called Flux whispered.  Ravage remained silent, but only gave Flux a hard stare.  The Decepticon fell silent, and took up a position on the lower right-hand side of the small formation.

Ravage held one of his blasters low, keeping both hands on the handle of the weapon and positioning the muzzle towards the floor.  He kept the other blaster strapped at his side; he doubted that he would need it for any engagements with the Predacons, but he was also a quick-draw on the trigger and could get to it quickly enough of he found himself out-gunned.  They began a slow march towards the ladder chute, watching for signs of invaders from all sides.

A sudden movement towards the left seemed to catch the attention of one of the Decepticons after several minutes of walking, and the startled soldier let loose a volley of shots.  Ravage turned in the direction of the outburst, straining his optics into the failing light of the corridors.

"What in the Pit are you firing at?" he demanded. 

"I could have sworn there was something there, sir," the Decepticon replied.

"Excellent," Ravage responded sarcastically.  "And your zest just gave away our position."

Sure enough, the sounds of voices began to echo throughout the side corridors.  "I thought I heard something coming from this direction," the Decepticons could hear one Predacon say to another.  "We'd better check it out, otherwise the General is going to have our heads."

Ravage turned and stared at his group.  "We've got at least two Predacons, coming in towards our nine o'clock," Ravage stated.  "Alpha team, get on line.  Light them up as soon as they enter your field of vision.  Bravo team, come with me."

The Decepticon leader led the smaller team of Decepticons away from the T-intersection of corridors, and positioned them along the wall to provide security while the first element waited expectantly for their attackers.  Sure enough, a small band of Predacons rounded the corner a few minutes later.

"Look, Buzzclaw!  There they are!"

The luckless Predacons were unable to say anything else, however; a large volley of fire literally tore them apart.  Ravage stared at the remains of the two Predacons with a grim sense of satisfaction.  "Alright, Decepticons," he stated after a long moment, "we've got to keep moving.  No doubt innumerable Predacons just heard that engagement and are on their way."  With those words, Ravage resumed his position at the front of the formation and led the Decepticons along at a quick trot.

After a few tense moments of stalking along the corridors, Ravage and his party arrived at a chute.  Ravage checked both sides of the corridor, and then kicked the door in.  A quick glance upwards confirmed that the ladder would take them all the way to the central deck of the ship.  Ravage turned and addressed his Decepticons once more.

"Alright, we're almost there now, but there's still a lot that can go wrong between here and there.  Keep your heads in the game, keep your optics peeled, and keep your weapons at the ready, and we'll make it out of this alive."  He then glanced down the line and grabbed Flak.  "You.  You're going first.  I'll bring up the rear.  Move quick and call down if anything seems out of the ordinary--and I mean anything.  Any questions, Deception?"

Flak shook his head vigorously.  "Excellent," Ravage replied.  "Now get up that chute and make us proud."

Flak nodded once in understanding, and immediately mounted the ladder.  It impressed Ravage to see how fast the small Decepticon scurried up the rungs.  He quickly selected another soldier to follow Flak, and then waited for a few seconds before sending another up.  Ravage figured that if he spaced them out far enough, they wouldn't all die if they encountered an explosion while in the chute.

After a few more tense moments, Ravage mounted the rungs for himself.  He and his crew of Decepticons needed to climb about eight decks before they reached the central floor and the escape vessel.  He glanced down nervously at his chronometer.  Only about eight more minutes before the entire vessel exploded.  There was enough time--but only barely.

  "Move it," Ravage hissed at the Decepticons above him.  The assembly was moving much too slowly for his liking.  The line moved upwards--slowly--for a few more stories before stopping.  Ravage nervously glanced down at the chronometer--six minutes.

"What's the hold-up?" he demanded. 

"Sir, there's a strange device up here," Flak responded.  "I don't know what it is.  I'm going to try to move it out of the way."

"Don't touch it, you fool!" Ravage bellowed.

Too late.  Flak reached out and gripped the device, setting off the explosive that the Predacons had hidden within.

Ravage shielded himself from the explosion, and felt the flames threatening to tear away his metallic skin.  He let out a bellow of agony, and opened his optics in time to see the forms of three flaming Decepticons fall to their demise.  After doing a cursory evaluation of his own injuries, Ravage called upwards, "report.  What's the current status?"

"Not good, sir," a Decepticon called Singe replied.  "Four dead.  Flak is melted to the ladder."

Ravage let out a small groan of exasperation.  "The idiot," he mumbled.  "I told him not to touch it."

He then called upwards, "we're not too far now, but we don't have much time left.  Double-time it up there, and don't touch any strange devices you find.  Now let's get moving!"

"Roger that, sir!" Singe called downwards.  With a final glance towards the bottom of the ship far below, Ravage resumed his frantic climb up the interior of the War World.

Finally, after another two minutes of quick climbing, Ravage and his crew reached deck ten--the central deck of the War World.  Ravage stood beside the trap door in the central shaft, and then turned to his Decepticons.  "Stand out of the way," he commanded.  "I don't know what's on the other side of the door.  It might be fellow Decepticons, or it might be the Predacons."

Ravage kicked the door in, and then carefully stuck his head out into the light of the interior shuttle bay.  He found himself staring down nearly a score of blasters.

"It's fine, it's the commander," Ravage heard Smokejumper cry out.  "Drop your weapons, let them in."

Ravage was hoisted from the chute by a group of Decepticons, and then he turned his attention downwards.  "There's about six more," he called out.  "Make sure that they get aboard the shuttle.  What's the current situation, Colonel?"

Smokejumper offered a salute, which Ravage dismissively returned.  "We've got about forty standing by, sir," Smokejumper replied.  "Current estimates is that about thirty-five have been captured, killed, or where otherwise unable to make it to the central deck.  The ship is ready to fly; we were just waiting on you."

"We have two minutes left until detonation, Colonel," Ravage chided.  "You're cutting this awfully short."

"That's not the least of our worries, sir," Smokejumper replied.  "We've got nearly a score of Predacons cutting through that bulkhead right now.  We estimate that they'll be through within the next minute."  Ravage followed Smokejumper's outstretched finger with his gaze and saw the unearthly glow of torches cutting through the massive metal door. 

Without wasting any further words, Ravage strode for the ship.  "Colonel, get the men aboard," he demanded.  "We're getting out of here before the Predacons get wind of the self-destruct sequence."  Ravage then made his way into the cockpit and settled into the co-pilot's chair and gripped the intercom.  "All Decepticons aboard the War World, this is Ravage.  A ship-wide evacuation has been put into effect.  If you are not within the central deck at this time, I wish you the best and thank you for your service.  May Primus have mercy upon your Sparks."

Smokejumper then settled into the pilot's chair.  "All Decepticons aboard, sir," he called out.  "There are forty-six present, including you and myself.  Recommend that we take off immediately."

"Wait." Ravage demanded.

"Sir, may I remind you that we only have a minute until detonation?" Smokejumper cried.

"Wait," Ravage replied once more.  "I'm going to send the Predacons . . . a little message."

Smokejumper looked forwards, towards the bulkhead.  He suddenly nodded in understanding.  A section of the massive door suddenly fell inwards, and a group of Predacons charged into the hanger.

"Colonel," Ravage calmly ordered, "drop the hanger shields."

Smokejumper made no verbal reply; he simply acted.  A single push of a button dropped the invisible hanger barriers, allowing the harsh vacuum of space to fill the hanger.  Were sound capable of being carried in a vacuum, the Decepticons would have heard the screams of nearly twenty Predacons as they were swept into the endless abyss of outer space.  Smokejumper then took the ship upwards and out of the docking bay, only seconds before the War World's scheduled detonation.

Razorclaw glanced down from the bridge of his vessel towards Ravage's War World, wondering exactly what the wily Decepticon commander was up to.  He had commanded all ship-wide communications cast aboard the War World to be rebroadcast on his own ship, and Ravage's final words to his Decepticons worried him.  Ravage apparently had a proverbial card up his sleeve--and he was probably willing to sacrifice some of his own soldiers to use it. 

A bright flash filled the bridge a moment later, and Razorclaw raised a single arm to shield his optics from the glare.  He then glanced outwards, seeing nothing but remnants of the War World hurtling through the darkness of space.

"I don't believe it," the General stated.  "He sacrificed himself--to take as many of us out as he could."

"Not quite, sir," a Predacon interjected.  "Sensors are picking up a voyager-class vessel departing the rubble of the War World.  I think it's an escape shuttle of some sort."

"Give me a visual," Razorclaw demanded.  The view screen of the ship zoomed in a moment later, giving the General his first look at the fleeing vessel.

"Try to raise it on comms," he called out.

"Too late, sir," a subordinate responded.  "They're trying to hail us."

"Patch it through."

The raspy voice of Ravage filled General Razorclaw's bridge a second later.  "Attention, Predacon commander," the heavy accent called out, "I have no idea who you are, but this is Ravage of the Decepticons.  Cease your pursuit of my vessel or suffer the consequences."

"Me?  Suffer the consequences?" Razorclaw bellowed.  "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?  I am General Razorclaw, Imperial Army of the Predacon Alliance!  I have enough firepower to blast your puny vessel from the sky right now!"

"That you may, General," Ravage replied, "but you haven't the speed to catch us in time.  I sincerely hope that the lives of the one-hundred twenty odd soldiers you attacked me with were worth the indignities I have heaped upon you.  And now, General," Ravage concluded, "I must bid you, as the Earthlings say, adieux.  I'll be killing you later, no doubt."

The audio line went dead, leaving a stunned Razorclaw standing indignantly before his crew.  The General let out a primal scream of rage and crashed his massive fists through a computer terminal, sending a shower of sparks into the stagnant air of the darkened bridge.  He took a long moment to compose himself, and then turned back to his bridge staff.

"Give me a status on that ship," he demanded.

"It's escaped into transwarp," an ensign replied, "however, it's leaving a wide ion trail.  We'll be able to track her easily enough once our own engines are repaired."

The fuming Razorclaw said nothing in return, but simply slumped into his command chair and stared out at the stars dejectedly.

Smokejumper stared at the blurred star lines for a long while before turning his attention to his commander.  The Colonel let out a long sigh before beginning.

"Well, we've lost our greatest possession and greatest weapon--our hiding place," he started.  "I should have followed your advice, sir.  We needed to move the War World."

Ravage waved a hand dismissively.  "No sense lamenting the past," Ravage announced, although he was visibly furious with the recent turn of events.  "We'll regroup and reconsolidate, and come back stronger than before."

"That's another problem," Smokejumper stated.  "I'm sure that Razorclaw will be able to follow us.  This ship was not meant for stealth.  We're undoubtedly leaving a very visible ion trail, and I'm willing to bet that Razorclaw is too smart to overlook that particular fact."

"Then we'll have to beat Razorclaw at his own game," Ravage decided.  "Time is not on our side, and we no longer hold the advantage of surprise.  What we need, Colonel, is an extraordinarily strong defense."

Without waiting for any further words from his executive officer, Ravage turned to the navigational computer next to him.  He then pulled up a list of available systems.  Smokejumper looked over his shoulder and checked the rear compartment of the vessel, and then resumed watching the blurred lines of the stars as they passed by.

Ravage mumbled in low tones as he reviewed the number of available systems.  "Hmmm . . . let's see . . . there's Aridos . . . but there's not too much in the way of defense, only open expanses of desert.  Atlantica . . . no, no, that's much to wet."

After another moment of musing, a small smile crossed Ravage's face, and Smokejumper glanced over to see what his commander was grinning about.  Ravage pointed to a small world on the computer monitor.  "There, Colonel, there's the perfect place," Ravage finished.  "For both defensive and symbolic purposes.  There . . . events will come full circle."

Smokejumper looked over at the screen, and then recoiled in surprise.  "Commander . . . surely you can't mean there?" he asked.

Ravage laughed.  "Of course I do.  Colonel Smokejumper, put in a course for Necros."

Valkyrie stood atop the balcony of the former sacrificial tower as she watched several Maximal ships take off.  The Maximal Elders had determined to cut back the amount of support that Necros received, and would monitor the Necronians carefully now that they had livestock and other agricultural products.  A small contingent of Maximals would remain several kilometers distant, where they would carefully keep watch over the Necronian people.

She turned suddenly, as she heard a rustling noise behind her.  She found herself staring at Wolfgang, who clutched a small bag over one of his shoulders.  "I take it that this is good-bye, then," she said.  Wolfgang nodded in affirmation.

"It's been fun, Valkyrie, it really has," Wolfgang stated.  "And I wish that I could stay behind longer, to watch these people grow.  But the Maximal Elders . . . well, they've got other plans for me.  I'm off to conduct a scientific survey on Halderus Seven."

"Quite a barren world, that one is," Valkyrie said.

"I know," Wolfgang replied, unable to keep the tone of disgust out of his voice.  "Nothing but caves and volcanoes, the entire planet.  Still, somebody's got to do it."

Valkyrie extended a single hand outward, gripping the larger Maximal's hand in her own.  "I thank you so much for the work you've done here, my friend," she smiled.  "I only hope that we'll meet again some day."

"I'm sure we will."  Wolfgang returned the handshake, and then gave a coy wave as he descended the stairs.  Valkyrie watched his figure departing across the main courtyard of the enclosed village and out the gate, to the ship that lay beyond.  She turned and heaved a sigh out of exasperation.  After the events of a year prior, the female Maximal found it difficult to trust strange people, but Wolfgang had been an exception to that.  The gray and blue Maximal had been caring, almost father-like, for her.  She would miss him terribly.

Valkyrie looked over the landscape of Necros, watching the sun set into the distance.  She smiled as she looked at the fledgling trees swaying slightly in the breeze below; a hope of life springing up from the ashes of death. 

"Got any time left for an old friend, priestess?"

Valkyrie turned in the direction of the voice, which emanated from the direction of the stairwell.  Her optics widened in surprise as she caught sight of her new visitor.

"Lio Convoy!" she exclaimed.  The white Maximal stared at her for a long moment, his optics beaming.  "Surprised to see me?" he finally asked.

"Of course," Valkyrie replied.  "I haven't seen you for over a year now.  What brings you to Necros?"

"Security duty," he stated, unable to keep the hint of pride out of his voice.  "Now that the amount of humanitarian aide is being scaled back by the Galactic Federation, the Maximal Elders were looking for a small security force of Maximals to position a few kilometers outside of the city.  I decided to volunteer for the position."

"But why?" Valkyrie asked.  "I figured that you were still angry . . . what with what I did before the Council a year ago . . ."

Lio Convoy laughed.  "I admit, I was pretty steamed about that for a while.  But I got to thinking about what you did and why, and while I still don't agree with it, I understand your decision to avoid war with the Predacons.  I figured that it was time to . . . what's the expression the Earthlings use?  Oh yes, to 'bury the hatchet.'"

Valkyrie took one of Lio Convoy's massive hands into her own.  "I'm glad, my friend."

"As am I," Lio Convoy responded.  Together, the pair turned their attention outwards, towards the setting sun.

"What do you mean, he got away?" Cryotek roared at the image of Razorclaw that filled his communication screen.  "General, that answer is simply unacceptable.  Do not report back to me until you have Ravage in your custody or his head on a platter.  I tire of this . . . this . . . Decepticon . . . making a mockery of us!  Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

  Razorclaw scowled and bit his bottom lip at the High Proctor's outburst.  "Absolutely, High Proctor," the General responded.  "There will not be any further mishaps.  Our engines are repaired and the trail is still hot."

"Then why, in the name of the Pit, are you not following it?  Cryotek out."

Without waiting for any further response from Razorclaw, Cryotek flipped the communicator off.  Staring at the blank screen, he clenched his massive fists in anger at this latest turn of events.

Ram Horn, Sea Clamp, and Jetstorm carefully monitored his every move.  They would not appreciate another failure.

It still spurned him, he supposed, how his best agent double-crossed him.  Although Cryotek was always the undoubted superior, he regarded Ravage as a compatriot.  A comrade.  Perhaps . . . even a friend.

But this betrayal changed all this.  Cryotek understood Ravage's loyalty--he felt the own sense of pride for the Predacons pounding in his own fuel lines--but the Decepticons were finished.  Dead.  Extinct. 

What drives a being to tenaciously cling to a dead and essentially forgotten past? he pondered.  If any Transformer understood current events and politics, it needed to be Ravage.  But instead, the former Tripedicus Agent remained firmly rooted in the past of the Decepticons.

He let out a small rumble of discontent.  Soon, he convinced himself, soon enough I'll have Ravage back and I'll drive the answers from him.  Even if they drive me mad.

Finally, the star lines faded away, and Ravage and Smokejumper found themselves returned to normal space.  Ravage glanced outwards, towards the dim star that drifted several million miles distant.  The grayish world of Necros spiraled a generous distance from the faint orb.  Ravage immediately recognized the thick cloud cover and barren moon of the nearly dead planet.

Smokejumper looked down at the planet and then glanced back towards Ravage.  "Are you sure you want to do this, commander?" he asked.  "After all, I know well of the Necronians from the tales you relegated to us.  They're a proud warrior race.  I doubt they'll take kindly to our presence on the planet."

"Peace through tyranny," Ravage responded.  "I seem to recall the original Megatron using that particular turn of phrase fairly often."

It was becoming fairly obvious to Ravage that Smokejumper didn't much care for his superior's plans.  "Sir, we know that the Maximals established a presence on Necros," the colonel further argued.  "We'd have Predacons, Necronians and Maximals to contend with.  That's a lot for forty-odd Decepticons to deal with."

"Colonel," Ravage stated, the exasperation in his voice weighing heavily, "that is precisely why I want to move the Decepticons there.  The Maximals hate us, but they have a fundamental sense of honor and decency.  Imagine what will happen when we take the Necronian city hostage.  The Maximals will give into our demands for fear that we might hurt some of their precious biological charges.  The Predacon Alliance, as always, will keel right over to the larger Maximal influence.  A single, quick movement," Ravage continued, stretching the words out for effect, "and we lose our Predacon pursuers.  Surely you can't argue with this sort of logic."

"And what if the Maximals don't, sir?  How many Necronians will we have to kill?"

"As many as we need, Colonel.  The ends justify the means."

"Status," Razorclaw demanded.  The General now stood before the view port, watching the stars pass by as his ship speed through transwarp.

An ensign checked down at his computer monitor before returning his gaze upward.  "At this time, sir," he stated, "we're still hot on Ravage's trail.  We're about two hours behind him, even at maximum warp drive.  Given the trajectory, we believe that he's fleeing towards Necros."

"Necros?" the word escaped from Razorclaw's agape mouth, the twinge of surprise clearly audible.  "Surely he wouldn't try to escape there?  Especially not after what happened a year prior?"

The ensign double-checked the screen, and then turned his attention upwards once more.  "I've just confirmed it, sir," he responded.  "That's the only rocky planet within twelve light years."

"Surely you must be mistaken," the General continued, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice.  "Ravage couldn't be that stupid, that predictable.  He's probably going to take his ship down into the atmosphere of a gas giant, to throw us off the  course by erasing the ion trail.  Or maybe he'll skirt the edge of a black hole, try to lose us that way.  Or get lost in a nebula, or an asteroid belt, or even a slagging cosmic string.  Anything makes more sense than Necros."

The ensign tried to choke back a sigh as he once again confronted the computer terminal.  "I've just run a cursory scan of the quadrant, sir," he stated again.  "It's pretty desolate.  The only thing that would make sense between here and Necros is the Anheis system, and it's so full of magnetic storms that any ship entering its space would be disabled within a matter of seconds."

The General still did not seem contented with this answer, and so marched purposefully over to the computer monitor and checked it for himself.  A rumble of annoyance escaped his massive form a second later, and he returned his attention to the view screen.  "Very well then, ensign," he stated dryly, "to Necros."

Valkyrie and Lio Convoy walked across the small courtyard of the Necronian town, conversing in low tones as the mid-day sun passed overhead. 

"So you'll be at the Maximal ship about five kilometers distant, then?" she asked.

"Yes," he responded.  "Only a few minutes away, in case you need anything.  You do have a radio transceiver here, right?"

Valkyrie sadly shook her head.  "An unfortunate oversight on my part," she stated.  "For so long, the humanitarian effort was here, right inside the city.  When the Maximal Elders decided to pull the support back . . . well, I hate to admit it, but it simply slipped my mind."

"Hmmm," Lio Convoy exclaimed.  "Well, that won't do.  I've got a two way transceiver here that I'll lend you.  Use it if anything goes wrong."

Valkyrie stretched her own hand outwards and accepted the radio from the larger Maximal.  "Very well," she stated, "but I can't imagine why I should need it."

"You seem rather optimistic," Lio Convoy pointed out.  "I'd be a tad more wary, were I you."

"Why, Lio Convoy," Valkyrie exclaimed, "do you know something I don't?"
            "Of course not," he laughed.  "Just . . . all things considered . . . after everything that's happened . . .  well, just promise me you'll take care of yourself."

"You needn't worry."

"I think I do.  After all, it's my job to ensure that you remain out of harm's way."

Valkyrie fell silent at this, but Lio Convoy imagined that he could see a slight smile playing upon her lips.  The female Transformer then turned her attention to the skies.

"Clouds on the horizon," she remarked, and Lio Convoy saw a flash of lightening in the distance.  "The storm will be here by evening.  Do you believe in omens?" she asked.

"No," Lio Convoy replied, "I don't.  I've always believed that our fate is ours to decide, and no amount of atmospheric effects can change that.  And you?"

Valkyrie gave a final, fleeting glance towards the billowing clouds.  "No," she finished suddenly.  "Neither do I.  Let's get inside.  With a storm coming, the people will be hunkering down for the evening.  We should do the same."

Lio Convoy laughed slightly.  "While I appreciate the invitation," he stated, "I do need to be getting back to my own ship.  But I'll be dropping by tomorrow, make no doubt about that."

"I look forward to your visit, then," Valkyrie called after Lio Convoy as he made his way towards the front gate.  The Maximal soldier looked over his shoulder, and gave a coy nod and wave as he exited the city gates.

The Decepticon ship touched down behind a set of hills, not too far distant from the Necronian city.  Smokejumper looked out over the landscape before turning his attention back towards his superior officer.

"How far away is the city?" he asked.  

"Not far," Ravage replied, "just over these hills and through the cemetery.  Our main concern comes from the sentries that they'll have posted.  There are two entrances to the city; an east and a west gate.  I will take a small detachment of five Decepticons and infiltrate over the wall during the evening.  We will secure the gate and open it.  Moving under the cover of darkness, you will move twenty-five of our number through the West gate.  Another ten will move in position of the East gate.  The remainder will stay here as a skeleton crew to guard our vessel.  Do you have any questions about this?"

Smokejumper shook his head.  "No, sir," he remarked.  "Which Decepticons do you intend to take with you?"

Ravage thought for a moment, and then replied, "Scarem, Fangry, Sky Jack, Road Pig, and Dirge.  Was Dreadwing one of the Decepticons who made it aboard the vessel?"

Smokejumper nodded in affirmation.  "Yes, sir," he stated.  "He's none too bright, but he's an excellent body guard.  I'm proud to have known him for many years.  He used to accompany me on many of my missions for the Predacons."

"I know," Ravage replied.  "I'm also aware that you and he can form a super jet should the situation warrant.  However, I'm well aware of the Maximal presence in Necros, and want to keep our air power to a minimum until we have positive control of the city.  I want Dreadwing to remain here to guard the ship.  Now, according to my estimates, the Predacons should only be about an hour and a half behind us at this point--and we'll be killed if we start to move before night falls.  We'll use the rest of our time to camouflage the ship and prepare some hasty defensive positions.  You have your orders, Colonel.  Now execute."

Ravage stood from his chair and turned to leave, but an interruption from Smokejumper caused him to turn around.  "Sir," the Colonel pointed out, "what if Razorclaw notifies the Maximals right away?"

Ravage shook his head.  "It won't happen," he surmised.  "The Tripedicus Council is going to keep this as far down as possible.  By the time Razorclaw and the Maximals meet, it will be too late for them, and we'll have the hostages we need."

Necronian orbit.  Two hours later.

Razorclaw stared down and the dark gray world, pondering where Ravage could have gone.  As if anticipating the next question, the ensign at the control panel piped up with an answer.

"Sir, the ion trail leads down to the surface.  Although the surface wind and cloud cover dissipates the trail itself, a computer analysis of the trajectory positions it within a fifty kilometer radius of the Necronian city."

"Which city, ensign?  Is there only the one?"  Razorclaw demanded.

"Sir, global survey teams sent to Necros within the past year have only detected that single city structure.  It seems to be the only 'civilized' portion of the entire planet.  There are encampments of scavengers scattered throughout the entire world, but that's the only city."

"Very well, ensign.  Dispatch a squadron of scout ships.  I want the surface of that area combed."

"Sir, that area is one the edge of the Necronian city.  Won't the Maximal forces on the planet grow suspicious?" the ensign asked.

A rumble of displeasure escaped from Razorclaw's massive form, and the ensign immediately regretted his words.  The General, clearly, was in no mood for interstellar diplomacy.  "I'll leave that for Cryotek to sort out," Razorclaw growled.  "It's about time the High Proctor took some measure of responsibility in this entire ordeal."

Ravage stood at the base of his ship, his optics turned towards the heavens.  Clouds continued to billow overhead, and the claps of thunder served as a very real reminder of the severity of their current predicament.  The Decepticon commander investigated the sides of the vessel, and a small smile of satisfaction crossed his lips as he ensured that the craft was invisible from the air. 

"Quickly, get inside," Ravage called out.  "We haven't much time before Razorclaw and his Predacons arrive.  We need to be inside at that point."

The final Decepticons crowded into a side hatch, and Ravage closed the bulkhead behind them.  He watched as the Decepticon soldiers made their way into the rear hold, and then he returned to the front of the vessel.  "Status, Colonel," Ravage called out as he took his seat.

Smokejumper conferred with the instrument panels for a few seconds before returning his direction back towards Ravage.  "All sensors on-line, sir," he announced.  "I'm picking up about fourteen craft entering the atmosphere.  Predacon design."

"Just as I expected," Ravage stated, steepling his fingers as he drifted into thought.  "Now to wait for nightfall.  It will be far easier to avoid Razorclaw under the cover of darkness."

Several hours passed without sign of the Decepticon escapees.  Tempers wore thin on the bridge of General Razorclaw's vessel, and the commanding officer was beginning to lash out at any Predacons that crossed his path.

"Still no positive response from the away teams, sir," a bridge hand offered.

"Do you think me blind or an idiot?" Razorclaw fumed.  "Of course I know that.  Now give me some information of value or fall silent."

The bridge hand looked abashed, and Razorclaw regretted his harsh words.  It was not like him to give so quickly into anger.  It looked weak in front of his troops.  However, the General offered no apology.  Instead, he simply turned towards the view screen once more, giving out a new set of orders:

"Continue the search.  We will find Ravage eventually.  And when we do, I will journey to Necros myself."

Several more hours passed, and Ravage ventured a look outside of his vessel.  The landing craft continued to drone overhead; Ravage could see their bright searchlights illuminating the ground below.  Fortunately, the Necronian moon was new, and so darkness proved to be in the Decepticon's favor.  Ravage turned his attention to the soldiers in the back of the shuttle.

"All right, you've all been briefed on our mission," he stated.  "There's a city up ahead that's ours for the taking.  We'll be outnumbered, but the sentiments of the Necronians will prove to work against them.  Capture any children that you see once you enter the city.  The threat of their deaths will make the warriors stay in line easily enough."

Staring outwards at the sea of apprehensive faces, Ravage gave a self-confident nod.  "We pull this off properly, we'll add to our prestige.  The Decepticons will truly be known throughout the galaxy.  We fail . . . well, I'm sure that you're all aware of the price of failure.  A tenure in the torture chambers of Charr leave even the most battle-hardened Transformers begging for death."

Ravage opened the side hatch of the craft, checking for the ships overhead.  "One more thing, Decepticons . . . ensure that you capture the priestess.  Bring her to me.  I believe that she and I will have some . . . catching up to do."

Smokejumper quickly organized his party into squads, and then staggered their movements, so that the four lines of soldiers move independently from each other.  That way, even if one squad was compromised, it would be possible for the main body to reach their objective at the city.  The Decepticon executive officer then fell into ranks with the lead squad, and their platoon started off towards the West gates of the Necronian city, being wary of the Predacon searchlights that continued to scour the ground.

About a kilometer distant, a young, but capable, Decepticon named Thrustor organized his squad of ten.  A walking assembly of cybernetics and prosthetics, Thrustor cast an imposing sight; to the assembled Decepticons before him, his single optic glowing ominously in the darkness of the Necronian night proved absolutely terrifying.  But the appearance of the Decepticon did not belay his tactical abilities.

"All right, you rabble," he spat.  "We've got us about ten kilometers to clear until we get to this city and take the East gates.  Speed; that's the key.  Any Decepticon falls behind, I'm leaving you.  I haven't the time or the patience to waste on the worthless."

Without awaiting further words from his troops, Thrustor assumed his cybernetic raptor mode.  "Move it.  There's a bad moon out tonight."

Ravage himself quickly organized his assault force; he intentionally selected five of the most dedicated and lethal Decepticons in his force.  Together, they would be more than capable of crossing the walls into the city.

Dirge.  Ravage recalled the Seeker from his time with the original Megatron's Decepticons, years prior.  Although Dirge underwent the downsizing process to become a Predacon, he still retained his original alternate mode of a jet.  A dangerous warrior on the ground, Dirge proved deathly lethal in the skies.

Sky Jack.  A relative new-comer to the Decepticons, Sky Jack also converted into a jet, approximating that of a stealth fighter on Earth.  Extraordinarily intelligent and lithe, Sky Jack already proved his mettle in battle.

Fangry.  Another former Decepticon.  Ravage never knew Fangry very well, but understood that the wolf-like Decepticon had undergone the Headmaster process sometime in the past.  Fangry had the process reversed upon joining the Predacons, but still retained his original wolf-monster mode.  Fangry was capable of limited bouts of flight; despite his rather unwieldy form, Ravage knew that a red battle rage pounded through Fangry.

Road Pig.  Not very bright, but the Decepticon wielded exceptional firepower in the form of an arm cannon.  He was also capable of obtaining great speeds in his motorcycle form.

And Scarem.  A walking enigma.  While out of battle, Scarem retained a quiet, aloof demeanor, almost treating his fellow Decepticons as unworthy to be in his presence.  But once the mist of battle descended upon him, Scarem reverted into a nearly mindless state; anything that dared cross the path of his twin scythe arms, Scarem killed.  Friend, foe, innocent, guilty--it mattered not before Scarem the berserker.   

"Alright, Decepticons.  Let's get moving," Ravage whispered into the darkness.  "Follow my lead, wait for my signal to attack.  Although we're more than capable of handling anything the Necronians hand out to us, stealth is what will make this mission succeed.  I trust you all to remember that."  Although none dared to say it, everybody assembled understood that Ravage aimed this last comment at Scarem in particular.

Jogging at a light gait, the six Decepticons disappeared into the darkness, their very survival dependent upon the tasks that lay ahead of them.

In the highest tower in the Necronian city, Valkyrie prepared herself to enter stasis.  A light, cold rain drizzled from the clouds above, and the Maximal stared out into the moonless night.  She cast a look to the south, thinking that she detected a strange source of light; but she quickly pushed the idea from her mind, writing the harsh flashes as nothing more than distant lightening.

The familiar sense of unease passed over her being again, and she gave an involuntary shudder.  She felt something out there, out in the darkness.  Creeping, drawing nearer . . .

Monsters walk tonight, she thought bitterly.  The Necronian priestess lay down upon her bed, attempting to allow sleep to overtake her restless form. 

Three hours later, Ravage and his small band stood behind a mausoleum, staring at the high barriers of the city.  Ravage noticed the light a sentry carried as he made his rounds atop the wall.  After waiting a considerable time, the Decepticons climbed atop the burial structure and then jumped across the gap onto the parapets of the wall.  Ravage smiled to himself as he landed gracefully atop the wall; he had crossed into the Necronian city in the exact same fashion a year prior.  This time, however, he wouldn't make the same mistakes.  Ravage motioned his Decepticons away from the wall; no sense in killing a guard and raising an alarm.  They instead descended into a tight alleyway between two houses.

"Everyone present?" Ravage asked.

A quick visual check confirmed this, and then Ravage chanced a peek into the main Necronian courtyard.  "Excellent," he stated.  "According to my chronometer, we have roughly four hours before sunrise.  Plenty of time.  Fangry, take Sky Jack and Road Pig, unlock the West gate for Thrustor.  Dirge, Scarem, with me.  On my mark, we'll diverge."

Ravage quickly conferred with his communicator.  "Thrustor . . . Smokejumper . . . all in position?" he asked.

"Affirmative," Thrustor responded.

"Yes, sir," Smokejumper stated.

"Ravage out," The Decepticon commander concluded.  He then placed his communicator back at the belt that hung loosely from his side, and then gave another quick peek across the courtyard.  "Let's go, Decepticons."

Ravage sprinted across the courtyard, holding a blaster in each hand as he ran.  Dirge and Scarem quickly fell in behind their leader, watching for any signs of Necronian sentries. 

Ravage skidded to a sudden halt, pushing his back against the side of the main tower, effectively concealing himself in darkness.  Dirge and Scarem wordlessly followed his lead, and while they lacked the stealth capabilities of Ravage, they hid themselves effectively enough.

Ravage brought a single finger to his lips, a call for silence.  He then motioned towards his left, in the direction of an adjacent alley.  Scarem and Dirge made out the illumination of a lantern being carried by a Necronian down the alley.

“Scarem,” Ravage said, “deal with him.  I trust you know the best way.”

The villainous Decepticon did not answer with words; he simply assumed his insect mode.  Within seconds, he noiselessly skittered up the side of a building and dropped behind the oblivious sentry.  Assuming his robot form, Scarem neatly decapitated the alien with his massive claws.

“A little . . . overzealous, I think,” Dirge remarked.

“But necessary,” Ravage responded.  “We couldn’t have him calling out an alarm.  Scarem ensured that he would not have that opportunity.”  The three Decepticons then gathered up the corpse and severed head and hid them behind a pile of refuse before returning their attention towards the gates.

By staying close to the shadows and moving at a light jog, it did not take the Decepticons long to reach the bottom of the high doors.  Scarem watched the rear as Ravage and Dirge carefully, cautiously, drew back the massive bolts, allowing the wooden doors to swing inwards.

Upon the opening of the great barrier, a call sounded forth from the darkness of the immense cemetery.  “Their defenses are broken, Decepticons!  Take all the children captive.  Slaughter the sentries!”

The assembled Decepticons let forth a battle cry, and the Decepticon warriors spilled from their hiding spots and into the city.  Ravage caught Smokejumper by the arm as the Colonel charged past:

“Smokejumper,” Ravage stated, “make sure that my orders are executed.  Bring the priestess to me immediately upon finding her.”

The Predacon Transquito piloted his ship over Necros as he attempted to find any signs of Ravage’s shuttle.  His optics peered into the low illumination afforded by the searchlight that shone from the bottom of his vessel, and the Predacon hoped that he would be able to end his search soon.

A sudden movement towards his left earned his attention, and Transquito maneuvered the ship towards the port side.  Sure enough, the searchlights fell upon a Transformer below.

“Bingo,” he whispered.  “I think I’ve found them.”  The ships automatic sensors shimmered into life, and Transquito found himself facing a profile of the Decepticon below; Dreadwing.

“Slag!” Transquito bellowed.  Dreadwing’s shoulder-mounted gattling missile launcher was capable of destroying voyager-class vessels from five kilometers; Tranquito’s tiny vessel proved no threat.  Transquito immediately opened fire, hoping to destroy the Decepticon before Dreadwing reciprocated.

His shuttle’s twin blasters razed the earth below, kicking up massive clouds of dirt and dust.  A single blast escaped from the massive cloud, and Transquito frantically tried to engage evasive maneuvers.

His actions proved too little, too late, however.  A single missile collided against the port side of his vessel, neatly ripping a hole through the wing and fuselage.  The shuttle lost altitude, and Transquito engaged the rear thrusters in an attempt to stabilize his craft.

He evened out, halting only about twenty-five meters above the ground.  “All units, this is Transquito,” he announced over the communicator, “I’ve encountered Decepticon resistance.  Coordinates are as follows.”

With a few deft key strokes on his computer, Transquito relayed the information to his fellow Predacons.  He then turned his attention upwards, towards the north.  Lightening illuminated the sky, silhouetting the city in the distance.  A sudden burst shone forth from the city, and then disappeared.  Transquito rubbed his optics, trying to ensure that he wasn’t seeing lightening.

But when he looked back up, he found that he was not mistaken.  The tell-tale signs of a blaster battle were coming from the city.  Transquito easily saw the weapon bursts in the darkness.

“Shadowfall,” Transquito called to General Razorclaw’s vessel, still in orbit around the planet, “I’m seeing signs of a gunfight in the vicinity of the city.  Awaiting further orders.”

“The slagging coward!” Razorclaw screamed in rage, pounding a single, large fist against a control panel.  “I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.  By taking the city hostage, Ravage will get the Maximals involved!”

“He’s either exceptionally cunning or desperate, sir,” the ensign offered.

“Ensign, you begin to wear on my nerves,” the General stated coldly, sending a frosty glare in the direction of the junior officer.  Without awaiting any further words of advice or an apology, the General continued, “open me a channel to High Proctor Cryotek.  We have . . . issues . . . that need to be resolved above our level.”

A sudden roaring awakened Valkyrie from her slumber, and the female Maximal groggily rose from her bed and made her way to the balcony that stood adjacent to her chambers.  Another explosion sounded, rocking the very foundations of Valkyrie’s tower.  The urgency of the situation suddenly became known to her, and she sprinted to the balcony railing and peered over the edge.

Several Necronian citizens fled in terror as they were pursued by Transformers.  Valkyrie watched in horror as a Necronian soldier attempted to fight a band of Transformers with nothing more than a spear; he was shot down before he could even get into range with his weapon.

“Oh, Primus.  Not this.  No,” she whispered.

She suddenly heard footsteps behind her, and Valkyrie turned to face her unexpected visitors. 

“There she is!” a Transformer bellowed, pointing in her direction.  “Grab her!”

Valkyrie immediately recognized the Decepticon insignia that the Transformer wore upon his chest, and realized that she needed to escape.  Without pausing to think, she assumed her phoenix mode and spread her wings.

She launched herself into the air, but a laser blast tore through her left wing.  She crumpled to a heap, not far from the edge of the balcony.  She painfully resumed her robot mode as her captors approached.

“I don’t think that the boss is going to like you shooting her like that,” one Decepticon said to the other.

“And he would have liked her getting away even less,” the other retorted.  “Now help me get her up and restrained.”  The two Decepticons then painfully hoisted Valkyrie to her feet and roughly pulled her arms behind her back, where they brusquely secured her wrists together with a pair of metal restraints.  Seizing Valkyrie under her arms, the Decepticons then pulled her along, down the steps of her tower, and into the courtyard below.

Valkyrie’s optics faded over in pain from the wound she sustained to her wing, but she retained consciousness.  As she was pulled along, she looked outwards towards the Necronians, her adopted people.  She winced as she saw the children brought together and secured behind a make-shift barrier, with Decepticon guards securing the only entrance.  She let out a sob as she saw the children’s mothers wailing as they watched their frightened children ripped from their arms by the Decepticon soldiers.  She closed her eyes in disbelief as she saw the remains of three soldiers upon the ground, gaping holes left by blasters still smoldering in the center of their chests.

The Decepticons paid Valkyrie’s emotions no heed.  They instead pulled her to the base of the sacrificial tower and painfully, laboriously, took her up the circular flight of steps to the religious chambers far above.

“You’re monsters!” Valkyrie shouted.  “How can you do such things to innocent people?  To mothers?  To children, for Primus’s sake?”

“Not our place to question orders, Maximal,” one of the Decepticons replied.  “We simply execute.”  The trio then entered the foyer to the sacrificial chambers, and the Decepticon captors thrust open the large double doors that lay beyond.

Valkyrie glanced upwards, to a shadowy figure that stood peering out the tall window at the end of the chamber with his hands clasped behind his back.  The Decepticon then turned around slowly, his red optics glimmering like gems in the darkness of the moonless night.

“You,” Valkyrie sighed.  “Somehow, I knew.  But I wanted to believe differently.”

Ravage let out a small chortle, and then glanced upwards at the guards.  “Frostbite, Sky Jack, leave us.”  The two Decepticons nodded in assent, and then turned to leave, shutting the large doors behind them.

Ravage held a single blaster, and he paced around Valkyrie’s bound form, eyeing her intently.  Without warning, the Decepticon pushed the end of his weapon under Valkyrie’s chin.  The Maximal stayed still; although fear gripped her, she refused to show it.

“Do you have any idea how I tire of this game, Doctor?” Ravage asked rhetorically.  “This is the third time our paths have crossed.  The third time that I have you at the end of a weapon.  Soon, this foolish dance of ours will draw to a close.”

Ravage withdrew the blaster, and then returned into to the holster at his side.  “But not now.  I still have a need for you.  One way or the other, though, our fates will end.”

“Is that what you think this is, Ravage?” Valkyrie asked.  “Fate?  Or is this about you?  Why are you constantly seeking me out?  Is this for revenge?  Some twisted fascination?  A game?  By Primus, answer me!”

Ravage remained silent for a long moment, instead gazing out at the horizon.  It was nearly dawn now, and Ravage shielded his eyes as the first rays of the sun peered over the mountains in the distance.  Finally he spoke.  “You, doctor, are not in a position to demand anything.  But I will entertain your ridiculous notions.  You mean nothing to me.  The fact that our destinies seem intertwined is inconsequential.  Soon, one of us will live; the other will die.  It’s that simple. 

“What this is, doctor, is about honor.  About history.  About those that time forgot.  At one time, my race stood as the epitome of perfection.  Our name—that is, the name of the Decepticons—was feared and respected throughout the galaxy.  But your kind changed that.  You tried to erase us.  You tried to erase me. 

“When it became apparent to me that the Predacons no longer held the Decepticons in regard, I seceded.  They used the name of the Decepticons against me, used it to string me along in their plots.  And then, they used it to try to destroy me.  In response, I re-established the Decepticons.  Currently, there are only around fifty of us.  Many consider us a joke, a relic.  But do you know what, doctor?  I’d rather be regarded as a quaint relic than forgotten altogether.”

Ravage paused for a moment, as if waiting for Valkyrie to respond.  When the Maximal remained silent, however, Ravage continued.  He turned his back to Valkyrie, instead watching the sun continue to rise.  “The irony of this entire ordeal sickens me, Doctor.  Think about it.  Here I am, a representation of the past attempting to resurrect my lineage.  Literally holding a phoenix, the symbol of resurrection, as my captive.  Among a people that resurrects themselves every millennia.  As the sun rises, the symbol of a new beginning.  Coincidence, do you think?  Or fate?”    

“I never pegged you as one to hold stock in omens, Ravage,” Valkyrie finally stated.

“I’m not,” Ravage laughed.  “I’ve always believed in making my own destiny—or defying my own fate, whichever pleases you.  All of these ‘omens’ point to me as being the victor.  But the laws of numbers dictate otherwise.  The Predacons outnumber me here.  The only hope I have in escaping this situation is if the Maximals become involved, agree to entertain my demands in hopes of saving the Necronians I hold prisoner.  You may think me a monster, doctor,” Ravage finished, “but I’m simply the product of my situation.  The ends justify the means, so to speak.”

“Do you seek to validate yourself in my eyes, Ravage?” Valkyrie demanded.  “If so, it isn’t going to work.  You joined the Decepticons, and then the Predacons, of your own free will.  Everything that has happened to you is a result of those actions, not some cosmic event or the gods using you as their plaything.”

“So what would you have me do, Valkyrie?” Ravage asked, taking the Maximal by surprise.  It was the first time that he called her by her name, and not her title.  “Walk out of this tower, with my hands above my head?  No.  That is not my way.  I will succeed here, or I will die trying.  Either way, the Decepticons will not be forgotten a second time.  Either way . . . I win.”

“You’re mad,” Valkyrie spat.

Ravage only waved a hand dismissively.  “Perhaps.  But so was the original Megatron.  Now, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to have you placed somewhere a tad more secure,” Ravage finished, “you see, I’m expecting visitors soon, and I wouldn’t want our negotiations to have any . . . distractions.  But I’m sure you understand.”

The sound of explosions had reached the Maximal encampment shortly before dawn, and Lio Convoy tried several times—unsuccessfully—to reach Valkyrie over the two-way transceiver.  Fearing for the safety of Valkyrie and the Necronians, the Maximal expeditionary leader began selecting weapons and ammunition in the event that something happened at the city.

“Torca, Longhorn, Sonar—are you three ready?” Lio Convoy demanded as he prepared to exit the Maximal vessel.  “I’ve got no idea what’s going on over there, but we need to expect for the worst.”  With these words, Lio Convoy hit the release on the side of the shuttle, allowing the electric door to open upwards.  The Maximal then stepped out into the early morning air of Necros, and squinted in the direction of the city.  He could see smoke rising from one of the tall towers.

He started off in a quick trot towards the city, not waiting for his fellow Maximals.  Why, in the name of the Pit, had Valkyrie not called him over the radio?

“Good morning, Maximal.”  The words caught Lio Convoy by surprise, and he spun in the direction of the voice.  Unexpectedly, he found himself facing a large purple and black Predacon.

“General Razorclaw of the Predacon Alliance Army, Commander of the Expeditionary Forces,” Lio Convoy stated.  “How did you get here?”

Razorclaw only gave a smug smile.  “Lieutenant Colonel Lio Convoy of the Pax Cybertronia Army, Special Forces, currently in command of the task force to Necros,” he said.  “This is how you greet a superior officer?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Lio Convoy replied, nearly spitting the final word, “but I have a bit of a situation in the city that I need to investigate.”

“Investigate, Lio Convoy?” Razorclaw laughed.  “I’m here to tell you exactly what’s going on.  And to extend a temporary alliance, of sorts.”

“An alliance?” Lio Convoy asked.  “Lest you forget, General, the Maximals and Predacons currently do share an alliance.  I’m surprised a Transformer of your station wouldn’t remember.”

“Don’t give me that, Colonel.  You know as well as I do that the alliance between Maximal and Predacon is little more than a façade.  Our cold war runs deep.  But putting that aside, we currently share a common enemy; the rogue Predacon, Ravage.”

“So he’s behind the attacks in the city?” Lio Convoy asked.  “I’m inclined to believe you, but I’ll need proof.”

“Proof?  You stand here, before a burning city, and you require further proof?” Razorclaw smirked.  “You Maximals never cease to amaze me.  But I do have orbital photos of the assault, down to a point three meter resolution.  That’s enough to pick out individuals.  It should be all the ‘proof’ you need.”  Razorclaw then extended a datapad forward, allowing Lio Convoy to take it from his outstretched hand.

The Maximal conferred with the digital data for a few moments before handing it back to the General.  “All right,” he finally stated.  “I believe you.  Let’s discuss our plan of action.”

It was the middle of the night in Cypopulous, Charr’s capital city.  However, the time of day didn’t matter to the High Proctor, Cryotek.  Three hours after Razorclaw first made contact with Lio Convoy, the High Proctor now stood before a view screen, conferring with his general.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to get the Maximals involved, Razorclaw,” Cryotek stated through clenched teeth.  “How does that particular ‘Earth-ism’ go?  Ah yes, you’ve opened up a whole new can of worms.”

The General made no apologies.  “High Proctor, the Maximals would have found out eventually, and it was in our best interest to notify them as soon as possible.”

“Last I checked, General,” Cryotek spat, “it was my job to determine our ‘best interests.’ It was your job to follow orders.”  Without waiting for any word from the General, Cryotek continued.  “For all intents and purposes, this issue now falls under Maximal jurisdiction.  How does Lio Convoy intend to deal with Ravage?”

Razorclaw shook his head in bewilderment.  “He wants to negotiate, High Proctor.  Even when Ravage holds the Necronians and a Maximal captive, he wants to negotiate.  We’ve offered Lio Convoy the advantage in terms of firepower and numbers, and yet he pursues the way of the weak.”

“Negotiate?  General, if Ravage escapes as a result of this, you can expect to not see any further promotions.  Or anything else, for that matter.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, High Proctor,” Razorclaw responded.   

“Take any actions you see necessary.  If you think that Lio Convoy is going to let Ravage go without a fight . . . well, ensure that he doesn’t.  We can handle this matter at the next round of peace accords, if need be.  Be sure to conveniently . . . misunderstand . . . Lio Convoy’s orders, if it comes to that.  Cryotek out.”

Valkyrie sat with her back against a pillar, her arms now bound before her.  The wound in her wing continued to ache, and pain raced through her entire body every time she moved.  Eventually, the Maximal ceased shuffling about altogether in an effort to spare herself further agony.

A pair of Decepticon sentries stood nearby, but she was in no position or condition to attempt an escape.  Her only hopes lay with the Maximals below.  She fervently wished that Lio Convoy had pieced together what was happening and had notified the Maximal Elders.

From her position, she could peer out between the railings on a balcony, and out to the grounds that lay beyond the city walls.  She gave a quick glance downwards, towards the enclosure that held the Necronian children hostage.  Thank Primus, she thought to herself; she had been counting the children, ensuring that they remained unharmed.  As of thus far, the Decepticons had yet to touch any of them.

Her gaze fell outwards, over the wall.  On a narrow pathway between the numerous gravestones, she could see several figures assembled.  One large figure, white and broad, his armor shining in the morning sun, stood out above the others.  Valkyrie recognized him as Lio Convoy.

There were two other figures, as well.  One was large, with an immense set of wings on his back.  His primary colors were purple and black, and his red visor winked as the sun reflected off of it.  She racked her brain for several minutes, but could not identify this stranger.

The third individual stood with his back turned towards Valkyrie.  She squinted hard, attempting to recognize the figure.  She eventually identified the dark and green armor on the shorter Transformer; Smokejumper, Ravage’s executive officer.  She had seen the Colonel earlier in the morning, conferring with Ravage as she had been led from the sacrificial chambers.  Valkyrie realized that the gathering below her must be an impromptu negotiation for the release of herself and the Necronians.

But why isn’t Ravage down there? she thought.  It seems that he, above all, would be the primary figure down there.

But she pieced together her puzzle as quickly as she pondered it.  Ravage was too intelligent, too important, to expose himself so openly, so brazenly.  She hoped that Lio Convoy would be able to reach a conclusion with Smokejumper quickly; there was no telling what Ravage would do if he felt backed into a corner.  If the wily Decepticon had demonstrated anything in their history together, it was that he was uncaring, unrelenting, when he needed to surpass a problem.  A trail of corpses lay behind him as a testament to that fact.

Lio Convoy stood silently, regarding the short Decepticon before him for a long moment.  It was Razorclaw that spoke first:

“Colonel.  The news of your betrayal to the Predacon Alliance struck me hard, you know.  I remember fighting alongside you at the rebellion on Vaxis Two.”

“Then you have my condolences, sir,” Smokejumper stated.  “However, I felt a calling to another faction . . . a faction that I felt served our needs better.”

“Some faction, Colonel,” Razorclaw stated harshly.  “Ravage only has about fifty to sixty Transformers under his command.”

“Need I remind you, sir,” Smokejumper interjected, “that the original Megatron only took twelve Decepticons to Earth with him.”

“Yes, yes, Smokejumper.  We’ve all heard the stories.  How Megatron, Soundwave, his partners, the Seekers, and Reflector built an interstellar empire from the piteous world that is Sol III.  But those were living legends, Colonel.”

“Ravage was among them then, sir, and he is among us now.”

At this point, Lio Convoy finally interjected.  “I hate to interrupt such posturing,” he stated sourly, “but I would like to get straight to business.  Do either of you have a problem with that?”

Razorclaw seized Lio Convoy by the elbow.  “A moment, please, Colonel Smokejumper,” Razorclaw stated as he led Lio Convoy away.  He then turned and faced the Maximal.  “Listen, I don’t really care what the devil happens to the Necronians or your Maximal compatriot.  But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my time in the Predacon Alliance, it’s that you do not want to start out a debate by insulting the opposition.”

“I appreciate that, General,” Lio Convoy replied, “but, as you said, the Necronians mean nothing to you.  Why the interest in how the debate turns out?”

“Because Ravage is my target, Colonel,” Razorclaw replied.  “I want him, above all.  If we have to go along with their demands and then double-cross him at the last minute, then so be it.”

“That’s not the way of the Maximals, General.  I’m not going to go down that route.”

“The perhaps you need a wake-up call, Maximal,” Razorclaw sneered.  “This is the way I see events unfolding.  You give into Ravage’s demands, and he spares the Necronians.  Ravage is capable of many things, but I doubt that even he wants to be responsible for genocide.  But he’ll take Valkyrie as insurance once the negotiations conclude.  Oh, he’ll let her go, alright.  Once he’s away in space, he’ll shove her corpse out the airlock.”

Lio Convoy hung his head, and then looked up—painfully—at the General.  “That’s a risk that I’m going to have to take,” he concluded.  “If we must give into Ravage’s demands, then so be it.  But my primary concern is ensuring that the Necronians are unharmed.”

“A little late for that, Maximal.  Perhaps you should stop worrying so much about the near-term goals and realize that there’s no easy way out of this.  I’ve offered you my army and my weaponry.  What else do you require?  I swear, Colonel, I don’t see how you were ever admitted into the Maximal military, the way you pine over a couple of savages.”

“And I was taught that freedom is the right of all sentient beings.  We owe it to the Necronians . . . and to Valkyrie . . . to try this route.”

Razorclaw recoiled at this statement, before finally opening his mouth to speak.  “I see.  This Valkyrie . . . she is something to you.  Perhaps a friend . . . perhaps something more.  I warn you, Colonel, do not allow your personal feelings to interfere with us here.  If Ravage detects a moment’s weakness, he will undoubtedly exploit it.  If it results in your corpse . . . or in hers . . . so much the better for him.”

“Your comments are noted and appreciated, General,” Lio Convoy stated.   “But my course is clear to me.  We will avoid outright conflict for now.”  Without awaiting any further words from Razorclaw, Lio Convoy turned his attention back towards Smokejumper. 

Smokejumper didn’t wait for any further introductions; he simply got to the root of the matter.  “These are our demands.  First, we require a voyager-class vessel or larger, one that is outfitted with an ion dampener.  Secondly, we require safe passage from this world.  Give into these two simple demands, and none of the Necronians will be harmed.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Lio Convoy stated, attempting to patronize Smokejumper, “but we’ll require something a little more.  We’ll give you the ship and the passage provided you leave behind the Maximal Valkyrie and your commander.”

“Impossible,” Smokejumper concluded.  “Ravage must be on the vessel.”

“He will be under Maximal jurisdiction,” Lio Convoy replied.  “You know that the Maximal courts don’t have death sentences.  Ravage will live.”

“Unless you begin debating sensibly, Maximal,” Smokejumper sneered, “I’m afraid that we’re going to have end this negotiation.  You can contact us over a communicator when you’re ready to resume.”  With these words, Smokejumper turned and walked away, returning to the city which his Decepticons held hostage.

“By the Pit, where did you learn to debate, Maximal?  Quintessa?” Razorclaw bellowed. “That’s the worst ‘negotiation’ I’ve ever seen.  Whatever possessed you to demand that?”

“General, you made your goals known.  I attempted to humor both Smokejumper and the Predacon Alliance.  It obviously failed.”

“I’ll say, Maximal,” Razorclaw replied.  “Take a look at that.”  The General pointed upwards, towards a balcony on one of the high towers. 

Ravage stood behind a bound Necronian on the balcony, a blaster leveled at the back of the prisoner’s head.  Without warning, the Decepticon pulled the trigger, sending a blast clear through the Necronian’s cranium.  The lifeless corpse then tumbled from the balcony, falling out of sight behind the high walls of the city.

Lio Convoy gaped in surprise, and then returned his gaze to Ravage.  The Decepticon held forth an outstretched hand, showing all five of his fingers.

“Five?  What does that meant?” Lio Convoy demanded.

“What else could it mean, Colonel?” Razorclaw demanded.  “Five minutes.  Five minutes until he executes his next prisoner.”  Any further words that Razorclaw would have offered where cut off as Lio Convoy hurriedly reached for his communicator.

Ravage stood atop the blood-stained balcony, peering at the corpse of the executed Necronian far below.  Although he had ordered the children to be held captive, Ravage was at loath to begin killing them.  He needed them as a trump card in the event that negotiations once again went sour.

The communicator at his side began to buzz frantically, and Ravage nonchalantly reached for it. 

“Ravage here,” he announced.

“This is Lio Convoy of the Maximals, Decepticon.  Cease and desist with your execution of prisoners immediately.”

Ravage laughed at this statement.  “You, Maximal, are hardly in any position to pester me with your demands.  I’ll do exactly as I please until I get what I need.  You have our demands.  Let’s see how fast you can procure that ship, hmmm?”

“Damn it, Ravage, I’m not done with you yet,” Lio Convoy remarked coldly.

“I beg to differ, Maximal.  And by my watch, you have three minutes.  Call me again when you’re ready to talk sensibly.  Ravage out.”

“That . . . that . . . monster!” Lio Convoy bellowed.  “He’s enjoying this!” 

“As well he should, Maximal,” Razorclaw stated.  “He’s got you wrapped around his finger now.  You, I, and he all know that it’s just a matter of time and lives until you give into his demands.”

Lio Convoy sighed, his entire body hanging in defeat.  “And what do you recommend, General?”

“Why, I thought that I made that clear before,” Razorclaw remarked, unable to hide a sly smile, “you string him along.  Betray him.  Give him what he wants . . . and then take it back.”

“And what if he sees through that ploy?” Lio Convoy asked. 

“It’s up to you, Maximal.  After all, you said so yourself . . . this incident is now under Maximal jurisdiction.”

“Damn you, Predacon.  I’ll make sure the Council hears of this.”

“And what would you tell them?” Razorclaw asked.  “That I offered you an army to rescue the hostages?  And that you preferred to play the appeasement game?”

Lio Convoy let out a low grumble, but reached for his communicator.  “Ravage,” he said, “let’s talk.”

“A little late now, Maximal,” the voice from the other end of the communicator remarked coldly.  “Ten seconds.”  Lio Convoy looked upwards to see Ravage holding another prisoner at gunpoint.  The shot passed through the prisoner’s head, and another Necronian warrior tumbled from the balcony.

“By the Pit, listen to me!” Lio Convoy screamed.  “I’m ready to talk.  Stop executing the prisoners!”  The distant figure of Ravage on the balcony turned in the direction of Lio Convoy and Razorclaw, and instead of responding, he held up a hand—and only four fingers.

Lio Convoy turned to Razorclaw, his optics dancing with hatred.  “All right, Predacon, we’ll try this your way,” he said.  “Put me in contact with one of your special forces teams.  We’re getting the prisoners out now.”

Valkyrie let out a sob as she heard the second retort of a blaster.  It could only mean one thing; that Ravage was executing her people.  She hung her head in despair, but the sound of footsteps caused her to raise her head upwards once more.  Ravage stood at her feet, peering down at her.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded.  “Those people did nothing to you.”

Ravage remained silent, but only bent downwards and hoisted Valkyrie to her feet.  He began leading her down the hallway, and then led her up the spiral stairwell to the sacrificial chambers.  Casting her bound form to the floor, Ravage turned his back to her.  “I may have need of you sooner than expected,” he stated simply.  He reached down for his communicator once more.  “Frostbite.  Bring me a child.  It’s time that we sped up these negotiations.”

Razorclaw had left Lio Convoy behind to continue the pretense of negotiations.  The Predacon General let out a smile as he returned to his shuttle; Lio Convoy’s order to allow the use of Predacon special forces teams effectively returned control of the operation to him.  The General cared nothing for the Necronians, or for Valkyrie; but he realized that he needed to spare as many as possible, if only to placate the Maximals.

Free.  Free of the burden of these ridiculous negotiations.  The General could finally, finally, treat this as a military operation.  He glanced behind him, at the still form of Lio Convoy in the distance.  The Maximal spouted frantically into the communicator, attempting to prevent Ravage from executing anymore of the Necronians.

The General then raised his own communicator and hailed his ship.  “Shadowfall, this is Razorclaw,” he stated, slowly and clearly.  “Prepare PIT Seven for deployment.”  The General cut the communication line; no further orders needed to be relayed.  Predacon Insertion Team Seven had been training for a situation such as this for several years now.  They would not fail Razorclaw.

            “Roger, sir.  PIT Seven in transit.  Will be on objective within fifteen minutes.  Shadowfall out.”

            Ravage stood atop the balcony, intently watching the weeping child at his feet.  Over the communicator, he could hear Lio Convoy continuing to beg for another chance, pleading to spare the life of this infant.  Ravage prodded the squirming form with the muzzle of his blaster, causing it to emit another wail.

            “Ravage, I’ll get you what you need, but you’ve got to stop this,” Lio Convoy continued.  “You’re not helping your cause here; you’re only further vilifying yourself.  Please, stop.  I’ll get you the ship, I’ll give you transport off this world.”

            “Do you know what, Maximal?” Ravage snapped back.  “I don’t believe you.  Still, your dedication to these . . . meatbags . . . leaves me strangely surprised.  Very well; I’ll grant you a temporary reprieve.  You have one hour to procure the ship, and then we’re back down to square one.  Got that?”

            “One hour?” Lio Convoy asked.  “I can’t get you a ship that fast.  I need more time.”

            “You have one hour.  Ravage out.”  Ravage snapped off the communicator, stepping back from the child that lay curled in a tiny ball.  A pair of Decepticons reached forward, intent on taking the Necronian back down to the holding pen.  Instead, Ravage held up a single hand.  “Not yet,” he stated.  “We’re going to pick up right where we left off an hour from now.  Hand this wailing pest to the Maximal; make her pacify it.”

            The Decepticons roughly shoved the child at Valkyrie, and the Maximal did her best to comfort it.  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing, Ravage?” Valkyrie demanded.  “You’re not impressing or intimidating anybody.  You’re only strengthening the resolve of both the Maximals and the Necronians.”

            “And what would your Lio Convoy do, Valkyrie?” Ravage demanded.  “Charge up here by himself, come to your rescue upon his steed?  Face facts, Maximal.  The cavalry isn’t going to charge in to save the day.  That’s not the way of you spineless Maximal cowards.”

            Ravage’s soliloquy was interrupted, however, by the sounds of incoming ships.  Ravage sprinted to the balcony, looking upwards. 

            Explosions suddenly impacted the center of the courtyard, causing the entire tower to shake.  “Close air support,” a Decepticon stated, his optics wide with surprise.  “The blasted Maximals are bombing us, for Primus’s sake!  Don’t they realize that we have captives?”

            “No.  Not Maximals,” Ravage said coldly, his red optics scanning the gray clouds above.  “Predacons.”  The fierce hum of engines now became audible in the noon sky, and Ravage turned back towards his Decepticons.  “Don’t worry about the prisoners.  They mean nothing to us now.  Get all Decepticons into the tower and prepare the defenses.  Snipers on the balconies, machine guns at the front entrance, grenadiers and riflemen on the stairwells.”

            “So, this is it, then?” Valkyrie remarked, giving Ravage a cold smile.  “You gambled everything on this move and you lost.  As you said yourself, the law of numbers are against you.  Just a matter of time now.”

            Ravage stared daggers at her for a long moment before hoisting her to her feet.  “Not quite yet, Maximal,” he remarked.  “I’m not quite done yet.”

            Lio Convoy and Razorclaw looked outwards to the city, and then noticed the vessels belonging to the PIT team descending from the gray clouds overhead.  A high-pitched hum emerged from the vessels as they began hovering over the central courtyard, and Razorclaw smiled as he saw rappel lines for his Predacon warriors emerge from the sides of the ships.  The soldiers quickly descended to the ground, looking for signs of Ravage’s Decepticons.

            Without any further words, Razorclaw assumed his flying tiger mode.  This action caught Lio Convoy by surprise.  The Maximal extended a single hand outwards, attempting to take a hold of the Predacon General before he could take off.

            His actions came a second too late, and Razorclaw launched himself into the air.  “What in the name of the Pit are you doing?” Lio Convoy called after the retreating form.

            “My soldiers, Maximal.  My battle,” Razorclaw called back.  “See you at the end.”

            “Don’t write me off like that, Predacon!” Lio Convoy shouted after him.  “I’m part of this, too!”

            But either Razorclaw was too far away to respond, or he simply didn’t bother.  The sounds of gunfire erupted from the city, and Lio Convoy took off towards its walls in a sprint.

            “Get on the ground!” Shadewolf, a member of the PIT team, called out as he approached the base of the sacrificial tower.  A burst of machine gun fire spat forth in reply, and the Predacon dove to the ground.  His squad members responded by returning fire, killing the Decepticon sentries in the door. 

            The Predacons rose from the firing positions and ran for the double-doors of the tower, which now stood splintered and falling apart from the gunfight.  Shadewolf cautiously entered the tower, trying to give his optics time to adjust to the dark.  Dust and smoke filled the thick air, making it difficult to see.

            A sudden thump, thump, thump, earned Shadewolf’s attention, and he squinted towards the stairwell.  A small, spherical device rolled towards his feet.

            “Grenade!  Seek cover!” Shadewolf bellowed, ducking behind a pile of rubble.  The explosion went off a second later, killing three of the Predacons.

            “Report,” Shadewolf called out, still retaining his hiding position.

            “Been better, Sarge,” a younger Predacon responded.  “Nightfire, Grendel, and Fireshot are out.  Bear Trap’s loosing mech fluid rapidly, but he’ll live.”

            Shadewolf growled with apprehension.  “Slag.  Get the casualties evacuated, Muzzleflash.  The rest of the squad’s taking the stairwell.”

            “Do you hear that, Ravage?” Valkyrie asked, referring to the explosions echoing in the close confines of the stairwell.  “That’s your fate, running to catch up with you.”

            Ravage stared down the hallway, towards the inferno that raged below.  “I told you once, Maximal,” he responded.  “I defy fate.  Smokejumper!” Ravage turned his attention towards his Colonel.  “You’ve served me well, and I thank you for that.  But you’ve done all that I can ask of you.  There is one more thing, though, old friend.  One last, final order.”

            “Yes, sir?”  Smokejumper asked, his curiosity piqued despite the seriousness of the situation.  Ravage turned towards Smokejumper, his usually cold optics for once tinged with emotion. 

            “Live.”

            “I . . . I understand, sir.  Decepticons forever,” Smokejumper somberly concluded, offering a final salute.

            “Decepticons forever, Colonel,” Ravage replied, returning the salute.  Smokejumper stood at the position of attention for a long moment before turning and fleeing the room.

            Valkyrie stared after the retreating figure before returning her attention towards Ravage.  “How uncharacteristically noble of you,” she finally said.

            “Then you’ve greatly misjudged me, Maximal.”

            Razorclaw landed outside the entrance to the tower, and quickly assumed his robot form as he entered the bottom of the structure.  He could already see that the battle was not waging in favor of the PIT; body parts of both Predacon and Decepticon lay scattered throughout the foyer of the building.  Razorclaw averted his eyes from the sight and mounted the bottom of the stairwell.

            He ascended for several moments before he reached another ante room.  There, he encountered another site of a battle.  The General carefully picked among the debris of the room, but halted when he heard a groaning emitting from underneath a pile of rocks.

            Razorclaw carefully cast the heavy stones aside as he uncovered the Predacon beneath.  His mouth fell agape at the site.  “Sergeant Shadewolf,” Razorclaw cried.  “What happened here?”

            “Ambushed by Decepticons, sir,” the Predacon explained, letting out a groan of agony.  “They were using shoulder-mounted anti-armor weapons.  We got them, though.”  At this Shadewolf let out a series of hacking coughs before he began to speak again.  “Only . . . two members of PIT left . . . Hydroplane and Whiplash.  Don’t think . . . there’s . . . any Decepticons between them . . . and Ravage . . .”  Shadewolf’s optics then faded over, and his head slumped backwards in death. 

            Razorclaw took a moment to stare at Shadewolf’s lifeless body, and then resumed his chase to the top of the tower.  Along the stairwell, he encountered the bodies of the final two Predacons and a Decepticon, panting as he tenaciously clung to life.  Razorclaw ended his misery by smashing his head under a massive foot.

            Finally, Razorclaw stood at the entrance to the sacrificial chambers.  He threw the doors open, finding himself facing Ravage.  The Decepticon stood facing the doorway, and held Valkyrie’s bound form kneeling at gunpoint before him.

            Razorclaw approached Ravage slowly, extending his arms outward.  “Go ahead.  Shoot her.  She means absolutely nothing to me, Major.”

            Ravage recoiled; it had been years since anybody had referred to him by his proper military title.  He quickly retained his composure, and then shoved Valkyrie out of the way.  “You’re right,” the former Tripedicus Agent responded smugly.  “Killing her won’t get me anywhere with you.  Best to just save the charge, I suppose.”

            “You’ll find that to be a wise decision,” Razorclaw remarked.  Without any further words, the General lunged forward, attempting to pin Ravage underneath his massive claws.  Ravage easily leapt out of the way, and then shot Razorclaw through one of his wings.  The General roared in pain, and then landed a backhand across Ravage’s face. 

            Ravage flew across the room, colliding with a far pillar.  Splinters of rock rained down upon his aching head, and the Decepticon frantically tried to regain his field of vision before Razorclaw fell upon him again.  The General lunged forward, and Ravage managed to roll out of the way, firing off another salvo of blaster rounds as he did so.  Razorclaw roared in agony once more and his more agile opponent scored another wound.

            Razorclaw struck forward, catching Ravage in an uppercut that sent the Decepticon reeling into the air.  Ravage hit the ceiling, causing another rain of rock and limestone to fall to the ground below.  The Decepticon fell upon his chest, and then painfully pushed himself to his feet.

            Razorclaw circled about Ravage, and then landed another blow across Ravage’s face.  Ravage fell to the ground, feeling the bile of internal mech fluid on his tongue.  Razorclaw clearly held the advantage of brute strength.  The General threw back his head and let out a laugh as Ravage tried to regain his footing.

            But the sudden clatter of metallic feet upon stone interrupted the battle.  Lio Convoy sprung into the chamber as Razorclaw stood on the edge of victory.

            The General turned to face the source of the interruption, and Ravage seized his chance.  He rolled out of the way and gripped Valkyrie from the floor, hoisting her to her feet. 

            “Valkyrie!  No!” Lio Convoy bellowed.

            “Not a move, Maximal,” Ravage stated.  “You know, I have to thank you for your rather timely interruption.  Once again, I’m holding the winning hand.”

            “Let her go, Ravage,” Lio Convoy tried to reason.  “She’s innocent.  We’ll work with you, get you off of this world.”

            “Lio Convoy!  No!” Valkyrie yelled.  “Shoot him!  Shoot him now!”

            “That’s right,” Ravage replied coolly, backing slowly away from Lio Convoy and Razorclaw, bringing his back close to the stained-glass window behind him.  “Shoot me.  Shoot me and lose this Maximal . . . this Maximal that I think you may care for.  The choice is yours, Lio Convoy.”

            “Shoot him, damn you!” Razorclaw bellowed.

            Lio Convoy’s optics drifted towards Ravage; the cold smile upon his cat-like features, laughing at his weakness.  He then looked towards Razorclaw, whose lips were set in grim determination.  And then towards Valkyrie’s tear-stained face, as she wordlessly begged him to put an end to her tormentor.

            Lio Convoy’s finger brushed lightly against the trigger as he struggled with his decision.  The blaster quivered before him, and he brought it forward, attempting to line Ravage up in his sights.

            But then the blaster fell from his grip, sending a loud echo reverberating throughout the empty chamber. Lio Convoy hung his head in shame.  “I cannot,” he whispered.  “I won’t endanger your life.  I’m sorry, Valkyrie.” 

            Ravage let out a cruel laugh, and it seemed that the very foundations of the sacrificial tower reverberated with his victory cry.  Lio Convoy looked upwards, getting a glimpse of Valkyrie.  “Dear Lio Convoy,” the female Maximal smiled, “I’m sorry, too.  But I’ll make the decision for you.”

            Valkyrie suddenly reared backwards, catching Ravage off-balance.  The Decepticon crashed into the window behind him and outwards into the air below, taking Valkyrie with him.

            He fell.  For the third time in a year, he fell to his apparent demise.

            Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and Ravage stared upwards at the shattered window above.  No . . . he had been so close.  So close . . .

            His vision drifted to Valkyrie, who spiraled in the air beside him.  A smile was plastered across her face, and the Maximal laughed.  Even though death stared her in the face, the Maximal laughed.  The afternoon sun shone downwards, brightly illuminating her wings.

            They looked as if they were on fire, as if Valkyrie really were a phoenix of legend.

            But phoenixes rise into life from the ashes, Ravage pondered, this is only . . . this is only a phoenix to the dust.

            And then, blackness enveloped his being.

            Lio Convoy ran from the base of the tower, attempting to see where Ravage and Valkyrie fell  Dust hung low in the air, and the Maximal tried to make out the prone forms of either the Maximal or the Decepticon upon the ground.  Finally, he found her.

            Valkyrie lay in a crumpled heap next to a small house; already, a crowd of Necronians gathered about her.  Lio Convoy brusquely pushed them away, attempting to get to her side.

            “Lio Convoy,” Valkyrie whispered, and reached a single hand upwards.  “You came to me.”

            “Of course I did,” he said, cradling her hand against his face.  “I wouldn’t leave you.”

            Her fingers brushed lightly against the side of his head, barely touching the sides of his faceplate.  “I knew you wouldn’t,” she stated hoarsely.  “Thank . . . thank you . . .”

Her head then fell limp in death, and Lio Convoy leaned forward, searching for any sign of life in the motionless Maximal.

            “Valkyrie?  Valkyrie?  Please, say something.  Talk to me.  Don’t go,” Lio Convoy cried, unwilling to believe that she was dead.

            But reality finally gripped the Maximal, and he threw his head back and bellowed as the first drops of rain escaped the skies above.  Lio Convoy fell to his hands, lamenting the loss of Valkyrie as the storm raged around him.

            After several minutes of sorrow, his attention finally drifted upwards.  A black figure lay in the dust nearby, faintly moving.  Lio Convoy rose to his feet, intent on destroying Ravage once and for all.

            But as he drew near to Ravage’s prone form, Razorclaw interceded.  “Stay your hand, Maximal,” the General stated.  “There’s been enough bloodshed for one day.  Ravage lives, and he will be taken in under custody under the Predacon Alliance.”

            “I refuse,” Lio Convoy replied, fire dancing in his optics.  “He took the life of a Maximal and endangered innocent beings.  This is a matter for the Maximal Elders.”

            “Or for your own brand of justice?” Razorclaw surmised.  “Killing Ravage outright isn’t going to bring Valkyrie back.  And I’ll tell you the truth, Maximal.  Seeing Ravage punished under Predacon jurisdiction will be infinitely more pleasurable to you then seeing him tried under your laughable Maximal court system.  Why, I’d wager that he’d get off with probation and a good wrist-slapping.  The choice is yours, of course.”

            Lio Convoy stared at Ravage for a long moment, and then turned his attention towards the General once more.  “Very well,” Lio Convoy conceded.  “Take this . . . this murderer away.  I hope to never see him again.  Now leave me, General.  Leave me with my grief.”

            Iacon.  Twelve days later.

            Lio Convoy stood before the Maximal Elders, relaying what occurred on Necros.  The High Elder, Perceptor, looked unabashed at what transpired.  It irritated Lio Convoy, but he refused to allow his emotions to show.

            As he finished relegating his tale, Perceptor stood before the assembly.  “And there we have it,” the former Autobot stated.  “Ravage journeyed to Necros a second time, killing our own Valkyrie in the process.  Lieutenant Colonel Lio Convoy, the Council and I have conferred, and we believe that this situation could have turned out much, much worse.  In the grand scheme of things, the fact that only fifteen Necronians and a Maximal were killed throughout the entire ordeal is nothing short of remarkable.”

            “But it could have been better, High Council Member,” Lio Convoy responded.  “There was no reason for at least two of those Necronians to die, and Valkyrie could have been saved, I’m sure of it.”

            “Ah yes,” Perceptor stated, “and then there’s the fact that you essentially allowed the Predacons to run the operation.  But we can either analyze the faults of the past or count our blessings and learn from our mistakes.  I’ll say it again, Lio Convoy; the fact that the situation didn’t turn out much, much worse is admirable.”

            Lio Convoy remained silent for a long moment.  “I thank you for your trust in me, Council Members,” he finally said.  “But I come before you today to ask to be relieved from my assignment as the task force commander to Necros.”

            “Understandable, given the circumstances,” Perceptor replied.  “We will be hard pressed to find a replacement.  However, I understand that there’s a regimental command position open at the Third Maximal Expeditionary Cavalry . . . would you be interested in the assignment?

            Lio Convoy shook his head.  “I’m sorry, High Council Member.  I’m only a Lieutenant Colonel.  I haven’t the rank.”

            “Is that right?” Perceptor responded.  “Perhaps that is a situation that will have to be remedied . . . Colonel Lio Convoy.”

            Despite the wounds he sustained on Necros, Ravage now sat before a judge on Charr.  In the Predacon judicial system, there was no jury; only judge and executioner.  Ravage looked outwards, to the other Decepticons that had been apprehended on Necros.

            There were only four others.  Frostbite, Sky Jack, Dark Scream, and Blastcharge.  Out of a battalion of Decepticons, only four remained.  Ravage’s attention drifted from his Decepticon counterparts and to the judge as he entered.

            “Let’s get this over with quickly,” the judge stated as he entered.  “Frostbite.  You stand accused of the following: Intent to Subvert the Predacon Alliance, Murder in the Second Degree, Manslaughter, Ownership of Illegal Firearms.  How do you plead?”

            “Innocent,” Frostbite responded. 

            The judge conferred with his paperwork for a long moment.  “Sentence is life imprisonment.  Remove the prisoner.”  The judge then continued onwards, finding similar crimes and sentences for the other three Decepticons.

            Finally, Ravage stood by himself in the courtroom.  The judge stared at the long list for several minutes, and then let out a low whistle.  “You’ve got quite the rap sheet,” he remarked.  “But very well.  Ravage, you stand accused of High Treason to the Predacon Alliance; Intent to Subvert the Predacon Alliance; Intent to Subvert the Pax Cybertronia; Murder in the First Degree, twenty-six counts; Murder in the Second Degree, one-hundred thirty-nine counts; Manslaughter, two hundred sixteen counts; Grand Theft; Embezzlement; Ownership of Illegal Arms and Ammunition; Transfer of State-Level Secrets; Desertion; and Insubordination.  How do you plead?”

            Ravage stepped forward, staring the judge directly in the face.  “Guilty to all charges, your honor,” he replied.

            The judge looked slightly surprise by this admission of guilt, but quickly regained his composure.  “Very well,” he replied.  “The sentence is death by firing squad.  This sentence will be carried out tomorrow, at first light.”

            Point Horizon. 

            Death’s Head sat at a bar, watching reruns of old Earth programs.  He let out a chortle as a woman on the screen lit her nose on fire, and quickly extinguished the fake prosthetic in a cup of coffee.

            “I don’t see how you can watch this garbage,” a voice behind him stated.  Death’s Head turned, finding himself facing a blue robot, wearing a dirty but proud Autobot insignia upon his chest.

            “Devcon.  What brings you here?” Death’s Head asked.

            The Autobot bounty hunter remained silent, instead taking a seat next to Death’s Head.  “Oh, not too much,” he finally remarked.  “I just finished up some business with some Quints, and I wanted a brew.  And you?”

            “Just passing through, yes?” Death’s Head replied.  The mysterious robot then stared down at Devcon’s Autobot insignia.  “I’ll ever understand you Great War types,” he laughed.  “Why you go around wearing your old faction insignias.  Nobody remembers; nobody cares.”

            “Well, I do,” Devcon replied.  “It’s a matter of pride.”

            “Reminds me of somebody else I know,” Death’s Head stated dryly.

            “You mean Ravage?” Devcon asked.  “You’ve heard the latest news in regards to him, right?”

            “Don’t think so, no?” Death’s Head asked. 

            “The Predacons finally caught up with him on Necros.  He’s been arrested and sentenced to death.  The words’ out all through the bounty hunter channels, but you won’t see a mention of it on the interstellar news, of course.”

            “Hmmm.  A pity,” Death’s Head remarked.  “All this time, I thought I would finally be the one to take him down, yes?  Ah well, you live, you die.  It’s our way.”

            Death’s Head then raised a glass of Energon into the air, and Devcon followed his lead.  “Rest easy, Ravage, yes?” Death’s Head called out before downing his drink.

            Charr.  Morning.

            Ravage squinted as the harsh light of the hallway entered his cell, and a pair of Predacon guards entered and roughly hoisted him to his feet.  Ravage remained silent, instead staring at the harsh overhead lights.  His end was nigh.

            But instead of leading him outside to the execution grounds, the guards stopped him in front of a small room.  After a long moment, the doors hissed open, and Ravage was thrust inside.

            The room was unusually dark, and Ravage tried to gain a feel for his surroundings.  He had been expecting death all night, and a stay of execution proved a welcome change. 

            A harsh light cut on suddenly, and Ravage found himself facing Jetstorm, Ram Horn, and Sea Clamp, all three seated around a small, circular table.  “Ravage,” Ram Horn said, without a hint of emotion in his voice, “we’re here to offer you . . . a deal of sorts.”

            Without awaiting any further questions from the former Tripedicus Agent, Ram Horn continued.  “We intercepted a transwarp wave from Earth—but from the distant past.  We’ve traced the wave back to its source; we believe it to belong to none other than the second Megatron himself.”

            Jetstorm picked up at this point.  “This is what we offer.  A second chance at life, and chance to redeem your name.  Go back in time, arrest Megatron, bring him to us.”

            “It seems rather convenient,” Ravage replied.

            “It is,” Sea Clamp growled.  “This mission stands a ninety-five percent chance of failure, Ravage.  But you’re the best agent we’ve ever had, as loath as I am to admit it.  But just so you know, your death sentence will most likely be carried out on this mission.”

            “Only a five percent chance of survival, eh?” Ravage asked.  “Not very good odds.”

            “Five percent is better than none,” Ram Horn replied.

            “Point taken, Council Member,” Ravage stated.  He then assumed the position of attention and offered a salute.  “For the Predacon Alliance.”

Ram Horn and Sea Clamp watched the Transwarp ship pull away from the orbital station.  Jetstorm approached from behind, just missing seeing the ship disappear into transwarp.  “Does Ravage suspect?” Jetstorm asked.

            “No,” Sea Clamp surmised.  “He has no idea.”

            “Excellent,” Jetstorm finished.  “The Tripedicus Council has known for one hundred and fifty years exactly was the Golden Disk contained; however, we had no interest in taking the Energon planet for ourselves.  Such a move would jeopardize our relationship with the Maximals.”

            “And then there were the problems with the Ark,” Ram Horn completed.  “None of us wished to order such a daring mission, lest our histories be accidentally changed.”

            “But now,” Jetstorm supplied.  “The odds once again lie in our favor.  Ravage will undoubtedly capture Megatron, who will show him the contents of the Golden Disk.  The combined power of Megatron and Ravage will be more than enough for them to double-cross the Maximals and seize the Ark.”

            “And then,” Ram Horn concluded, “all the wrongs the Maximals have heaped upon us will be righted.  Ravage and Megatron, despite their best attempts to separate themselves from the Tripedicus Council, remain nothing more than pawns.” 

            Earth.  Two days later.

            A smile played upon Ravage’s face; he had the Maximals Optimus Primal and Rhinox in his sights.  Soon, these Maximals would be eliminated, and he would be able to restore the Decepticons before they were ever defeated.

            He recalled the events of the last few days, at the joy at when he had initially carried out his mission; he had cheated death again by capturing Megatron.  But Megatron had offered him something far greater than a second chance at life—an opportunity to bury the Maximals, to destroy the Autobots before they ever rose to power.  A chance to re-write history, as foretold on the Golden Disk.

            “Tarantulas!  All power to forward blasters!” Ravage bellowed into the inter-ship communicator.  Soon, now, soon . . .

            But a sudden scream of agony caught from the rear of the ship earned his attention.  Ravage turned about, watching as an inferno raged forth.

            How can this happen? He thought frantically.  So much had been going right . . . he had cheated death . . . the Decepticons were so close to being restored.

            The sight of the Maximal Rattrap filled his vision, and he suddenly understood all that transpired.  His end had finally come, after all.

            He threw a single, defiant fist into the air.  “Decepticons forever!”

            And then, Ravage the Decepticon was enveloped the firestorm.

The Necronian Elder leaned back, having finished his tale.  The children eyed him intently, each one of them with innumerable questions dancing throughout their heads.  Finally, the little girl rose again, and placed her hands behind her back and kept her head bowed out of respect.

            “But Elder,” she asked, “what happened next?  Did Ravage live?”

            The Elder laughed tiredly, as he eyed the sun now breaking over the horizon through the crude window.  “Nobody knows, child,” he stated.  “Most think that he finally fell on that planet, his entire being washed away by the sands of time.  But there are others who say he lived on, and is simply waiting for the proper time to return.”

            “What do you think, Elder?” the girl asked.  “Do you think that he’ll ever come back?”

            “I don’t know, child,” he stated.  “But if he taught us anything, it is that he as a phoenix.  He rose from the ashes, burst into flames, and then retreated to the dust once more.  We will have to wait and see, child.  That’s all we can do.” 

            His optics shimmered to life once more, after an untold time locked in an unfathomable blackness.  He realized that his head pounded with pain, and he tried to raise his arms to block out the migraine.

            His arms seemed to be trapped at his sides, and he realized that he was in a large tube, submerged in a strange, green liquid.  He peered through the murky waters, and made out the details of the laboratory that lay beyond.

            A door slid open, and a grey and black figure entered.  He squinted hard, trying to make out the features.

            Tarantulas.  But the Predacon spider was supposed to be purple, not gray . . .

            “Ah, Ravage.  Finally awake, I see.  You have no idea how hard it was to salvage your Spark with Vok and Transmetal Two technology.  But you’re alive, at least.  A veritable phoenix from the ashes.”

            Tarantulas punched a couple of buttons on a terminal, and the fluid drained from the tube.  The door slid open a moment later, and Ravage collapsed onto his hands.

            “You’ve been given a new form, one better suited for the tasks at hand now,” the spider stated.

            “Megatron?  Where is he?” Ravage croaked.  Without waiting any further replies, he pushed himself to his feet and stared at his reflection in the glass of the tube.  His form had changed indeed; now more humanoid, although the cat-like features still were visible.  More hunched, and with a longer tail.  He brought a hand to his face to finish his investigation of his new features, and found himself looking at a set of ferocious claws.

            Tarantulas shook his head.  “Captured,” he said.  “As far as I can tell, we’re the only two left on-planet.  But with the threat of Megatron gone, that will leave the Tripedicus Council with a false sense of security--and a very possible power vacuum.  A vacuum that needs to be filled.  We’ll seize power for ourselves and embark upon creating a new Predacon Empire!”

            Ravage stared at his reflection for a long moment, and then turned his attention to Tarantulas.  He extended a single hand outward.  “For the glory of the Decepticons,” Ravage replied.  Tarantulas nodded once, and then extended his own clawed hand outward.  There, the two former Predacons shook hands, a sign of their embarkation into a new age.