Heffer didn't know why the other bots were attacking his friend the Leader, but he wasn't going to stand for it.
Mean bots. Pushed him out of the way as they ran past him in the ship.
Mean to him.
Mean like SunBeam.
Heffer didn't like mean bots, and these bots were the meanest of all. They ganged up on him, and they *hurt* the Leader.
He wouldn't let them hurt anyone anymore.
Heffer jumped; his momentum carried him far into the thick of the battlefield, placing him between the Dairycons and the Leader. The funny blue bot with the sirens took a swing at him. He swung back, charging up his piledriver and slamming him into the pavement. Another one, this one spinning on one wheel, launched plasma bursts at him. They stung, but did little damage. The little wheeled bot zipped away, kicking up dust.
Dust that obscured a powerful kick to his midsection.
The furry blue and white one was annoying. The kick was powerful, and those blades he kept poking Heffer with were sharp, ouch! Heffer swatted and missed; that one sure was fast. Before he could charge his piledriver and take another swing, he saw a flash; a sparkle was in his eyes, blinding him. From a distance, he heard a thunderous shot fire; his vision cleared in time to see a tank in the distance rumbling toward him as the shot slammed into his chest, tipping him. Another robot, the one that blinded him, transformed into a car carrier and slammed into Heffer's legs, completely knocking him over. Then a small monkey screamed into his audio receptors and began to claw at his face.
Mean bots. They pick on Heffer.
Heffer decided he would pick back. Yanking the monkey off his face and throwing him, he stood and kicked the black car-carrier over on its side. Chugging more fuel from his reserve tanks, he prepared both pile drivers for a burst of power. Belching black smoke and growling, he charged the tank that shot at him....
Ticker was dying.
Or at least, she felt like it. That didn't stop her from trying to save her friend Clutterbug. Though she suspected the little bot would use her weapon, she thought she would at least have a chance to...to...
To nothing. Clutterbug had gone to join the Matrix.
What was it she had said before the attack? To die for her friends? To make up for the last time?
Ticker didn't have time to complete the thought. Emergency stasis lock took over as Ticker collapsed to the ground.
The Stormsword was many things: weather-controller, power-booster.....Weapon.
Though one thing that made it unique was the ability to slice thru the very fabric of Time itself; allowing the wielder of it to literally walk thru the tear in timespace it created. That particular maneuver, when used on a planets surface versus in deep space, usually created gale-force winds and other unique weather phenomena.
Hence the name.
Uncle gripped the weapon tightly; his one arm was good, his other arm...barely holding. Even with the incredible power he felt coming off the weapon, recharging him, he knew that his time in the light was short.
He knew he was still dying.
"Time ta make dis count." Uncle saw the battle around him, felt the rains and the snows and the hails as they swarmed around him, mixing with the raw power of the weapon. Uncle dreamed; or at least, it seemed a dream to him. He saw faces, images of other times, other places. Saw his friends, in one form or another, battle this evil, sometimes dying, sometime transforming. Saw birth of the universe itself. Saw the inception of his beloved home planet Cybertron, the cradle of all cybertonian life. Saw a blemish; the dark God whispered to be Unicron impinging on the multiverse.
Uncle saw all this and more, filling his senses, searching, searching....
The point in the multiverse where a Stormsword might strike. Where the slicing of Time, through a nearly-indestructible dual-spark, might have the desired reaction. How Uncle knew this, he did not know....he merely felt it. Such was the power of his three small friends.
The Leader was stirring, turning around, struggling to get up. Did he sense it as well? There was no time to ask. Casting his minds eye across the battlefield, Uncle looked out at all his friends, saying one last goodbye to each of them....then he raised the Sword, stepped toward the Leader, towards his spark-core, and struck true....
Time stood still.
The universe exploded.
The universe blinked, sizzled, and snapped back into focus.
Ratchet lurched awake, his systems still in shock. There were so many images, so many things that happened...the pictures changed faster than he could process them. Bunny-Convoy? Uncle Whiskey Breath? Waspi....He struggled to hang onto everything he saw, but could only recall the end, where his damaged friends came to life and...and...
Prime put his hand on his friends shoulder. The gesture startled him.
"Prime! I was...."
Prime: "Easy, Ratchet. You were experiencing an involuntary systems shutdown."
Ratchet: "The humans call it....dreaming."
Ratchet shook off the supporting hand and went back to his work.
Prime nodded and exited the medical bay. His thoughts were pained; he desperately needed warriors to combat the renewed Decepticon threat, but at the same time, was he pushing his chief medical officer too-far?
Matrix help them....
(epilogue): The Nevada desert, where we see SunBeam driving off into the proverbiel sunset. He has an unexpected guest....
Pinchpinch: "Pinchpinch!" Sunbeam: "Pinchpinch! When did you get here?" Pinchpinch: "Just now. I was a bug in Megatron's ear." SunBeam: "Huh?" Pinchpinch: "Oh, nothing. Say, where we headed?" SunBeam: "LasVegas. It's warmer there." PinchPinch: "Oooh! Gambling! Lights! And the ladies are sooo fine...." SunBeam: "You are a really twisted bot, you know that?" PinchPinch: "PinchPinch!" SunBeam: "Sigh...." PinchPinch: "So why did you let the Dairycons go?" SunBeam: "I needed the distraction so I could escape." Pinchpinch: "And the Leader...?" SunBeam: "Oh, destroyed along with the Dairycons when the universe reset. So we should be seeing him shortly." Pinchpinch: "SunBeam make a funny?" SunBeam: "I wish....."
The Leader had made it back in time. The stasis pods were t-minus 3 minutes from opening.
The alarm would likely sound in one.
He tapped on the controls; with Bailjumper's personality component safely stored back in the detention block, the body was ready for reintegration with the original spark. Flatfoot's beast changeform was formidable, but unstable; if things were to go right in the future, he would need to be returned (at least for awhile) to his original vehicle form. He tapped a few more controls; the jumpers from one stasis pod to the other were complete.
That task completed, there was only one thing left to do. Squeezing Ducky for luck, the Leader pushed a button on a solitary stasis pod; the indicator flashed green, and the pod opened. This one was the Leader's finest work yet, and one that would ensure the smooth running of things for a few eons to come.
Spot: "Where am I? What's going on? I remember a fight...then heat...and a darkness."
The Leader: "You were gone for a very long time, but you have been restored now."
Spot: "I feel.... incomplete."
The Leader: That is to be expected, as you are no longer who you once were."
Spot: "I don't understand..."
The Leader: "There is no time to explain."
(The Leader pushes a button on his arm console, and a small vortex opens in-front of them)
The Leader: "This place does not matter to you anymore. You are needed elsewhere. Go. For you are the Last Autobot, and you will save what's left of your universe." With that thought, The Leader pushed Spot thru the vortex, which quickly closed, leaving no trace. The Leader knew that The Last Autobot had a long road ahead of him; twice before, he had tried and failed in his mission. However, this time would be different. This time, he would be on a quest for his missing components.
This time, he would find them.
Third time's the charm, after all.
The Leader looked out a porthole of the ship; saw himself fighting with Uncle Whiskey Breath on the tarmac below. He smiled, and began to phase out of this existence, his job once again done, the return to his desired timeline assured. It was nice to see himself as he was so long ago, back when the Dairycons bested him (the only time he could remember such a thing happening). Back when these things mattered. The Leader pondered his millenia of work, his fine-tuning of the temporal process, and wondered: would his work ever be done?
He hoped not.
One question that always lingered; would future generations of Transformers look upon his work and pass judgement?
Would they say he was Cybertron's greatest villan? Or her greatest champion?
The Leader expected that history would be kind to him.
After all, he intended to write it.
Making a notation as such in the Covenant of Primus, he made ready for his next destination. Seemed there was something about a legacy of Unicron that needed tweaking....
The Leader phased out completely, petting the Ducky in his hand as he went. After all, some things are best left unsaid...
Campaign car plotted. He completed his journey to earth, scanned in the appropriate disguise mode, and was on his way. His mentor had trained him well. Exiting the shuttle, he transformed, and headed down the highway toward his pre-planned destination. His orders were simple: scout the location, and report back to base. The others stationed earthside were not to be made aware of his mission, if at all possible. If he needed reinforcements, then he obviously failed at his task, and would be considered expendable. There would be no help forthcoming.
Suddenly, a loud pop, and a blast of cold air. Campaign Car skidded. The road had turned to ice beneath his wheels. Even with 18 of them, this mode would be useless in such treacherous conditions. Campaign Car transformed and turned, scanning for the source.
"Hey dere!" said Uncle Whiskey Breath, taking aim once again with his blizzard shotgun. "Whatcha doing round deez parts? Planning something sneaky, I bet." Campaign Car was appalled. "What are you shooting at me for, you idiot?!" he shouted. "I'm on your side!" And sure enough, if you looked closely, you could see the faint outline of a Dairycon symbol on his arm. It was nearly obscured by the black finish. But it was there.
"Eh, whaddya know," he said, holstering his weapon. "Yer wearing the cowbrand, all right. But you sure ain't colored like no Dairycon I ever seen. I don't recognise you. Wha'djou say yer name was?"
"All are Architects of Fate,
Nothing useless is, or low;
For the structure that we raise,