TRANSFORMATION Act IV sc iv

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Scene iv

"That's it," said Hook with finality. "It'll work, or it won't; but there's nothing more we can do."

He turned to frown at the two Autobots who'd labored alongside him to refit the little Cassetticons, and crossed his arms. "Now, just to make sure we understand each other," he growled, "I don't want any problems, if these two frag your stupid bot's circuits, when he tries to incorporate them into his systems.

Wheeljack responded with a shrug. "I'm just hopin' I've configured the power adapters correctly, and that Rumble an' Frenzy here won't be blown to scrap when they get their first jolt o' Blaster's energy," he said. "No hard feelin's if that happens, either, got it?"

"All right, you two, time to transform," Ratchet commanded.

Their movements were much slower and more awkward than usual, due to the unfamiliar alterations in their design. But the two Cassetticons carefully folded themselves into their tape modes, and lay on the repair platform, waiting. Blaster would perform the final integration himself, sensors on high alert for incompatibilities.

Rumble volunteered to go in first. "I'm in better shape than Frenzy, so I have a better chance of surviving if it all goes to the Pit," he'd said flatly.

Blaster picked up the purple Cassette, and hesitated. "Here goes nothing," he muttered. Only Ratchet had ever heard the normally cocksure mech sound this nervous before.

Blaster opened the door of his chest compartment, slid the Decepticon tape into the deck, and carefully shut him inside.

The only sound in the room was the slow, insistent beeping of a monitor.

They waited for a few tense, but uneventful kliks. Then Blaster lifted the red and black Cassette, and placed him inside the compartment as well. And still, the cortex monitor's rhythm never changed, and the needle of the ohmmeter did not move.

Neither did Blaster. He was almost afraid to. It felt strange, but not unpleasant, to have the little 'Cons inside his subspace. It was like getting used to a new frame modification: a strange one, like having a third arm grafted on. But it wasn't bad. And it might prove to be a lot of fun. Uh... is everyone all right in there? he asked his amalgamated new team. A smile spread slowly across his face, as he received his answers; and he sat down with relief upon a berth.

"It looks like this is going to work after all," he told the trio of expectant mechs.

Then he glanced down at his yellow chest in sudden apprehension, "Of course you can't use blasters! What kind of an idiot do you take me for? Don't you dare answer that, Rumble! If you must wrestle, you can slagging do it on the outside!"

The medbay was suddenly overflowing with what seemed like sixty, rather than six Cassettes. All were grinning hugely and calling one another highly creative and uncomplimentary names. Steeljaw had hold of Frenzy by one leg, and the two small mechs nearly knocked Wheeljack off his feet as they rolled beneath him, snarling in mock rage. Meanwhile, Rumble and Ramhorn had squared off properly and were warily circling each other, as Eject and Rewind stood to one side, cheering them on.

"I get dibs on the winner!" called Eject, hopping up and down in gleeful excitement. Ratchet's shouts as he tried to defend his equipment were barely heard over the little bots' whoops and hollering.

Optimus, watching everything from his seat against the far wall, began to chuckle quietly. Then with a start, he remembered that Megatron knew nothing of all this. The Decepticon Commander would of course want to be notified that such drastic modifications had been made to his soldiers. Prime just hoped he wouldn't be too upset that he hadn't been asked first.

Megatron? Static greeted his hail. Megatron, where are you? There's something I need to tell you.

"Blast," Prime muttered in frustration. "Where could he be that he gets no reception?"

It was dark down here, deep within the labyrinthine passages at the core of Cybertron. Here in these vaults was the primordial dark of caves, the precursory dark that comes before creation. The ancient, warm air was thick, almost viscous, compressed by the miles and tons of metal above. It parted reluctantly as he pushed his way through it, clogging his vents like a syrupy liquid as his laboring fans squealed with effort. The weight of the planet pressed down on him. But Megatron was unbowed.

The Forge had been here since the time of the first awakening. Yet moved by some sense of inborn awe – a vague uneasiness in the face of a palpable, ancient force too old to be remembered but too powerful to die – the mechs of Cybertron had seldom dared to use it. They had made copies of course: other forges, based on this one, used to make replacement parts, drones, weapons. But here the fires flared hottest, fueled by the energy of Cybertron's core itself. It was said that here, long, long ago, life had been born in the flames.

Once before, Megatron had come to this place. He had come here in defiance, to the place where, for all he knew, his own plating had been shaped and hammered out; and here, beneath the pressing darkness, he had first forged his Mark. That mark glimmered faintly on his chestplate now, as he lay down on the dust-covered floor, stretched an arm under the huge bulk of the furnace, and lit the pilot flame.

After getting to his feet and dusting off his hands, he disconnected a duct in his left wrist, and poured out some of his own energon onto the hearth. It was necessary to prime the unknown powersource that fueled this smithy. When he felt he'd given enough, he resealed the connection, and moved off to set the ancient controls.

Even in this untouched place, the corrosion of measureless time was evident. Megatron wondered if the crusted switches would break off in his fingers. But there were no mishaps, and at last, satisfied, he lit the pool of energon with a carefully-controlled blast from his fusion cannon. With a whoomp that seemed to suck the pooling oxygen from the room, the furnace thundered into fiery life.

Megatron loved the shuddering roar of the flame. He relished the heat which crackled across his finish, tested the tolerance of his sensors, burned away the dust and grime, and softened even the metal of his shell so that the thousand pits and scratches that marred and dulled his plating were gradually melted smooth. Although the only light was the orange glow from the furnace, Megatron moved confidently about the room, remembering where the tools he needed were kept, preparing his materials. When all was in readiness, he took out the little piece of silvery alloy he'd brought with him. He looked at it, smiled a fond farewell, and thrust it into the white-hot flames.

Sparks flew up around him in explosive bursts, and Megatron danced among them, reveling once more in the glory of creation. Filled with the living air at the birthplace of his race, Megatron felt his own life-force crackling in answer, as it soared between his circuits and coursed against his pistons. He shouted aloud, a wordless, rhythmic cadence that was more ancient than he was.

Megatron, where the slag are you?

As it had been for the whole past joor, static was the only answer to Prime's increasingly impatient hails.

He looked out over the anxious crowd of multicolored faces that pressed in agitation up the side of the hill. Only half a breem to go. Optimus didn't know if there was anything he could say that would waken a desire within the assembled mechs to go forward in peace, instead of following their hatred and turning back to warfare. But it wouldn't matter what he said, if Megatron did not return soon.

As he paced across the small space of cleared floor where he and the other lieutenants from both factions had gathered, Prime was increasingly glad of the remnant of burned-out wall that shielded him from the suspicious stares of the thousands of red and blue optics below.

The other officers were also uneasy. Some shifted in their seats; others found their own grooves to pace out in the floor. Only Shockwave seemed able to remain still; but his cold, impenetrable gaze was harder on Prime's jangled nerves than anything the others were doing.

Blitzwing and Astrotrain sat glumly together in one corner, swapping uneasy glances. Every mech in the room was aware of the empty places left in the Decepticon command hierarchy by the deaths of Soundwave and Starscream. That theirs had been the only faction to lose high-ranking officers just at the point of surrender was a sore point deeply felt and much resented among all the Decepticons. There had been a bit of a scramble to decide who among the ranks deserved to be promoted to lieutenant, and the triple-changers were painfully aware that their presence here among the officers was based far more on chance than merit. Neither was sure of the security of his position. It would be up to Megatron to make it permanent, when he reorganized his forces. But Megatron wasn't here. And the two triple changers resented his inattention.

"What's takin' him so long?" Jazz muttered, voicing the question that was foremost in everyone's processor.

"Ah shoulda followed after 'im," growled Ironhide, who was pacing in Prime's wake, "Made sure of his intentions..."

Optimus was fed up with accidentally meeting Prowl's optics, irritated by the little forced gestures of encouragement; or worse, of sympathy. He strode out the back of the partial enclosure, and down along the far side of the hill.

Megs, you struttless slagheap, where are you hiding?

Against the wall two meters to your right. Megatron stepped quickly up to his shoulder, startling the Autobot Commander. "You didn't think that I'd run out on you, did you?" he queried lightly. "Faithless glitch."

Optimus gaped at the other mech, in whose polished silver plating was reflected all the warm light of the evening sun. "You spent all this time buffing yourself up?" he remonstrated.

"No, I wanted-" Megatron stopped. "Buffing? What the slag are you babbling about, Optimus?"

"Your shiny new chrome suit!" the red mech barked impatiently.

Megatron glanced down at his bright arms, his shining chest. "Oh. Huh. It must've been the heat." He sounded unimpressed. "My plating's unimportant. I need to show you something."

"Can't it wait till later, Megatron?" Prime's patience had worn thin. "A klik or two is all we have, before we have to face them." His nervousness about appearing before all of Cybertron unmasked and newly-bonded was reaching a peak. He wanted to get it over with.

"Slaggit, Optimus, this is important!" Catching up to Prime as he stalked back up the hill, Megatron grabbed the red mech by the shoulders and turned him around. "This peace is already over a hundred thousand vorns late in coming. A few more kliks won't hurt anyone. Now, stop worrying, and look what I did with your faceplate."

The Decepticon held out his hand, and a length of old chain slipped down through his fingers until the loop caught on his wrist. From the chain hung a single piece of fire-blackened metal.

Optimus reached out and took the pendant, examining it closely. The blue fire in his optics suddenly grew bright.

"Till All Are One?" he quipped.

"Something like that, yes," his one-time enemy said dryly.

Prime looked down at it again. His mask had been cut into a new kind of sigil. It looked as if the top half of the Decepticon brand, the part that Prime had always thought looked like a crown, had been combined with the bottom half of the Autobot mark, with its wise, sad eyes. Prime looked at this new face, this new symbol, and nodded gravely.

"It looks like the face of power that is tempered by some wisdom. I like that."

He raised his head, looked at Megatron. "But you of all mechs wouldn't possibly imply that we should do away with both the factions-?"

"No. Our factions have become a part of who we are. They're as close to family as most of us will ever come. No. You can't take that away."

"I agree. But what-" Prime lifted up the chain, and let the new-made sigil hang in the air between them. "Who is this for, then?"

"You said it yourself first, Optimus." The silver mech reached out a thick, black finger, and flicked the metal face, so that it spun a little on its chain. "You are the one mech who must be above faction."

"Why not you too?" demanded Prime. "I thought this was to be a rule of equals."

Megatron was silent for a long moment. Unconsciously, he put his hand protectively over his polished chestplate, and stroked a thumb over the purple brand he had so long ago pressed into it. He vented air in a long, hissing sigh. When he spoke, his voice was somber. "This mark is... me, Optimus. I- I can't give up who I am. But you..." He reached over and tapped a finger against one of the white symbols embossed upon the red mech's boxy shoulders. "You believe in this, but you've never defined yourself by it. You've always been more than just the Autobot Commander."

He shrugged. "I'll be the lawgiver, the judge, the steward. But you..." Megatron cocked his gilded head. "I realize this will pander to your secret vanity, my friend; but whether we like it or not, you've always been the light that we all follow. Even I do, though it pains me to admit it. Optimus, you have to be the Prime. For all of us."

Optimus let the rough-hewn piece of metal drop into his hand, and stared down through it. His mouth quirked into a tired, wistful smile. He shook his head, and focused in the burning optics of his bond-brother. "No, Megatron," he said. "You're wrong." There was a slight pneumatic hiss, as the red mech shifted his stance. "We have both been wrong. We've spent our lives bound up in the belief that we were the only ones capable of leadership. We've held the others around us down: I by trying to take everything on myself, and you by never trusting your soldiers to do anything on their own." He put a firm hand on the other mech's shoulder. "We must accept the fact that someday, others must rise to take our places. And we need to begin preparing them for that task."

His optics flashed bright blue. "I don't have to be the Prime." The Autobot Commander seemed to stand a little straighter as he said the strange new phrase. He lifted his bare chin. "But I will... For now. And I will wear this," he smiled, "For now. Though it will seem strange to me. I never wore a chain to show my allegiance, you know."

"You're right," said Megatron. "You didn't. You were more interested in breaking them." He took back the symbol he had made, and ran its ancient, ugly chain between his fingers. It was the same chain he had worn so many times in the pits of Kaon, the only thing he'd had to hand when he needed something strong enough to hang the future on. "You're helping me break mine," he said quietly.

Prime pulled him into a quick hug. "You're breaking them yourself," he whispered. "All Cybertron will remember you for it."

With some sense of ceremony, the Decepticon Commander fastened the crude medallion around his bond-brother's neck. It hung, still warm, against Prime's battered chestplates.

"I thank you for this, Brother. And for everything it means. It gives me hope, " said Optimus.

"I made it in hope," the other mech replied.

A familiar voice broke into the open channel, startling the two tall mechs. Jetfire had begun addressing the assembly. His words, like Prime's and Megatron's would be in a few moments, were being broadcast over every wavelength. "Cybertronians, you all know me. I have fought beside many of you, first as a Decepticon, then later as an Autobot. I have the greatest respect for all of you, my colleagues in both factions. And that is why, today, I am grateful that we meet together at last in peace..."

"We have to go!" Prime sprang back up the hill, spluttering as the new insignia bounced up and hit him in the chin.

"My friends, today we have been given an opportunity that will not come again: a chance to put aside our differences, and move forward in harmony as we have not done in eons..."

They reached the crest, and skidded to a stop behind Jetfire. Suddenly Optimus remembered that he'd forgotten to tell Megatron about Rumble and Frenzy. He leaned over, and whispered hurriedly to the other mech.

"You what?" the Decepticon powered up his vocalizer, preparing to give the upstart Autobot a blistering piece of his mind.

"...To guide us in this course, we will have two of our race's greatest leaders..."

But the raging mech was cut off, as the blinding light of a glaring spotlight hit both Commanders full in the face.

"Cybertronians, I give you Optimus Prime and Megatron!" Jetfire finished triumphantly. Then he stepped out of the light, into the safety of relative obscurity; and abandoned the two tall mechs to the whim of a thousand staring faces.

Optimus took a hurried moment to collect his thoughts. Then he raised his naked countenance to the light. "My friends," he began, "Today, if you wish it, we can all be one." He darted an apprehensive glance at Megatron, standing at his side. The big mech was obviously still seething about not being informed earlier of his soldiers' condition. Prime cocked an optic ridge at the Decepticon, and reached out a hand to him. Megatron looked down at it, chuffed, and took it resignedly. The two mechs raised their joined hands overhead.

The mechs below stood frozen in a stony silence. The weight of their implacable stares pressed in on the two leaders. Then, rising up out of the warm evening, a swelling shout arose: a clamor of consternation, of incredulity, of joy.

From his place among the tallest mechs at the back of the crowd, Sixshot watched the proceedings warily. It was fine for Prime, and possibly even for Megatron, to say they wanted peace. The Autobot leader would be ecstatic at the prospect. And his own Commander would probably learn to be content. After all, the old warmonger would still be in a position that would let him order other mechs around.

But Sixshot did not know if he, the designated 'living weapon' of his faction, could have a place in a world without war. From the first inauguration of the Ceasefire, all of his many alt-modes, his great arsenal, and his capacity for unsparing destruction, had all been rendered useless. In the absence of everything that had ever made him valuable, he wondered what was left for him to do.

Sixshot had never fit in well with others. A destructive power as great as his tended to put a damper on friendship. At his approach, even his fellow Decepticons would often be reminded of some pressing business in the opposite direction. For the most part, he'd learned to live with it. But now he felt, if possible, like more of an outsider than ever.

He scanned the crowd, watching their reactions; and wondered stoically if, after today, he would be quietly decommissioned.

A scurry of movement caught his attention. An exceptionally short Autobot was darting between the legs of the tall mechs around him, trying to make his way to the front. Sixshot looked closer, and was surprised to realize that he recognized the minibot. It was the red one that they'd all been warned about, the Autobot who was known for a blazing fierceness which bordered on unreason. They said the little mech was immune to intimidation, extraordinarily well-armed, and packed a solid punch that belied his lack of stature.

Sixshot felt a rare chuckle rise beneath his vocalizer. The pugnacious little Autobot's late arrival to this historic peace accord was an overt act of defiance, as was the fact that he bristled with more guns than the Decepticon specialist could count. He sent out a pulsewave. Psst! Hey, Autobot!

The pint-sized mech spun around, and glared up at the inattentive faces which towered over him on all sides. When he noticed Sixshot peering down at him, his scowl deepened. He put his hands on his hips, fingers resting meaningfully on the handles of a couple of the many guns he'd strapped onto his chassis.

Sixshot ignored the Autobot's gruff posturing. Instead he jerked his head, and beckoned the little red mech over. This may surprise you, he radioed, But I think I understand exactly how you're feeling right now. The mighty Decepticon reached down toward the minibot. Come on, he comm'ed. You'll get a clear view; and in return, you can give me a kindred spark to talk to.

Cliffjumper tightened his grip on his weapons. I'm not going to fall for your pathetic Decepticon trick, he snarled.

No trick, replied the tall mech reasonably. I'd just really like some company, that's all. And I figure, if our leaders decide that we're not fit for their shiny new world, we might even make some kind of escape together. He glanced up, and broke into suppressed laughter. Get on up here, you little red slagger. You've got to see this. The Glorious Megatron has really outshone himself this time.

After some awkward maneuvering, made more difficult by Cliffjumper's refusal to accept any help from Sixshot (and his insistence on keeping a large pistol in his left hand as he clambered up) the small red Autobot perched on the Decepticon operative's wide, dark shoulder. With one hand, he gripped the thin spire that rose up from the tall mech's back, and with the other, he clutched the handle of his favorite gun. He followed the line of the spotlight to the front, and blinked his optics to refresh the image they'd showed him. "What the slag is your boss trying to prove in that new get-up?" he hissed. "Ol' Megsie looks like he spent a galactic cycle on Paradron!"

Sixshot shrugged, unruffled. The instant he moved, a gun barrel was shoved roughly against his neck; but he ignored it. "Megatron does look ridiculous, doesn't he?"

"I'd sure love to put a few dents in that shiny armor." A pause. Then, "Warn me if you feel the need to make any other sudden gestures, will you?" Cliffjumper groused. Carefully, he clipped the pistol he'd been holding back onto his apex belting. It was still in easy reach.

Megatron the Mighty held high his crested head. Only Prime could discern the minute signs that betrayed his bond-brother's unease. The spotlight's glare bounced off the big mech's silvered plating and into the squinting optics of the wary, waiting crowd. Optimus chuckled as he saw a few bots flinch. Then Megatron held up a hand, demanding silence. The jumble of noise subsided.

"Decepticons!" He shouted. "Autobots!" He raised his gravelly voice, and bellowed out over the open channel. "Cybertronians. You all know me. You've all spent your lifetime fighting either for me or against me. So it ought to give you pause that a calculating hardaft like myself would choose to strive for peace." He crossed his arms and glared at them – a mob of staring bots that teetered between respect and ridicule. "You know I've never hesitated to throw a soldier to the Smelter if the payoff outweighed the loss," he snapped. "Did you imagine I would give my very soul for something if I didn't think the trade was worth it? Think on that, before you say that Prime and I are fools, and that this peace will be impossible to maintain."

It had been many ages since Megatron had been a nameless cog in the machine. No longer the lowly laborer, the big mech was settled in his power now, used to drawing others after him with nothing more than the infectious promise of his words. He knew that there were some here in his audience who thought him fallen, who would see him now as nothing but a turncoat harlot-mech. But he'd be damned and smelted before he'd let them stare him down.

"I am a proud mech," he spat, "But shrewd. I am not too proud to abandon a course of action when it becomes unprofitable to me. Five orns ago, I faced up to some hard facts – facts which I'd been trying to ignore since I first decided to wrest the rule of Cybertron from Prime." The watchers hissed at this admission; but Megatron shushed them with a sneer. "I saw that even if I did succeed in leading the Decepticons to victory, the universe I conquered would be rendered barren by the very war which I had fought to obtain it."

The big Decepticon stretched out his hand in a large gesture, indicating the scorched battlefield upon which they all were met. "Do you suppose I'm lying to you? Then look around you, my fine mechs. Look what we've made of our home world." He watched as they shifted, a scattered few bots twisting their heads to look. "If we, the Decepticons – or the Autobots, for that matter – were ever to win this war, what would we have won? A nearly uninhabitable planet, a universe full of enemies, and a few so-called friends, who'd be only too willing to turn on us when someone else presented them with a better offer!"

"He's right, you know."

Cliffjumper snorted. "You have to say that. I've seen the way your kind all grovel to him."

The jab slid off of Sixshot like a drop of water. Cliffjumper might have commented on the weather, for all the huge mech seemed to notice.

"I've brought devastation to entire planets at his command, little Autobot," he said. "I've seen what he's talking about. I'm just glad he's finally realized the futility of it all for himself! It took him long enough," the tall Decepticon added in an undertone.

Cliffjumper barely heard him. He was wistfully examining the operative's many specialized upgrades. "You can't tell me that you didn't enjoy it, ya great big overpowered lump," he grumbled. "I know that I for one sure get a kick out of slagging 'Con skidplate." He twisted his head this way and that, tallying up the Decepticons around him whom he'd personally damaged, smiling grimly as he noted scars a few of them still carried after some of his more memorable attacks.

Sixshot turned slowly to face the smaller mech. "Raining down destruction is indeed 'fun' on occasion," he said somberly. "I ought to know; I'm even better at that kind of thing than even you are. But in the end, little Autobot, we only destroy ourselves."

The whispered conversation between Cliffjumper and Sixshot was not the only hasty exchange that riffled through the crowd. But Megatron raised a heavy hand, and shouted above the rising babble of indignation.

"I'm not suggesting that we give in to Autobot rule!" he cried. "I'd never again submit to that, or condemn my soldiers to do so. But perhaps together, if we stopped trying to kill each other for a few vorns, we might remember how to justly govern ourselves!" He lifted his gilded head. "I for one am ready to put my energies into building, instead of tearing down; to go out into the universe looking to discover, instead of hoping to enslave."

The big mech crossed his arms, and spoke with quiet intensity. "You may think I've grown weak, or that I've given in. I happen to disagree."

Along their private channel, he muttered a bitter aside to Prime, This took more courage than any of those worms will ever fragging know! The red mech nodded in sober understanding.

"It's a simple decision, really," the Decepticon Commander concluded. "Soundwave saw it coming, and could not live with such a future. And in the end, neither can I. He chose to die. I choose to live. Now you too must make your choice. Be grateful," he snarled, "That you've been given one!"

For a moment, Megatron appeared to have reached the end of his address. But he did not move out of the spotlight. Something more seemed to be bothering the big mech, something that was proving difficult for him to say. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then rocked back on his heels. When he finally spoke again, it was in a much softer tone.

"Earlier I told you how I recognized the glitches in my own processor," he said. "But there are other fragments of flawed code which, over the eons, I have imprinted into the CPU's of many of my own fighters." His crest subsided a little. "Decepticons," he said, "I led you into the Pit, whether you were willing or no. I ask you now to trust me to lead you out again." He held out an open hand. "It is your choice."

With that, the silver warrior turned, and stalked back glumly to his place beside the Prime. Optimus would have liked to throw his arms around his new bond-brother in gratitude and love. But for now, as blue optics met red ones, he simply hoped the feelings showed on his now-open face.

Cliffjumper noticed that his mouth was hanging open, and closed it with a snap. Never, in a thousand ages, would he have expected this. He'd found himself, against his will, believing that the Decepticon Commander told the truth. He'd even caught himself looking up at this shiny new Megatron with a grudging respect. He shook his head. What was the world coming to?

Ironhide scanned the multitude of upturned faces, noting the uncertainty and fear displayed upon them. But underneath, the old mech caught flashes of a hope he hadn't seen in longer than he liked to count. Optimus had chosen an unexpected, even shocking method of achieving peace. But slag him, it was working.

Finally, after countless costly skirmishes for dwindling resources; after all the times he'd watched in helpless anger as the sparks of friends extinguished; after those despairing nights, when he and Prime had talked one another out of abandoning their cause... Here, at last, it was finally working, slaggit! Try as he might, Ironhide could not wipe the smile off his faceplates. Optimus was his commanding officer, but he was also his best friend. And right now, he felt as if his chest might burst with pride at his friend's achievement.

A rustle of movement ran through the crowd of mechs, as optical sensors zoomed curiously in on the Commander's unmasked face. Ironhide watched Prime shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and pursed his lips in grim sympathy with the usually private mech.

He readied his liquid nitrogen blaster, ready to silence any hecklers. It wasn't as if they'd be damaged, he rationalized. It wouldn't break the truce, or anything. But as Prime's eternal bodyguard, he'd personally scrap the first mech that dared to disrespect the best bot in all of Cybertron.

Megatron could talk all he wanted. Slag, some of it had sounded pretty good. But none of that had mattered much to Ironhide. All he knew was that he'd follow his friend Optimus to the Pit and back, as many times as his CO asked him.

Prime spoke over the open channel in his usual warm baritone. He didn't bother to shout. Rather, he addressed the assembled mechs in the same tone he'd have used if this were a routine, one-on-one briefing.

He began bluntly. "You know what Megatron and I have done. And Megatron has told you our reasons for doing it. You know the depth of our shared commitment to peace. But I want you to understand this, my friends: It is not our commitment that matters. It is yours. The question of whether or not we will have peace cannot be answered by the two of us. It must be answered by you. Upon each one of you rests the responsibility to choose whether you will continue to fight a hopeless war, or work for the freedom of peace."

His gentle gaze wandered through the crowd. And each mech who met the steady fire in those wise blue optics felt certain that the Prime had spoken specifically to him.

"Today, we are met on what I pray will be the last battlefield of the Cybertronian wars; every member of our race returned and gathered here so that we might declare as one whether we will indeed have peace. But what about tomorrow? What of the next day, and the next? From now on, each day will require a new ceasefire; a new, more personal commitment to peace. Make no mistake about this my good friends-" The Autobot Commander spread wide his arms to take in the whole assembly, 'Bots and 'Cons alike. "Each one of you has the power to determine the future of all. Whether we move forward together, or return to self-destruction, is just as much up to you as it is to me."

The tall red mech spoke earnestly. His words were personal, pleading. "Please, do not take this power lightly," he entreated. "There are those among you who have resented being made to feel expendable. I can assure you that no bot here is more or less important than another, now. Each one of us bears an equal burden in the fate of our civilization. From now on, we will all depend upon each other more than we have ever done before."

Prime's kindly blue optics were somber as he surveyed the mechs before him. "This change will not be easy," he admitted. "Our world has been abnormal for so long that we've forgotten what it's like to live in a peaceful climate. I do not expect our programming to be rewritten in an orn. But it can be done. For my friends, we were not built to fight each other. We were not made to destroy ourselves. Our core programming has been misused and misdirected. Can't you feel it within yourselves? That deep dissatisfaction, that underlying imbalance: these are warnings that we have been infected with a virus which seeks our ultimate destruction. I plead with you: join me in fighting the flaws within ourselves, instead of battering each other. For if there is to be any peace or reason in this world, we must first create it within our own sparks.

"But please understand this," the Autobot admonished gravely, "Peace will require just as much effort from each of us as warfare has. We can not sit idle. We must repair our battered world, and then mend what we can of the damage that our war has done to other planets and their inhabitants. We will need to become builders, instead of soldiers. I haven't been anything but a soldier for a very, very long time. There are many things I will have to re-learn to do. But each of us has talents he – or she – can only use in peacetime. I, for one, would welcome the chance to do just that.

"Pursuing this new course will require great courage from all of us – the courage to face ourselves. You'll notice that neither Megatron nor myself are quite the same mechs we were just six short orns ago. Sometimes, the first step to change must be a physical one." He unslung the rough-made sigil from around his neck, and held it aloft. "On his arrival tonight, Megatron handed me this. He forged it from the discarded metal of my mask – a new symbol, the Autobot and Decepticon brands united into one new sign." He closed his hand around it. "I will keep it, as a touchstone. I hope that it might be an anchor to others of us as well. It was made in hope."

Optimus returned the pendant to its place against his chest, but kept one hand clasped lightly around it. "My friends," he said, "We have been given the chance to remember who we were meant to be. It is time to let the cycles of our history swallow up our age of war." He ended then, to silence, and stepped back to stand beside Megatron.

The golden light of evening glittered on the shifting, many-colored hulls of the assembled mechs, as they listened to the Autobot Prime. The air hummed with the whirring of uncounted idling motors, as each mech pondered on his own decision.

Impatient as ever in the face of indecision, Megatron spoke out. "What say you?" he demanded. "Will you have war, or peace?"

Not a servo moved.

And then the ancient, booming voice of Omega Supreme rolled out over the gathered mechs to beat against the rising hillside.

"Megatron." The elder guardian stood at the very back of the crowd, but his words throbbed deeply in the audials of every mech present. "I have dedicated myself to only two things. I protect the Autobots." He turned his heavy head to stare out balefully across the crowd at the Constructicons, who stood together at the opposite side of the space. "And I seek vengeance upon those who once betrayed me." The sentences came haltingly; each carrying a dragging weight of sorrow. "But that was so very long ago." His huge optics went dark for several kliks. Then with conviction, he intoned, "I will lay down my old revenge. I will have peace."

The simplicity of Omega's declaration pierced through the carapace of cynicism that many a mech had built around his sparks. One by one, the assembled bots looked up. What began at first as scattered whisperings of tentative hope now swelled in volume, rose up until a roaring wave of sound rolled forth across the battlefield. It burst against the bluff, washed back upon the crowding bots and then, gathering in strength until it became a mighty cry of triumph, it bore the voices of each and every transformer on Cybertron up to the watching Optimus and Megatron:

"We will do it! We choose! We will have peace!"

Optimus turned to his bond-brother, head high, optics blazing, and threw his arms around him. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you more than I can say."

"You are magnanimous, Great Prime," the bright mech couldn't help but tease. But he returned the embrace with gusto.

Once more, the two raised clasped hands high above their heads – this time in victory. And so they remained, their audials ringing with the confirming cry of their fellow mechs, as their planet's adopted sun sank down beneath a glorious green sky, upon the last day of the last age of the Great Cybertronian Wars.