Different Times

By: Beastbot

Author’s Note: In this and many future Cybertron-oriented fics, I’m going to be introducing new characters hard and fast to illustrate the vast scope of the conflict, and to build up the troop rosters for both sides. As such, interrupting the story flow every time a new character comes on the scene to describe exactly how he looks would make the plot line slow-moving and boring. So, if a character introduced has the same name as a Transformer released in either the Energon, Armada, or Universe lines, assume it is that character. If more than one toy in any of those lines has the same name, I’ll be sure to distinguish via a little description which one it is. Enjoy!

"Hot Shot, I’m turning right onto Techna Street right now. You in position or what?"

"What, you think I’d let you down?" Hot Shot said into his comlink. Giving his Energon rifle one final polish, the medium-sized yellow-and-blue-gray Transformer aimed his gun out the window of the abandoned building he was sitting in, and down towards the street two stories below. Popping his head out the window briefly, Hot Shot indeed saw that a yellow-and-brown dune buggy was heading down the street, followed by an artillery truck, two helicopters, and two tanks.

"You have before…" the voice in his comlink trailed off.

"That was different, Cliffjumper!" Hot Shot protested, targeting the one orange helicopter, as it was the closest to the quickly-approaching dune buggy. "There was this really hot fembot guard that walked by just a split second beforehand, and it distracted—"

"Look, I don’t want to hear it right now! Just get ready, I’ll be past your position in just a few nanoclicks!"

"Fine. Whatever."

"Which one are you targeting, Hot Shot?"

"Stormcloud."

"Fine, I’ll take Blight, then. Atlas and the others can go for the rest of ‘em. Alright, I’m coming by in five… four… three… two…. one… NOW!"

To Hot Shot, the next couple of seconds seemed to stretch out into a full minute, as everything happened at once. Not that he hadn’t been expecting it to be that way, but that didn’t make his senses any less attuned to the situation.

First, Hot Shot fired a few blasts at Stormcloud’s rotors. Taken by surprise, the Predacon had little time to react, and the shots struck their mark—Stormcloud quickly lost control and crashed to the ground, smoking badly but still functional.

As Stormcloud plummeted out of the sky, Cliffjumper transformed into his robot mode, screeching to a halt and yelling, "FOR CYBERTRON!" before taking out his twin pulse rifles and blasting the incoming yellowish-green tank mercilessly. Of course, since he was a tank, Blight took the damage rather well, transformed into robot mode, and started firing his own weapon at Cliffjumper.

All at once, the other three Predacons— the remaining dark green tank and purple helicopter, as well as the gray-and-blue artillery truck—transformed into their robot modes, pulling out their respective weapons and advancing on Cliffjumper. Hot Shot contributed some blasts of his own, but his weapon was primarily for sniping, not rapid-fire combat. Cliffjumper would soon be overwhelmed.

Before the Predacons could get in more than a few shots, however, a large futuristic plane and a green helicopter suddenly shot out from one of the rooftops above, dropping a large orange mining vehicle into the midst of the combat.

"Sorry I’m late! The food isn’t cold already, is it?" the mining vehicle laughed, entirely too energetically, right before transforming into its robot mode. The large plane and helicopter followed suit.

"And the cavalry has arrived!" Hot Shot hooted, jumping out of the window and onto the street below. Transforming into his sportscar mode, Hot Shot hit the gas and rammed fullspeed into the dark green tank-bot, who had been the one targeting him.

"Slaggit, it’s a trap!" the purple helicopter Predacon cursed. "Barricade, I TOLD you we shouldn’t have followed Cliffjumper that far away from the construction site! Now Steamhammer’s gonna be furious that we left—"

The artillery truck Predacon interrupted the purple helicopter with a solid backhand to the face. "I don’t CARE how Steamhammer is going to feel, Blackout. What I CARE about is scrapping these miserable Maximals! It’s still five-to-five, we are not at a disadvantage. In fact, if anything we STILL have the advantage. Combaticons, COMBINE!"

"Just like I figured," the large plane Maximal sighed as he landed on the street pavement. "That’s the thing with combiner teams; they’re so slagging predictable. Bulkhead, Landmine, combine with your drones. You know what to do."

"With pleasure, Atlas," the green helicopter named Bulkhead and the orange mining vehicle named Landmine replied simultaneously.

At the same time, all five of the Predacons as well as Bulkhead and Landmine combined for combat. Barricade formed the torso of the gestalt robot, while the two helicopters formed the arms and the two tanks formed the legs. Bulkhead, meanwhile, combined with a blue robot that formed the bottom half of his helicopter mode as a visor slipped down over his face. Landmine’s back half of his vehicle mode split into three pieces and attached themselves to his back and arms, making the already-large Transformer twice as massive.

"BRUTICUS MAXIMUS DESTROY!!!" The newly-formed gestalt robot thundered, reaching one of its massive hands for Cliffjumper.

"Y’know, it’s times like this I wish we could all combine, too…" Cliffjumper gulped nervously, transforming into his dune buggy mode and driving between Bruticus Maximus’ legs.

"Speak for yourself," Bulkhead said, grinning as his focused his myriad weapons systems on Bruticus’ torso. "I don’t want to become some big dumb robot like these clowns."

"’Bots, let’s cook this turkey," Atlas commanded. "Initiate attack sequence Tau."

Bulkhead unleashed an absolute firestorm of power from his weapons, enough to even knock Bruticus Maximus back a little. The large gestalt growled and fired lasers out of his fingers at Bulkhead, but Landmine jumped in front of the helicopter-bot, protected the slightly smaller Maximal from the barrage.

"This is going to be so FUN!!!" Landmine yelled—again, far too energetically-- the laser shots not seeming to hurt him at all. Laughing, the large Maximal ran at full speed towards the gestalt, ramming him fullspeed in the legs. "Take THIS!!!"

Tottering, Bruticus Maximus finally succumbed to gravity and topped to the street, making several large cracks in the pavement.

"Grrr, BRUTICUS MAXIMUS HURT MAX--- HUH?"

The gestalt found that he could no longer see—Hot Shot and Cliffjumper had started to circle around Bruticus as soon as he landed, sending up a large cloud of dust and debris to obscure the gestalt’s vision.

Growling, Bruticus stuck out his right hand into the whirlwind—within a few seconds, he felt something smack into his palm, followed by muffled cursing. Clutching the object in the dust cloud, he brought his prize close enough to where he could see it.

"Hey, let me go, lugnuts!"

Even though the gestalt had no mouth, Hot Shot swore he saw Bruticus smile in triumph as the combiner started to compress his gargantuan fingers. Hot Shot grunted as his side panels started to give in under the pressure.

"Guys---a little HELP!"

Upon hearing Hot Shot’s cry for help, Cliffjumper immediately figured out what was going on and stopped in his tracks, transforming as the dust whirlwind started to settle. Aiming his two laser rifles at Bruticus’ fingers, the Maximal let fly a small volley of firepower and the massive transformer. Bruticus grunted slightly, but continued to squeeze Hot Shot.

"I’ve got it!" Atlas yelled, transforming into his jet mode and taking off. "Bulkhead, let fly all you’ve got at Bruticus’ head!"

"On it," Bulkhead replied, letting loose another barrage at Bruticus Maximus. The combiner roared in fury and started to sit up, but his fist was still closing in on Hot Shot, who looked about ready to burst from his chassis.

"And now, while you’re distracted…" Atlas murmured to himself, flying directly over Bruticus’ right shoulder. "BOMBS AWAY!!"

Knowing what that meant, all of the Maximals present shielded their optics as Atlas let fall half a dozen bombs from his underside, directly onto the connection point between Bruticus’ right arm and his main body. The flash of light from the explosions was blinding, and sent a tremble throughout the immediate area.

Once Hot Shot’s optics adjusted themselves, he saw that Atlas’ plan had worked—the tremendous blast, even though it had only blackened Bruticus’ thick armor, had managed to sever the connection between the gestalt’s main body and his arm. The Maximal was free!

Cursing, the arm that was holding Hot Shot withdrew its fingers and transformed back into Stormcloud.

"Slaggit, I am NOT having much luck today…" the orange helicopter transformer mumbled before collapsing into stasis lock.

Bruticus Maximus growled before separating into his remaining parts. Hot Shot noted that the other Combaticons were blackened from the blast—as was the Maximal himself—but although they were damaged, they didn’t seem incapacitated.

"Bah!" Barricade spat, wiping soot from his mouth. "This isn’t the end, Maximals! Combaticons, retreat! And Kickback, get Stormcloud!"

Quickly transforming into their vehicle modes, the team backtracked down the street. The green tank swerved to Stormcloud’s prone form, but a well-placed warning shot from Cliffjumper discouraged Kickback enough to keep the Combaticon retreating. The team heard Barricade yell some curses at Kickback as the Predacon quartet rounded the far corner of the street, but Kickback wasn’t about to risk his own life just to save an already unconscious comrade.

"Nice shootin’, Cliffjumper," Bulkhead said, separating from his drone. "Thanks to you, we got ourselves a prisoner."

"Good work, team," Atlas complimented as he landed on the ground and transformed into his robot mode.

"Aw, piece of CAKE, baby!" Landmine exclaimed.

"Besides… you laid the finishing touches on ‘em, Atlas," Cliffjumper said, holstering his rifles.

"Regardless, we’d better phone in to Maximal headquarters, tell them we’ve managed to weaken the forces at Predacon Outpost 389 substantially. The sooner they get an air strike team here, the better chance we have of clearing the Predacons out of this sector for the foreseeable future. Hot Shot, can you transform?"

"Not really," Hot Shot, in his car mode, grunted. "Bruticus really crunched in my side doors. My shoulders can’t fold out. He also popped my front tires, too."

"Alright, then. Bulkhead, airlift Hot Shot back to headquarters, get him to a CR chamber ASAP. I’ll carry Stormcloud. Landmine, Cliffjumper—take the Micron Highway route, it’s the most secure in this area. See you back at base, ‘bots."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

As Atlas flew over the Cybertronian skyline in robot mode, carrying Stormcloud’s limp body hoisted over one shoulder, he looked at the several trails of smoke on the flickering horizon.

The large Maximal sighed, letting his gaze droop down to the scenery immediately below him. Several groups of Maximals were patrolling the streets immediately below, while a few worker ‘bots were repairing the damage caused by a recent skirmish a block away.

I warned them, but they wouldn’t listen, Atlas thought bitterly. He had warned the Council of Elders time and time again that the Predacons wouldn’t deal with their second-class citizen status in society for long. He had warned that it was only a matter of time before the Predacons rebelled openly again—stricter punishment was needed, he had suggested, such as banning the Preds from ever living on Cybertron again. The Predacons were not the kind of ‘bots to back down even when they were beaten.

Little did I know how soon they would rise up again…

The Tripredacus Council had been relatively quiet, it was found out once the war had begun again, as they had merely built up the Predacon forces ever-so-slowly over the past few centuries. They had at least put on the public façade of cooperating with the Maximals. But after they had been deposed, the new Predacon ruler had immediately sent out secret dispatches to all of the areas on Cybertron that were primarily inhabited by Predacons. In many cases, these dispatches had reached the Predacon masses even before news of the Tripredacus Council’s deaths did.

The dispatches carried orders from the new Predacon leader to immediately rebel against their Maximal rulers, for, in his words, "their forces were now large enough to drive the Maximals from Cybertron forever." The leader used very convincing propaganda—within days, estimates were that 97% of the Predacons had joined the new uprising, and most of the Predacons who didn’t abstained from joining either side in the conflict.

Even though the war was a few months old by now, the Maximals still hadn’t been able to find out exactly who HAD killed the Tripredacus Council and taken their places. Dozens of spies were on the case, but so far, none of them had reported back with any useful information. Indeed, many of them had not reported back at all, leaving the Maximal High Council fearing the worst. If they could not even penetrate the Predacons in secret and discover who their new leader was, what hope did the Maximals have of quelling the uprising?

Whoever this new leader was, he was definitely efficient and had a brilliant mind—Atlas at least had to give him credit for that. Within just a few weeks, the pockets of Predacon resistance, taking orders from their mysterious new leader, had bridged themselves together via strands in an ever-growing web, and now the Predacons ruled roughly 35% of the planet’s surface, with another 25% under control of neither faction at the moment. If the Council of Elders didn’t come up with a dynamite plan soon, the Predacons might soon control more of Cybertron than the Maximals…

Atlas was interrupted from his thoughts by a beep from his comlink. Turning it on, Atlas spoke into it.

"Atlas here."

"Hey, Atlas," came the voice from the comlink—Atlas recognized it as Bulkhead’s. "I’m back at headquarters, but there was a message waiting for us on the vid-mail screen; apparently, the Council of Elders wants to meet with us. They say it’s urgent."

"The Council of Elders? Hrrm, I wonder what they want—usually they don’t meet with grunts like us… Okay, Bulkhead, thanks for the heads-up. Be sure to contact the rest of the team members. I’ll meet all of you at headquarters within a megacycle, after I drop Stormcloud here off the nearest jail."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The five members of the team all looked at each other nervously as two large, bulky security ‘bots led them into the Council chamber. The room was thoroughly unimpressive—in fact, it looked just like any other large room Atlas had been in on Cybertron. Though the room was much longer than it was wide and had a row of seats for the Council members at its far end, the walls were featureless.

Atlas breathed in deeply, trying to calm his nerves as he looked the four High Elders, one after the other, in their optics, wondering what his team could have been possibly called here for. There used to be seven High Elders, Atlas reminded himself bitterly, but three had been killed in a surprise attack on the Council Citadel in the early days of the war. That was why the Council had taken refuge in this remote, ordinary building shortly afterwards.

One of the security bots motioned for the Maximal team to sit in the chairs provided, and they nervously obeyed. After a few moments, one of the Elders—a white, stocky ‘bot with black stripes—stood up and gestured to the assembled team.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," the Elder replied. "Skydive, Strongarm, Nightviper, and myself are most appreciative of your efforts during this difficult war."

"Thank you, Elder Magna Stampede," Atlas said, bowing his head slightly, "but why did you send for us? What do you need?"

"It… is complicated," Magna Stampede acknowledged, sitting back down slowly. "You see, just a few megacycles ago, our satellites detected a… transwarp transmission. The coordinates it was transmitted from are identical to the planet Earth’s."

"So? What’s that got to do with us?" Hot Shot asked. Bulkhead nudged the smaller ‘bot sharply in the side.

"You’ll pardon the ‘bot’s rudeness, Elder," Bulkhead apologized. "It’s just that it seems we have a lot more important things to worry about currently than a transmission from Earth."

"Your question is understandable, child," said Skydive, the only surviving female member of the Council. She was unusually skinny for a Transformer, and a large scar ran diagonally across her chest, a remembrance of the earlier surprise attack. "However, the information surrounding this transmission is extraordinary. Its origin is from much, much earlier in history—almost two million years ago, to be exact."

"What? That doesn’t make any sense," Cliffjumper interjected. "Humans didn’t have that kind of technology back then, and all of the Autobots and Decepticons on Earth at that time were in stasis lock. Are you sure it isn’t just a misreading?"

"Positive," Magna Stampede replied. "We checked it with three different scanners."

"The transmission itself comes, it would seem, thanks to the help of a group of Maximals stranded on that planet," Nightviper began. Nightviper, a short male ‘bot, was even skinnier than Skydive, and his face looked like a snake skull. "It is request for help—they are in dire need of assistance."

"Normally, during these trying times, we would be forced to ignore such requests, as our forces are stretched to their limits," Skydive continued. "However, according to this transmission, if events on prehistoric Earth spin out of control, it could put both that planet AND Cybertron in very real danger."

"What does this transmission contain, exactly?" Bulkhead asked, quirking an eyeridge.

"The transmission itself is addressed to an alien race, called the Vexorans," Nightviper answered. "I have never heard of such a race, nor have any of my colleagues, and Skydive especially has an extensive knowledge of this planet’s history. Even though the transmission had a specified destination-- a place called ‘Nexus Zero’—it ended up here. In addition to this unlikely circumstance, we only received the transmitted signal for about half a cycle before it suddenly stopped. Usually, a transmission like this would have repeated itself indefinitely until help arrived. From these oddities, we have surmised that the Maximal force on prehistoric Earth-- mentioned in the transmission itself—purposely redirected the signal to Cybertron, at the present, as a plea for help."

"The situation is grave, Maximals," Magna Stampede continued. "The content of the transmission itself warns us of an impending war on Cybertron that will put the current one to shame. Apparently, on prehistoric Earth, a group of Maximals is engaged in battle with a group of renegade Predacons, who are themselves led by two stranded Vexorans. These Vexorans appear to be shapeshifting aliens, as the transmission mentions that they are currently posing as Predacons in order to command a significant number of troops in their fight against the Maximals. The transmission itself was a request to the Vexorans’ home planet, to their leader. It was a request to send a huge armada to Earth to take out the Maximals, and the Predacons with them.

"Then," Magna Stampede sighed, "The transmission requests for the Vexorans to finish the job by sending the armada to Cybertron, at a specified time which is just a few days from now. They have chosen this time because we are in a civil war, but not long enough where we have grown accustomed to it. They are hoping to take us by surprise and annihilate us while we fight amongst ourselves, gentlebots."

Atlas’ team sat silent for a moment, absorbing all the dire information that was just told to them.

After a minute, Atlas finally spoke up.

"I see. Why are the Vexorans so intent on destroying us?"

"For some reason, they see us as polluting the time stream, and they want to eradicate our race before we pollute it further," Nightviper replied. "No more information than this was given in the transmission."

"Therefore, we want you to go on this mission," said Strongarm, finally chiming in on the conversation. The large, bulky ‘bot definitely had a worn look to him, but he still looked like he could knock down a building if he wanted to. "To put it quite simply, you boys are the best of the best. No other team we’ve got out there is taking out as many targets as you are. That’s why we’ve decided to send you on this vital mission. You are to use a transwarp cruiser to return to prehistoric Earth at the given time, find these Maximals, and help them out in any way you can. Dispose with the Vexorans on Earth as soon as you can, find out as much information on them as you can, then take the survivors and bring them back here, with the transwarp time set for tomorrow at 0600 hours. We will be waiting at the secured Cybertropolis spaceport to greet you then. If you do not show up then, we will assume you were killed in action, and try to prepare our defenses accordingly. Unfortunately, without more information, we do not know how much more we can prepare besides merely building up some of our orbital defenses. The future of Cybertron may depend on you gentlebots."

"Geez, no pressure," Hot Shot muttered softly to himself.

"Um, just one question," Cliffjumper said, raising a hand, "But… are you ‘bots sure this couldn’t just be a prank? Or a hoax by the Predacons to take some of the focus in the war off of them? Again, I don’t question your wisdom, Elders, I’m just saying…"

"It very well could be a prank," Skydive admitted, "But it would have to be an extremely elaborate one, as the transwarp signal has been determined to be authentic, which means a Predacon would have had to travel back in time and then send the message to Cybertron. That would be needlessly complicated for a hoax. However, even if you are right, we cannot afford to take the chance, not when Cybertron itself may be in danger."

"I understand, Elders," Atlas said, bowing his head. "We humbly accept your request."

"Thank you," Nightviper said, standing up in his chair. "You have done us a great service in accepting this difficult task. One of our aides is waiting outside to give you a more detailed briefing. Good luck, gentlebots, and may Primus help us all if this message is genuine."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Come in."

The door slided open quickly, and the armed guards outside motioned for Barricade to enter the dark room.

"U—um… you wanted to see me, boss?"

Barricade winced as a single green optic blinked on in the darkness.

"Yes. I did."

The door shut behind Barricade. The Combaticon leader forced himself to suppress a shudder.

"U-uh, why aren’t the lights on, boss?"

"I was recharging," the shadowed transformer said flatly. "But what I am doing is not why you are here. I have heard from Steamhammer that not only did you lose Outpost 389, but in your shameful defeat, you also lost Stormcloud to the Maximals."

"That… that is correct," Barricade admitted. "However, Atlas and his team have managed to take down a significant number of Predacon forces, as you no doubt—"

"I am more than aware of what Atlas and his team have been accomplishing. However, you are the leader of one of the new Maximus teams I have invented. I predicted a 95.4% probability that you would have utterly destroyed any force that did not outnumber you drastically. I regret to say that you did not live up to my expectations."

"Hey, look, boss, I promise I’ll get ‘em next time—"

"I am not accepting excuses," the shadowed Transformer interrupted. "Your failure yesterday was and is not acceptable. However, my forces are currently waging a difficult war north of Iacon, and I need every soldier that is available. Therefore, I am forgiving enough to give you one more chance."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, boss!" Barricade said, kneeling down on one knee and bowing his head until it almost touched the floor. "I won’t let you down. Anything you need, it’s done. No failures from now on, I promise."

"Your promises mean nothing to me. Your actions are what matter. If you do not live up to my expectations this time, I will have you terminated.

"Our scanners have detected a Maximal transwarp ship leaving Cybertronian orbit. It was leaving from the Cybertropolis spaceport, which means it must have been a takeoff approved by the Maximal Elders. However, what is odd about the ship is that it is not turning back towards the planet to engage any areas currently under my control. Rather, it is continuing to accelerate, and within another decacycle it will have reached a point far enough away from the planet to initiate a transwarp jump.

"I am not aware of what the Maximals are planning, but chances are that it is detrimental to my plans for Cybertron. Thus, I want you to take a shuttle my subordinates have prepared for you, lock onto the Maximal ship’s transwarp signature, and follow them to their destination. You are not to engage them unless your lives are in danger. This is a reconnaissance mission only. If you succeed in this mission, I will consider giving you command of your Combaticons again—provided that my troops can manage to find and rescue Stormcloud."

"You got it, boss," Barricade replied, standing up, "But, uh… I don’t know how well I’ll be able to track the Maximals by myself, especially if there’s a whole group of them…"

"You will not be going on this mission by yourself. I do not trust that you will return if you fail, given the circumstances."

"Hey, look, boss, I’m loyal to you to the end. There’s no way I’m gonna—"

"Silence. Do not interrupt me again," the shadowed figure replied. His tone did not betray his anger, but his optic burned brighter for a short while before dimming again. "I am sending my two most trusted aides on this mission with you—they are the Transformers you saw posted outside this door. They are named Slugslinger and Dreadwing, and they are in command of this mission. You are to follow their specific orders precisely. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely, boss. I won’t let you down!"

"We shall see. Leave now and begin your mission."

Barricade bowed slightly to his leader before high-tailing it out of the room as fast as he could.

The End