It Happened Vorns Ago: Memories of an Eradicon

Synopsis: OneShot. In the aftermath of the war between Autobots and Decepticons, a lone soldier returns to the site of an ancient battle to reminisce on days gone by.

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers Prime or this story, it belongs to a mechanical alien from a planet called Cybertron.

The lower valley of Valvolux is in many ways the same as it was in ages past. The Upper Steppe stands a proud wall above the province. The land is riddled with deep, narrow trenches slicing so sharply into the ground you'd think they were gorged out by the claws of a titan. But to Steve's displeasure, the landscape of the valley itself has changed since he last set his optics on it. It takes longer than it should to find the spot he seeks. After weaving through convoluted channels for nearly two sols, he finally arrives—realizing upon the end of his journey he'd already circled around it twice. The eradicon is forced to switch to global positioning before he recognizes Azaxcia for what it was. Azaxcia mine, once a proud spire towering high above… Once arguably the most important mine in the region… is a molehill now. The small mound, weathered by ages of acid rain and bombarded by Autobot and Decepticon forces alike, doesn't look like the grave of possibly hundreds. The vehicon standing atop finds himself irrationally angry at it for that. It doesn't fit the symmetry of his memory at all. Nor does the chill in the air. It wasn't cold when he was here last.

It's hot. R0-R1's fans run at full blast as they all sit huddled in the back of the supply carrier. In fairness, ST-3V3 and Dent have their fans on a high setting as well. Only D3V-1N seems content to leave his around medium-low. He chuckles at R0. "Not going to overheat on us, are you rookie?" Dent casts him a sideways glance while their youngest squad member fumbles to lower his fan setting. "Give him a break, D3. He's from southern Neutralis, after all." Steve nods his agreement. The heat must seem like nothing to their squad leader after working the smelting pits of Kaon for most of his life. The Praxis mines were always cold. And the Valvolux heat index is the highest he's had to work in to date. "The fans seem like a good idea in the short term," advises D3V-1N, "But if you keep them lower for ten kliks or so you'll stop noticing the heat as much and acclimate to it." Three sets of optics regard him skeptically but all three sets of fans switch to a lower setting.

Their leader had never been wrong before.

Steve wanders through the shadowy clearing aimlessly for a long time. The smog lies thick overhelm, threatening rain. He's not overly worried. There's a cave not far away he scouted out earlier. It would be an adequate refuge if he had need of it, but he'd come too far to run away quite yet. He was here. He'd gone out of his way to come back.

…And for what exactly? Dimmed optics scan the open terrain for points of interest, but no evidence remains that mechs have even set ped here. Apparently he traveled all this way to depress himself, because that is the predominant emotion taking its grip of Steve's processor now. Bitter thoughts slowly resurface, pricking and occasionally stabbing at the eradicon like a mnemosurgeon's needles—injecting him with dark emotions. He can see their faces. Hear old conversations taking place again.

"Pretty amazing, huh? Just look at the size of those energon crystals."

None of them need the goading to take note. ST-3V3, Dent, and D3V-1N are already immersed in the sight laid before them. Hundreds of workers stream in and out of Azaxcia, wheeling heavy bounties of solid crystal. Some intact pieces are nearly as large as the mechs handling them. R0 bounces in excitement as he points them out.

"One day when the war's over we should have a giant celebration FEAST! We'll have a bunch of enormous crystals like those! I wonder what energon fresh from the mine tastes like… Do you think if I asked one of the miners they'd let me try a crystal?"

That earns the young mech a chuckle from Dent. "Mate, if you try to eat a raw crystal like that one you're liable to blow your tank to Pit and back. When they get that big they get a little… temperamental. Ain't that right, 3V3?"

Addressed, the former miner nods, keeping his gaze fixed on the steady progression of workers emptying what they can from the mine.

"It's unsafe to eat them unprocessed for more reasons than that," he murmurs. This is something he's known his whole life, but the young Neutralis-sparked evidently never had reason to learn. "Even though they look good they can contain impurities that'll turn your tank sour and ruin your entire orn. They can be downright lethal, in fact. Sometimes when the miners I worked with got desperate for fuel…" He stops himself there, trailing off. R0 and Dent shifting uncomfortably at his side. No need to get into that. The Decepticons had the power to make sure nothing like it ever happened again.

R0-R1 chews his lip, looking crestfallen. The young mech, still in his twelfth vorn, didn't know a slave's life. He was one of the new generation of Cybertronians sparked during the war. A casteless. Free to make his own way. ST-3V3 envies and pities him for that at the same time. He may have inherited the freedom that came from being a Decepticon, but he'd also inherited a violent war—a life with its own hardships and bloodshed.

He might as well make himself useful while he's here, Steve figures. Clean the place up a bit. And construct a more proper burial marker for the fallen. That's what he does now, picking up every strewn rock in the clearing and carrying it over to place in a pile. There aren't as many loose stones as he'd like. The melded cyberscape bespeaks heavy acid rain. Rock spires drip off the nearby cliff sides. Small jagged teeth, the remains of fallen boulders, rise up seamlessly from the ground. This is yet another postwar development. Acid rains weren't new to Cybertron, but they'd never been so widespread. Nor so far away from the big cities, their typical point of origin. Even if the planet was on its way to recovery, so many dead vorns has left Cybertron a desolate waste of rust, toxic storms, and ruin. A ruin he, Steve realizes in his gloom, contributed to just as much as anyone else.

D3V-1N is grim as he surveys the line of miners hustling to move their cargo to the safe-zone. ST-3V3 stands by his side, observing the hard set of his jaw. It matches his own.

"It's a massive evacuation effort," the squad leader pipes up after a while, "I'm glad they're all so cooperative."

ST-3V3 nods. "They know what's at stake. That's motivation enough. And they know what we're losing." Energon. A mountain full of it. A deep cavernous vein that stretched down for teraquads. One that could sustain the Decepticons for many stellar cycles to come… if they could hold it. Which was the problem. "How far is it, Sir? How much longer until the Autobot forces arrive? They told me we still had several sols, but we need to be ready as soon as we can, don't we?"

"Several sols, yes. But I agree. It's dangerous to linger. That's what I relayed to the miners. Despite my misgivings, command wants us to move as much energon out before the raid as we can. We do need it."

"Well they should have thought of that earlier and sent more troops to hold Azax so we wouldn't have to give it up."

D3V shakes his helm. "No… it's a valuable asset, but our forces are spread too thin across the front line as it is. They say Megatron is rallying the fleets of the Mercury Isles for a counterstrike, but they can't move the mechs quickly enough. Besides… Valvolux has always been too close to Iacon. It was only a matter of time before they set their optics on this place. We've been lucky to hold this valley as long as we have. Now the only thing we can do is get our mechs out and make sure we destroy Axazcia so thoroughly Autobots will never get to taste a single drop of the energon inside."

ST-3V3 makes no move to disagree. D3's right. It's their only option.

"Still… it's painful, isn't it? Rations getting so thin… energon being shipped off-world… And here we are, about to blow up a mountain full of it."

His leader quirks an optic ridge, casting the younger eradicon a wry smile. "You'd rather leave it for the Bots?"

"No… Of course not…"

"Exactly," D3 pats him on the shoulder as he heaves an ex-vent. The sun is fading over the distant horizon. Dying beams casts an orange glow on both vehicon frames. Orange like fire. ST-3V3 can imagine the former-smelter's armor probably glowed like this often as he worked the pits.

"I understand how you feel, ST3. Giving up an asset like this is a hard thing to do. But hey… it's just energon, in the end. The important thing is them." D3 motions towards the dark shapes still moving tirelessly through the valley, carting load after load of glowing blue crystals. The miners. "Energon?" he continues, "It's replaceable. We can find more. In fact, we could stand to give up a hundred mountains of energon to the enemy. But as long as we're preserving the life of even one ally…? It's worth it."

His companion snorts. "That many mines for just one spark? Come on… if it was my spark on the line, I'd tell you all to take the mountains. They'd be a whole lot more useful in the long run."

"What? Hey. Don't undervalue yourself like that, 3V3. One day those mountains are going to erode away and you'll still be here. You'll last a lot longer. And achieve a lot more. So if I were a long term investor? I'd take you. Not the mountains."

"Assuming the Autobots don't arrive early and slaughter us all."

"Yes, assuming that."

Thunder rumbles quietly in the distance. Still engrossed with his task of stacking rock after rock onto the grave marker, Steve pays it no heed. His pile is decently large now. Up to his knee struts, in fact. Or getting close. He's run out of stray rocks, so now to get them the vehicon resorts to blasting them out of the side of the canyon walls. As he works, specters work alongside him. Miners, mostly. The Azaxcia miners. Still helping to cart loads off-site. But also a few familiar faces. Steve sees R0-R1 a lot, sometimes passing close by or wandering about across the clearing. There's always a skip in the scout's step. Even for a youngling he's energetic. And his smile, chipped denta and all, is infectious. As Steve observes him passing in his mind's eye, the vehicon's spark twinges. He was just a kid…

"You're just a kid. You don't need to get involved with the operation, R0. There are plenty more able-framed mechs around. Besides, the miners will need someone in the camp to relay instructions if things go awry. Someone will have to be there to sound an alert if they need to evacuate further into the hills."

"But D3V, I want to be there to make sure nothing DOES go awry!" R0 complains, bristling up. "And I'm not a kid! I've killed an Autobot!"

"You shot one in the ped and he fell of the cliff when the ledge collapsed three kliks later. Not sure that counts," Dent flashes him a smirk.

"Enough," their squad leader frowns, "You're staying back, R0. You've had the least combat training, and I won't put your life at risk for no reason. We don't have much to do anyway. The charges are already set throughout the mountain. It only takes one mech to signal and another to push the trigger."

"Then why are they sending Commander Viewfinder and his extra troops?" the youngest mech challenges. ST-3V3 perks his audials up. He'd heard that was happening but hadn't gotten much detail on the situation.

D3V-1N looks incredibly unamused. "Just because we should only need a couple of mechs doesn't mean it's not a good idea to have more ready in case something goes wrong. It's possible not all of the Autobots will be taken out by the blast. Any that remain we want to be able to deal with easily."

"….So" Dent chimes back, "That's the one they're sending in to take the credit for our victory?"

"It's not about credit, and we aren't victorious yet," D3 explains tiredly. "Just because we don't think our plan will fail doesn't mean it can't or won't. I've never met this Viewfinder personally but his assistance is welcome. He's a trained officer with many more stellar cycles of military experience than the lot of us possess collectively."

That, at least, was very true. ST-3V3's squad was not a highly trained military unit. Dent used to work in construction. ST3 was from a mining background. D3V was a smelter. R0's young life was the only one that began as a soldier. But that's just what he still was. Young. A scout. None of them had seen much real action. Never anything on the front line. Most of their work was well within allied territories. Patrolling borders. Mild reconnaissance. Occasional supply raids. They served as peacekeepers—a proxy covering areas that the bulk of Decepticon troops didn't reach. Watchful optics and audials where they were needed. It wasn't a cushy job by any means. More often than not it meant they were in charge of taking on nasty problems like bandits and lawlessness with minimal to no backup. Traveling great distances on scant rations. Recharging out in the open and scurrying around the edges of active warzones to pick through carrion for usable supplies. More often than not the tasks they were assigned weren't pleasant, but they were meaningful. It wasn't the big battles that would be sung of for ages to come, but they played a vital role in protecting Decepticon interests. ST-3V3 took pride in that.

R0-R1 though… He was young. Naïve. Innocent, in many respects.

"You always wanted to find… your slice of glory…" Steve grunts to himself as he stacks another large boulder on the pile. His mound is up to his chassis, and the surrounding rock-faces are looking more jagged by the klik having taken some heavy blaster fire. The occasional rumble of thunder is louder and more frequent, signaling that he should be leaving soon. Murky brown clouds, the ones looming ever nearer, are without a doubt acidic. Sometimes the specters milling about pause with Steve to feel the tremors from the thunder shake the ground. Each vibration echoes between the rock walls of the valley like a shockwave.

The valley roars with the screech of Viewfinder's arrival. Even as the engines of the transport shuttle die down the ring persists in ST-3V3's audials. Thirty or so mechs exit the ship, most of them eradicons, and a visored jet moves apart from the ship to greet them. D3V-1N walks up to him, extending a servo in welcome.

"Well met. We've been expecting you. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Viewfinder?"

The mech accepts the outstretched servo with a firm grip but shakes his helm. "4LT0N. Lieutenant to Viewfinder. Well met. No worries, I expect the commander will want to address you once his temporary quarters have been established, but for now we're lining up. He… follows military regiment very strictly, I hope your team is well versed in the standard decorum?"

Dent scoffs at the flier. "Don't worry, mate, we all know how to stand straight, salute, and say 'Sir'."

"And how to say nothing at all when we're not asked," the D3V-1N jabs right back. Dent grumbles but quiets down.

The new arrival tilts his helm at the exchange, expression hidden behind a visor. "…Right then. Just… try to behave."

"COMMANDER FORWARD!" some mech yells, indicating Viewfinder is about to exit the ship. Frames scramble to line up on either side of the gangplank.

"COMMANDER STARBOARD! COMMANDER DISEMBARKING! AtteeeenTION!"

Servos flash up to cover insignias in unison as a lone mech strolls down the plank, observing his salute.

Viewfinder is shorter than ST-3V3 would have imagined. It seemed like most of the commanding officers the vehicon encountered were either tall, seekers, or tall seekers. Despite this one's stature, he has the look. The strong, square jaw, lofty stature, and stern expression radiate military prowess. Viewfinder's frame is like that of a grounder—squat and bulky. Hefty, but smaller than that of a truck. Treads, wheels, and other typical ground-alt features are noticeably missing from his frame, though—an oddity. Another peculiarity is the mech's coloration. Standard paint for soldiers and unranked Decepticons was the faction's purple, silver and black. Yet to distinguish themselves from their underlings, officers were typically decorated in more flamboyant colors. Reds, golds, pure blacks… those were the popular ones, but anything was fair game if you were a commanding officer. And yet Viewfinder is painted in the standard purple and silver with black accents running across the contours of his frame. ST-3V3 muses over this, as well as the officer's impossible to distinguish alt-mode. Meanwhile the commander advances past the line of his underlings and surveys the mountain. Only a sliver of his faceplate is visible from where ST-3V3 stands. The eradicon wonders what his expression might be as he gazes towards Azax's heights. Grim, perhaps? Or maybe just bored. Though the surrounding air shimmers from the mid-sol heat, it doesn't seem to touch Viewfinder as he surveys the entrance dome leading down into the mine.

Whatever emotion flickers across his features, it's gone when he turns back around toward the soldiers. His optics are sharp and focused.

"We stand here today on just one of the many front lines of the Autobot offensive. Numbers… resources… these assets are not ours today, but theirs. It is knowing thus that we deem it appropriate to make a concession of one powerful asset we do possess. Though we sacrifice the Azaxcia mine, we do so strategically. Let it be known that this is but a single move in a far greater game. This day we make a sacrifice. For some, this course of action might seem like the end of Decepticon dominance in Valvolux. But make no mistake. Today we stand, resolute, at what which is merely the outset of this war. This is not the end. This is only the beginning of a glorious, unceasing battle there is to come."

The commander's helm gradually pans around, taking in the sight of the valley and his troops with deliberate slowness. Several frames shift in discomfort as his view seems to hover over them. Viewfinder's expression remains impassive.

"…Report to your stations and await further orders. Dismissed."

ST-3V3 is shocked as he cuts off and adjourns the assembly so abruptly. What… was that? That was all? Frames shift about him—the new arrivals cutting off to head for camp. They didn't seem surprised by the brief address. ST-3V3 supposes it was adequate. He'd just expected it to end on something a little more… uplifting. Now his shoulders feel even heavier than before.

This is only the beginning…?

While the other mechs disperse, making their way around him, he lingers—staring up at the mountain like Viewfinder had before.

The war couldn't really go on and on for that much longer, could it? So many mechs had already given their lives for the Decepticon cause. Cities were falling left and right, energon was getting scarce, soldiers outnumbered civilians… How long did Viewfinder think this could possibly continue?

Peace has to be somewhere just around the bend…

It has to…

The eradicon's frame lags from fatigue as he staggers over to place yet another heavy stone on the mound. It remains to be seen how much longer he will be capable of continuing. What light that filters through the smog is dimming. Dusk approaches, and with it the storm. Has it really been nearly a whole sol since he got here? Huh… Time. It passes in strange leaps and trudges, bounds and slogs. You can have so much of it, and yet it's never enough. At the same time such a short amount can feel like an eternity.

Time chooses the moments you're in pain to stand still. And the joors you're enjoying yourself most to fly by on seeker's wings.

As the sun disappears behind the far hills, purple frames huddle together at the base camp. Tarped loads of energon dart the clearing, but the only covered shelter is Viewfinder's command tent. The multitudes of miners and servoful of soldiers sleep out under the open sky. Recharge on the ground is nothing new to the group. For some it's all they've ever known. For some, it's even comforting. ST-3V3 can find no reason for quibble. After all, recharging out in the open means being able to watch the stars twinkle above as he nods off.

The soldier still remembers vividly the first night he emerged from the depths of Praxis and glimpsed the stars…

In the fading light, the camp comes alive with activity. Mechs pick up from what they're doing and swarm the carts of processed cubes. A familiar ritual unfolds. Metal baskets of energon bob and clack as they're filled and passed down the line of workers. Blue webs of light spread swiftly and efficiently among the ranks—weaving their way throughout the encampment. The ones nearest the fuel continue to offload cube after cube, all the while never taking any for themselves. Each mech in turn passes a basket along until all the neighbors have energon of their own. With each individual working together the altruistic endeavor takes no time at all. A last call rises up, checking for stragglers. Once it's done the army disperses as quickly as it assembled. Masses of frames huddle back to resume their close-knit circles. They do so with purpose. Light gone, the temperature drops off quickly to a level slightly less comfortable than cool. Grouping together makes things a bit warmer—both literally and in other senses.

Dent returns to the squad's circle to find R0-R1 guzzling down his ration greedily. With ST-3V3, D3V-1N, and a host of miners watching he plops down at the young mech's side. Nimbly he wraps an arm around the scout's neck. R0 pitches half of an indignant squawk before his helm fins are being pinched.

"Ay!"

The youngling squirms about while his peers chuckle at his misfortune. R0-R1 tries to sock Dent, but he can't do so without risking spilling his cube. Still he thrashes as best he can—a futile endeavor—while his comrade gets his kicks. Dent has a firm grip.

"If he's getting a rise out of you he's getting what he wants," ST-3V3 remarks.

Reluctantly, after several moments, the scout simmers down to focus on keeping it balanced instead. A few nanos more, and he's released. The instant he's free he throws a retaliatory punch into Dent's chassis. It glances off the former construction worker's armor harmlessly.

"Heh. Gotta punch harder than that to put a dent in Dent."

A few of the miners chuckle. ST-3V3 rolls his optics. You'd think he'd come up with a new pun after a couple thousand cycles. He stops paying much attention as his teammates continue to scrap. There's a mech at his side, one of the ones stationed at Azaxcia, that he was having a conversation with. The miner catches his interest as he details his work experience.

"—and honestly that place just gave me the creeps, so I applied to be transferred. Ended up at a slagheap of a station in Vern—"

"Vern?" ST-3V3 catches him, "That sounds familiar… last I heard from a close friend I knew back before the war, he was posted there."

"Oh really? What's his designation? I might know him."

"K3N-N13. He often just went by K3N or K3 though."

The miner scratches behind his helm fin as he sifts through memory banks.

"Hmm… no, sorry mech. If I met him it must have only been in passing. I don't recall that designation. There were several hundreds of miners stationed in Vern, though, so it's not surprising."

ST-3V3 wilts a bit. "No… it's alright. I understand. So Vern though… how were the conditions there? Safe?"

"In a manner of speaking… well behind Decepticon lines. Never had any raids. But when I first got there conditions were rough. The rations they fed us there make the ones I get now seem like a feast. Half the time it just wasn't enough… mechs would be collapsing in the middle of their shifts, or when they finished they'd just power down right outside the entrance of the mine to conserve energy until the next meal."

The soldier gasps. "They didn't even have enough to feed their own miners!?"

"On no, sonny… we had tight quotas to fill, but there was enough. We always speculated the officers were lining their subspaces with our fuel. Could never prove it, of course, and wouldn't have dared confront anyone even if we could have. There were beatings, you see… and we were so badly fueled we didn't even have the energy to riot. But it ended up alright in the end."

"It did? What happened?" ST-3V3 pushes on with his interrogation, still aghast at the news.

"One of the fraggers in charge died violently one night. Rumor was it was an assassin. Someone snuck into his quarters, tied him down, and ripped him to shreds, or so I heard. The other officers went spooky. Blamed it on the miners immediately after. There was an…"

The miner pauses, words caught in his vocalizer.

"…it wasn't a pretty business, sonny, it wasn't. But the next day after that ugliness the officers went all quiet-like and our rations were almost tripled. I dunno who did it, but I'd bet you my plating they were scared they'd be next if they didn't start treating workers right. Bless the fellow that set 'em straight, whoever he was.

ST-3V3 still wears a horrified expression.

"That's… that's awful… That's no better than—"

"The way things were before? Aye… I'll say. But it all worked itself out in the end. I hear Vern is actually a nice place to work now. If your friend avoided the ugliness, I'm sure he's alright."

The soldier nods, hoping this is the case.

Their conversation ended, the two turn their attention back to the rest of the circle. R0-R1 and Dent have calmed down. There are still different scattered conversations taking place, but it quickly becomes apparent that most of the group's attention is focused on D3V-1N.

"So you don't think we should be at war right now?" the mech to his right prods, "That's a dangerous thing to be whispering. Some might call it unpatriotic. Others treason."

"They're entitled to their own opinions. But I'm not whispering anything," D3V-1N counters, his vocals strong and demeanor unruffled, "It's a strongly held conviction of mine. The war should have ended with the abolition of the caste system. Now, I fear, it's being fought predominantly for revenge… and egomania."

"Yeah!" someone else chimes in, "On account of theAutobots. Those fraggers only joined in during the final stages of the caste war and then suddenly they want to act like it was THEIR revolution, and THEIR leader should be in charge? Those power-grubbing piles of slag. Not a former slave-caste among them. It's all those high-sparked mechs trying to position themselves back in power. And don't get me started on the Prime."

There's a general murmur of agreement from the circle. The Prime. The Usurper. Beloved pet of the Old Council.

D3V-1N clears his vocals. "I agree that the Prime should not be allowed a position of significant influence in the new government of the planet. Don't misunderstand me… I do not believe him to be inherently bad. It was conveyed to me that he did not choose to have the responsibilities of a Prime thrust on him. Have any of the former Primes chosen that for themselves? Nevertheless… he is unfit, I believe, to represent the interest of the masses."

"I'll say," Dent pipes up.

"He was sheltered. Sequestered away from the world," D3V-1N continues, "The archivist is not a tyrant, but nor is he a mech of the people. Is there any doubt that the Old Council chose him for this reason? They were the corrupt ones. They didn't want an already strong, sure leader to hold the Matrix. They wanted a weak-willed pawn. A naïve mech they could manipulate for their own ends."

"Come now," one of Viewfinder's soldiers interrupts. ST-3V3 recognizes him from before. The lieutenant. 4LT0N. When did he get here? "You can hardly act like the Prime is a pawn now. Regardless of what he once was, he's taken up the mantel of leadership and shows no sign of planning to relinquish it. The Council is gone. The only one leading the Autobots is the Prime."

"Correct," D3V-1N nods, making no attempt to contradict him. "I wasn't going to deny that he's evolved into more than what I'm sure the Old Council had planned for him. He has. He's a living testament that even the most ill-equipped of us can rise up from our station and become more than we'd dared imagine."

"That almost makes it sound like you admire him."

"I already mentioned that I didn't despise him. Still. I stand by what I said. He's not fit to be a central figurehead for the new government. I don't believe he has what it takes to keep the peace. Criminals… murderers… framists… These exist in abundance within both factions. You're lying to yourself if you deny it. We need a mech in charge who will sniff them out and put a stop to them through whatever means necessary. Lord Megatron is that kind of leader. He's been for us, the low castes, from the beginning. He's one of us. And he's strong. He knows how to rule with an iron fist. If I have one concern… it's that his methods can be at times too extreme. But I would prefer a powerful, omnipotent leader to an underminable one. Under his command, I firmly believe, there would be zero tolerance for any and all who would seek to abuse their power to extort the weak. And as little tolerance for framists and functionists clinging to their old prejudice. He would never allow any kind of social structure like the castes to be put back into place."

"Then why are you against the war against the Autobots? You know who will end up in charge of the new Cybertron if we allow them to win."

"If we allow them to win? Probably. But there's an option where neither side wins or loses. The next leader of Cybertron should not seize power by force… nor should they be appointed by the former power. What this planet needs is a ruler what takes his role of leadership in peace… by the willing appointment of his followers. If a truce could be negotiated…"

D3V tapers off. At this point the entire circle is quiet. Everyone is paying attention to D3V-1N's and the lieutenant's conversation now. Even some of the surrounding circles nearby are mute. The entire planet is engulfed in fighting. As they speak every Cybertronian state rings with the clash of canon-fire. Faction hatred burns fierce in the spark of every mech who's lost family, friends, and lovers. Truce is an impossible sounding word. Everyone present knows it.

"…I agree with you," Lieutenant 4LT0N chirps quietly, several moments later. "The only alternative to that is a continuation of all this violence and energon-shed indefinitely."

ST-3V3's leader scratches behind his helm contemplatively. "Yes, but it's not something that will happen overnight. Mindsets will have to be changed… on both sides. And for that we'll need leaders that act as spokesmen for peace. Army leaders. Commanders. Lieutenants. Fighters, strategists, warriors…. That becomes a bit of a conundrum. Peaceful-minded warriors."

"I'm afraid we're a bit of a rarity," 4LT0N sighs wistfully. ST-3V3 doesn't miss the fact that he said "we". 4LT0N wanted to open peace negotiations too, then?

D3V-1N doesn't miss that either. ST-3V3 glimpses it in his leader's optics. They regard 4LT0N in a new way, flickering with a barely perceptible light. There's just a trace of a smile on his lips.

"So master squadron leader… do you intend to be one of these mechs? Climb the ladder and become a Decepticon commander?" the lieutenant probes.

"Well… ascending ranks… I wouldn't call that my first ambition. But when the fighting is said and done and all this smoke clears… It's is my aspiration to become a diplomat," optics stare past his peers into the distant future as he speaks, sounding as though in a trance, "…I want to represent and defend the interests of the common mech. And I yearn to ensure that no measure of social injustice prevails. Adversity the likes of which we experienced under the caste system should never again be allowed to root itself in the Cybertronian government."

"Here here," someone from another circle pipes up. And for the first time since meeting the former-smelter, Steve can see it. There's a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself. A certain calming tenor to his voice that lends sincerity to his words. D3V-1N possesses a natural charisma that any mech with ambition would covet. He is endowed with the quiet conviction that readily invites others to hear what he has to say. He can hold his own in an argument without becoming flustered. And most importantly he's compassionate… and fair. A mech like that with determination and a vision for the future? There's not a doubt in ST-3V3's mind that he could make it to the top. There must be something, the eradicon muses, about Kaon that cause it to spark such formidable leaders. Perhaps it is the fires of the pits. Perhaps that terrible inferno kindles a spirit for change in the individuals who gaze into its depths.

4LT0N is smiling. Knowing optics are fixed on the frame of ST-3V3's squadron leader. "You, my friend… are an idealist, I'm afraid."

D3V-1N's serious expression melts immediately. He barks out a laugh. "Yeah, you know… I'm afraid you're right. I am."

The lieutenant nods, still smiling, "But you know… I think we could stand to have a few more of those higher in Decepticon ranks. Viewfinder has a performance review coming up soon. In the event he's promoted it means I'll be the new commander of this unit. And if that's the case, I'll need a lieutenant of my own. I'll be interested to see how far up the ladder you can climb… D3V-1N, was it? In any case, gratitude for talking politics with a world-weary Jet. It's been a stimulating discussion."

"Likewise, friend."

ST-3V3 watches after the lieutenant as he takes his leave and makes way for Viewfinder's command tent. It's dark within the structure. No sign of the commander. Was he already recharging? He'd disappeared joors earlier and hadn't emerged since.

While ST-3V3 continues to ruminate on the behavior of the stoic mech, R0-R1 stares off towards the distant hills—towards the void in the sky marking Azaxcia's silhouette.

"…They're out there somewhere now… aren't they?" he mumbles.

"Aye" Dent agrees.

ST-3V3 nods. "They might come in the night… What if they come in the night? They'd take the mountain and maybe kill us in our recharge."

"No."

All helms turn to D3V. His disagreement is quiet but confident.

"No they won't come during the night. Our intelligence puts them too far out to reach us before dawn. They think they're being sneaky by moving quickly. They don't know we're tracking them. But they know we have sentries in the hills. They'll cover a great distance very quickly tomorrow, and then flood into the mountain all at once without hesitation."

"That's a big assumption to risk our lives on."

Not even D3V-1N has a reply for that.

Gradually, small groups lapse back into their own conversations. Somewhere across the encampment one mech—severely overcharged, by the sound of it—takes up the chorus of a song. There's laughter and jeering, but the music slowly swells up around him. At first it's just a vague buzz in the background but it quickly spreads about until ST-3V3 catches the tune and recognizes it. "Gristlehook." It's a silly song. He finds his anxiety melting away as the mechs nearby him join in. Someone starts passing out cubes of highgrade.

"Ooh nice!" R0-R1 exclaims, reaching for one. D3V-1N swats his servo away.

"Nuh uh. No drinking before a job. You can celebrate with all the highgrade you want tomorrow once it's all over. But I want your processor clear for when we need it."

"What processor? Nothing in there but scrap wire and pin lice" Dent mocks. He also notably refuses a cube. It's hard for ST-3V3 to turn it down as it's passed right by him. He hasn't tasted good highgrade like the stuff they're distributing in the past turn of a decacycle. But his squadron leader is absolutely right, so he resists.

"Alright D3V" the former miner chuckles, "but you're buying us our victory round, you hear me?

His leader gives him an odd expression but sighs and nods, adopting a grin. "Yeah yeah. Highgrade on me. On my honor."

"Ah. The unbreakable vow," Dent teases, "On D3V-1N's honor? We're drinking well tomorrow night, mechs!"

ST-3V3, R0, and several of the surrounding miners whoop and pump fists in the air. D3V, dismayed, drops his smile instantly.

"Hey! I never said for all of you!"

Laughter trickles back among the circle of friends. Despite the exhaustion of the day's labor and the tension of the impending raid, the last night at camp is calm. Pleasant. Almost celebratory at times. ST-3V3 notes a bittersweet-ness to the camaraderie between the miners. For some of them, this is goodbye. Once Azaxcia is gone, they'll go their separate ways. Friends will be split on across-world assignments. In all likelihood some of them will never see each other again. Between the Autobot attacks and the inherently treacherous nature of working in the tunnels, several congregated here tonight won't survive the next vorn. As though privately conscious of this, the collective assembly seems reluctant to finally bed down. Each mech clings to stay awake as though refusal to recharge will draw out the time they have left together. ST-3V3 finds himself thinking a lot about K3N-N13… where he might be… what could be happening to him. It's possible that they, too, will be among the mechs that never get reunions. He offers a silent prayer to Primus that this will not be the case.

Gradually, the speaking circles in the clearing break up. Mechs lay themselves out on the open ground, huddling as close or staying as far apart as they desire. The mass of frames swells, clusters, and diffuses about as the joors wear on, each individual finding their comfort zone somewhere in the lazy chaos.

ST-3V3 ends up with R0-R1's helm resting on his legs while the youngling's own legs tangle with Dent's so that they form a sort of triangle together. D3V-1N is curled near ST-3V3's helm. The soft, warm puffs from his vents are relaxing. Happiness hazes over his processor as he stares up at the glistening stars, hoping against hope that this moment can be allowed to last forever.

Those are the moments he tries to cling to. The good times out of it all. And even in the war, they did exist. Like tiny sparks flung from the crucible. Even as everything burned around them and comrades were hewn from the mix like gangue, there were the times when they were together. When they were happy.

The tragedy of sparks is that they're so short-lived in the grand scope of things.

The eradicon's memories take on a gloomy hue as light and color drain from his surroundings. Slowly a deeper darkness envelops the canyon. The storm-head slides its way almost silently across the sky. Soon it stretches as far as optics can see—hanging fathomlessly high and yet, Steve discovers, oppressively low. The thick mass seems to blanket the top of the valley like a roof, leaving him under an illusion that he's standing within a vast cavern as he works.

Never, he muses, in all of his years as a miner has he felt entirely safe while surrounded on all sides by stone.

Unease creeps across ST3's protoform as he treads through the cavernous bowels of the mine with his squad leader. Just his squad leader. Dent and R0-R1 are back at camp assisting the miners.

Even though they aren't live yet, it's unsettling being in a mountain rigged with explosives powerful enough to bring down… the mountain. And everyone inside of it.

But there's more to his disquiet than that, really.

"So… you finally got a chance to talk to Viewfinder today, didn't you, Sir?" ST-3V3 probes, attempting to sound nonchalant about it.

"Could you stop with the 'Sir' already? We've been over this."

"Right. Sorry D3V."

His leader sighs, exasperated. "So uptight, ST3. Really."

"…You two spoke?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"And… what was your impression?" he presses. D3V-1N knows what he wants to know but he's making it difficult to be delicate about the matter. This time, though, he relents.

"You want to know whether or not I think he's a good mech?"

"You tend to be opinionated about these sorts of things."

The former-smelter's laughter rings through the tunnel, echoing through the cave until it's like it's emanating from the walls.

"Well… hm… let's see. I don't know, ST3… I only met him briefly. Besides, it doesn't really matter what kind of a mech he is. Just if he can actually lead when push comes to shove."

"…."

"…."

"…But?"

"You're twisting my arm here."

"Oh come on, whatever you say doesn't leave this cave. Scout's honor."

"You haven't been a scout in ages."

"SOLDIER's honor."

D3V-1N chews his lip. ST-3V3 watches the struggle play itself out on his features and knows he's already won. It doesn't take long for him to speak his processor.

"He's just a bit… stoic. That's not a bad thing in and of itself."

"He a dirty framist like that Crankcase guy?"

D3V-1N shakes his helm quickly. "No no. At least… that's not the impression I got. Would a framist have a jetticon as his lieutenant?"

"I don't suppose so."

"No… no I don't get the sense that they would either. Viewfinder seems like the type of mech that respects ability rather than build."

D3V tapers off, but ST-3V3 can tell by the look on his face he still has more to say. Sure enough, a klik and a later he continues where he left off.

"If I had just one misgiving to voice… I don't know that his attitude towards this whole operation suits me. While he was reviewing our strategy to me it didn't sound like he was describing a battle. He made every move, every contingency sound like a play in a game of Cubits."

ST-3V3 nods as he listens. Cubits. A strategic boardgame often played by holo-projector. There were elements of luck involved, but mostly it was numbers and strategy. A geometric playing field, most often a three-dimensional cube as the name suggested, was used to wage battles between bits, bytes, and various other game pieces. It was as complex as it was customizable. No two games were alike. The three-dimensional playing fields, game piece allotments, and some of the less concrete rules of play were free for the participants to tamper with. Because of this the scope of such games could become… exponential. It was not totally uncommon, thus, for matches to span entire sols, orns, and on occasion even stellar or decacycles. It was considered a high-caste sparked pastime. ST3 had never played it himself, though he'd witnessed other mechs at it. There was always too much work to be done for him to learn properly.

"Well…" D3V sighs, "At least he's level-helmed about it all. Like I said, it shouldn't matter."

The former-miner nods. Viewfinder had been weighing on his processor. He was glad for his squad leader's take on the matter. Still…that's not the main reason he's uneasy.

The moment he begins to let his processor drift back to worry, D3V-1N is on him like a turbofox on a crust of magnesium.

"Wanna tell me what's wrong, or do I have to beat it out of you?"

"Heh… what gave me away?"

There's a grin in the squad captain's voice. "Trade secret. You didn't answer my question."

The vehicon sighs. "It's just this raid…"

"Come on, you've been through bigger stuff than this without flinching."

The soldier gives him an incredulous look. "Have I? Really?"

"Haven't you? You've stared down your fair share of danger," D3 strokes his chin guard, a habit of his while he's deep in thought. "Hm… what about that time you squeezed in and crawled through those sewage lines to get us vital intel on the Paradigm initiative situation? Or the time we raided an armed Autobot supply shipment on the edge of Deltacron?"

"That? That was nothing. They were all scouts, they barely knew how to fire their weapons," the eradicon huffs.

"Even still… we didn't know that going in."

"I don't think the mechs about to storm over those hills will all be scouts, D3…"

"No…" the mech frowns. "No you're right. They won't. They will be very real… very trained… and they won't ask questions before they shoot."

There it is. The truth of the matter. The hard knot of worry balls up in the soldier's tank once more.

"Guess we've found the spark of the matter, haven't we?"

ST-3V3 offers no denial. His leader sighs and throws an arm over his shoulder as they walk.

"Do you remember the day we met? The first day you joined my unit?"

Of course. How could he forget? "Yessir. I believe you asked me if I was a soldier."

That he did.

"Right. And what did you tell me?"

ST3 thinks back, trying to recall his exact phrasing.

"Something along the lines of that I was assigned to be a soldier in your unit."

D3V grins, a smirk forming on his faceplate. "And what did I say?"

That part he remembers VERY clearly. Funnily, things that nearly give him spark attacks just seem to stand out more distinctly in his memory bank. He can't imagine why.

"I believe your exact words were 'I KNOW what your assignment is, scraplet, but what I WANT to know is if the mech they sent is capable of fulfilling it. ARE you, in fact, a soldier?' " He spits the words out with faux malice, a fair impression of how they were delivered to them. The former-miner would later learn that D3V was one of the kindest, most congenial mechs around. At the time, though, he feared he'd stumbled into the care of the most merciless drill sergeant in the faction. As the smelter stared him down his knees felt weak and he grew horridly queasy. Still, a frightened new recruit stood his ground and asked him…

"And I asked you what constituted a soldier," ST-3V3 recalls, "And then just to frag with me you told me that since I was the one marching up on the pretense of being one that Ishould know what one was. I think that was right about the point I decided you were the biggest hard-aft I'd ever met. Well… Second biggest." Have to make an exception for K3N.

D3V-1N chuckles, nodding along. "I remember you looked about ready to slag yourself at that point."

"I was just glad you finally gave me a break."

And he did. His squad leader broke the façade of severity shortly after that, much to his relief.

"I liked what you said, by the way," ST-3V3 continues, "It was from one of my favorite speeches."

"Oh? You knew that excerpt?"

"Of course! You quoted Lord Megatron's fifth summit at the Kolkular Arena. I was… heh… I was actually in the complex when he gave it. It was my first time seeing him and hearing him speak in person."

D3V-1N whistles. "I'm jealous. That was one of my favorite orations as well. In my opinion, the best of his Speaker-for-the-Voiceless series." The smelter clears his vocals, adopting deep, measured tones. Clearly, concisely, he repeats the words he said to ST-3V3 that day. They are the same words that their leader spoke to them near the outset of the war.

"The true soldier must be willing, nay, committed to surrender anything for the cause he believes in. He follows his orders, and respects the decisions of his commanders. And if such a time comes that he must make a sacrifice for his cause, the soldier is prepared to offer it up without hesitation. It is the duty of those who command him to make sure his sacrifice is not in vain, but the soldier must faithfully weigh the value of the cause over the value of his own future and find the former more needing."

The former-miner nods along. "Without soldiers, without those willing to fight, our movement would be merely a passing thought." ST3 finishes for him.

"That's right. Do you remember? You vowed to me that day—"

"Yes. I remember."

He remembers. There was a sense of pride, patriotism, flooding a younger ST-3V3's core as his new squad leader reminded him why he was there. Why he had nothing to fear. That was what being a Decepticon was about, after all. He was a part of a family. A nation. A sacrifice for his brothers was no sacrifice at all.

"You're um… you're right, I think. I am ready for this. Thank you."

The pep talk is over, and D3V's tone is sympathetic. "If I could afford not to, I wouldn't expose any of you to the risk, 3V3… It would be much easier to take it all on myself."

"D3…" The soldier stops in his tracks. He can hear the sincerity in the mech's voice. It's upsetting. "Don't say that…we're in this together. Right? To the bitter end, I'm by your side."

"No YOU don't say that. Not to the bitter end. To victory, right? Optimism."

ST3 snorts out a big puff of air from his vents. "Anything with the phrase 'Optim' in it is pretty much ruined for me now."

That does it. The captain throws his helm back and laughs uproariously.

"Oh 3V3… that's not really an OPTIMal situation for you, now is it?"

Oh please. His leader gets such an optic roll. "You don't know the half of it. Wait 'til I tell you about my PRIME-ary problem."

The whisper of laughter echoes around him. However, the specters grow dim. Some flicker out, abandoning the vehicon altogether, not even waiting to see the completion of his project. Those that remain cease to mill about. Steve's constructs simply stand and gaze with hollow optics at the mound. The pinnacle of a sol's achievement. R0 is gone. That's alright. He doesn't need to be around for what comes next. None of them do. It's his burden. And a walk he should make alone.

"Got your blaster set to stun, 3V3?"

"Heh. Not hardly. There's only one setting on this thing—Kill."

Dent chuckles, throwing him a light punch in the arm. "Good. We ain't got time fer any of that half-geared slag. Fight hard or don't fight."

"I hear you."

The two mechs bump fists. Dent had seen more action in his time than any other member of their squad. Steve feels safer knowing that he'll be fighting alongside them. Before he reformatted he was a second division fighter jet. He'd flown alongside seekers until a bad hit took one of his stabilizing wings. Dent once confessed to him that he'd put in a request for the new parts. However said parts were in short supply, and eradicon fliers weren't in high demand. Ground duty was less than his favorite, but the former-flier served as needed. "I put up with it for now," he'd once said. "But make no mistake, mate," a wistful twinkle glimmered in his optics, "I plan to return to the sky. I miss her badly. The sky and I were good friends. She's up there waiting… just waiting to welcome me home with a strong headwind and a fluffy cloud bank."

ST-3V3 is always careful to avoid appearing too outwardly sympathetic. Like K3N-N13, Dent is a mech with a strong sense of pride. If he ever thought he was being pitied, he'd deliver the eradicon a conk on the helm hard enough to make him see static. But secretly, the former miner does empathize. He can imagine all too poignantly what it would be like not to have his wheels. Speed and mobility… those were freedom in its purest form, as far as ST-3V3 is concerned. No wheels… no wings…

He hopes for Dent that the request will be reassessed soon. He wants his friend to be free once more.

While they continue to pal around, D3 and R0 join the two mechs, carrying some equipment. The squad leader's fans are noticeably at a higher speed than usual. It's hot. So hot. Hot even for D3V. The air around the metal veins running up the side of the mountain shimmers, as does the air around the small cluster of mechs positioned in the valley.

"Viewfinder just received a comm. Our intel puts the Autobots on the move. We've only got a few joors until they're pouring over that hill and into the valley." He points to the hill in question, a steep, sharp cleft in the hill behind Azaxcia. "There's not as many as we'd initially believed. Only six or seven full squadrons. Worst case nine. We might be in trouble if they send the scouts down to investigate first, though. We just need to keep rotating a few mechs in and out of the back entrance to look like guards on patrol. The moment Autobots open fire, we'll be clear to retreat back and hurry our way through the mines to this side. All top level tunnels have been blockaded, so they'll have to travel down with us—"

"And then we get back up and out this side 'a the cave first," Dent cuts him off, all the while taking the equipment from them and getting set up, "And bury those slaggers in a fiery pit before they've even offlined and made their way into the REAL one."

"Yeah!" R0 trots up, pumping his fist into the air. "That'll teach 'em to mess with us! No mercy for Autobot SCUM." The young mech tries to spit into the dirt like Dent often does. Tries and fails. Miserably. The result is a glob of oral lubricant dribbling down his chin. All three teammates laugh at him as he sheepishly wipes it away. ST-3V3 doubles over. "Tough-guy Dent has an apprentice!"

"They say imitation is the highest form of flattery," D3V grins, "Even when the thing being imitated is a rather… disgusting habit to begin with."

"Ay, I told ya I've got an over-lubricating problem. Keeps me from drooling like a fragging insecticon" Dent harrumphs. "Open a socket, kid. I need to get the trigger synced up."

"Why do we sync the switch to me again?" the scout complains. "What's the point?"

"The point is that if your average mech picks it up and goes 'oh what does this do?' they won't sabotage the whole slagging operation. Now hold still, you clod, you're going to yank that line out and this thing's going to take me a fragging joor to reconfigure."

ST-3V3 watches as he tinkers with the signal on the handheld device, punching in settings and safety locks. The box is jacked into R0-R1's wrist port. After the matter of kliks that it takes to get it trained to his touch, the bombs in the mountain will be live. Strategically set charges in the deep levels of the mine will detonate first, collapsing the floors of upper levels. The string of explosives will spiral upward, taking out the central structural pillars of the tunnel system. Finally the incendiaries will blow, igniting whatever energon remains untouched by the preliminary explosions. The entire inside of Azaxcia will be engulfed in fiery cataclysm… and melt any poor fragger unlucky enough to be inside.

"…You will be careful, won't you R0?" Steve chuckles nervously. He trusts the youngling of course, but he'd always been proned towards bouts of… clumsiness.

"Relax,I've got it!" the scout huffs, bumping his chassis confidently. This incites another grumble of "be careful" from Dent. "Besides… don't you have like a special prophecy protecting you or something?"

"Oh?" the mech setting him up perks from his work, "Wuzzat?"

"He told me about it one time! There was this traveling prophet while he was stationed in—"

ST-3V3 cuts him off quickly.

"They WEREN'T a prophet, they were a… mystic," he corrects, "The mech was just a traveling fugitive with damaged optics that got displaced by the war. He was trying to get by however he could."

"But they knew you were a miner!" R0 counters.

"It was a mining town. Most of the mechs there were miners. Lucky guess. I felt bad for them and gave them the rest of my credits. The things were almost worthless at that point anyway and I was on rations I didn't need them."

"So what exactly was the gist of this prophecy?" Dent butts in. D3V-1N is quiet but attentive. Clearly he's interested too. R0-R1 cuts across ST-3V3 before he can get a word out.

"They said ST-3V3 would die in his seventh mine collapse!"

Two helms whip towards the former-miner.

"And how many have you been in already, huh mech?"

"Oh come on, are you guys superstitious?"

They all keep staring him down. He sighs and relents.

"Two. I've been in and survived two collapses."

"Well there we go!" Dent chimes, throwing an arm around his shoulder and hugging him close. "You're still got four more collapses ahead of ya! That makes you our lucky charm!"

The vehicon slaps a servo over his own faceplate. "Oh Primus… It's doesn't mean anything. You can't predict the future. Tell them, D3V…"

There's that funny look on his leader's faceplate again. "Well we COULD use all the luck on our side that we can get, I'd say."

"Done," Dent barks, " R0? Switch. Don't fragging touch it until Viewfinder gives the order."

"Aye aye!" the scout kiddingly salutes.

Everyone chuckles, but they're all still eyeing the switch rather nervously—even R0. None of them notice as Viewfinder strides up to the party.

The valley is silent. No wind moans through the deep gorges. No thunder shudders though the ground. The last rock has clattered its way onto the funeral mound. It stands as tall as the eradicon, when he is standing. But Steve sits now—several spans away from its base—staring up at its meager height in silence.

The first droplet of rain hisses as it strikes the peak.

"You there. ST-3V3, correct?"

"Yessir?"

Viewfinder appraises him with half-shuttered optics. "Your leader informs me that you have experience as a miner."

Unthinkingly, Steve nods. That was true. Viewfinder continues to stare„ very obviously sizing him up. "And you feel knowledgeable about the structure of the terrain we're dealing with? The internal structure of Azaxcia?"

"I—"

Viewfinder cuts him off before he can properly reply. "You'll stay. The scout will accompany your squad in your stead."

ST3's optic ridges furrow deeply. "But… what does it matter what I know about mines? We're just going to blow it—"

"Enough. I am leading this operation and I will make the calls. You have knowledge that could prove a tactical advantage for us. I'm pulling you from the decoy mission. You will take charge of the ignition equipment and the scout will take your place running decoy. This is not up for debate."

A pit sinks in the vehicon's tank. He turns his helm to D3V-1N for help. His leader doesn't look happy. Neither do any of his friends. Even R0, who initially asked for this, looks nervous.

ST3's mouth feels dry. "D3V…Sir?"

The mech stares ahead quietly, frozen several nanos, before nodding.

"It's fine. It'll be fine. No time to argue it. R0, you're with us. ST3? We're counting on you."

Reluctantly he nods. If D3V was okay with it he would do it. "Yessir."

Shaking off the initial uneasiness of the roster switch, his squad leader casts him an exasperated look.

"ST3?"

"Yessir?"

"We've been over this. We're all friends here. Just call me Dev."

ST3 cast his optics to the ground, grinning sheepishly. "Heh. Ah right. Sorry. …Dev."

Warmth blooms in the vehicon's chassis that has nothing to do with the rising temperature.

"Alright mechs cut it out," Dent sighs, "No time for a love-in. We've got some reconfiguring to do. Kid hand me that jack. ST3? Your wrist port. C'mon be quick about it we need to get to our positions."

The valley is melting. A thin layer of viscous, muddy rock is sheared away from the sides of the gorge by the ravenous torrent of acid rain. Slag begins to pool in the natural creases of the terrain, covered by a top layer of the steaming, bubbling fluid. The burial monument trickles, losing its form as it's assaulted from above and sinking as its base is devoured by the flood. Its manufacturer looks on impassively—observing the destruction as he sits at the base of the pile. Brooding. His sense of urgency to escape the storm is past.

Let it come. What does it hurt?

Lightning crackles above, cleaving the sky asunder while Steve allows his peds to be swallowed by the rising sludge.

Cacophony echoes through the tunnels. Yelling. The sharp thunder of blaster fire. ST-3V3 squirms, watching the entrance of the mine as every cable in his frame tenses. Hurry up, guys… Get out of there.

Viewfinder looms behind his backstrut, unconcerned as ever. The officer's fans remain offline in spite of the blazing heat.

Moments pass. Finally the soldier finds the courage to speak up.

"Sir I… Should I go in? See if I can help them?"

"No. Hold the line, soldier. We're on schedule," cool vocals lilt, "The squad has made their current checkpoint and is moving towards the next."

"O-oh… Yessir…"

The matter settled, they fall back into silence. ST-3V3 is placated, but not the slightest bit less worried. He pulls the chronometer up on his HUD to count the passage of nanos as he keeps his optics glued to the mine entrance. Every one drips by in agonizing slowness. And yet though the cacophony echoing within the mountain swells and fades in random intervals, there's still no sign of his unit.

Viewfinder gets a comm.

The vehicon goes rigid, trying to listen past the roar of his fans and the roar of the cave as the commander requests a status report. The caller talks for exactly 37.23 nanokliks. ST-3V3 counts each and every one of them. All the while Viewfinder remains silent until the voice on the other end goes quiet.

"Good work. Hold your position and eliminate any more hostiles, if they should flow back. We will wrap up shortly."

His processor buzzes. Soon. Soon.

Viewfinder ends the commlink and resumes watching the distant mountain. The commander's vanguard behind the two of them stays trained ahead as well.—quietly awaiting orders. Just like ST-3V3 is supposed to be doing. Quietly waiting, ready to assist should he be called on.

He twitches and fidgets, but in the end anxious curiosity wins out. The heat and apprehension burning through his processor makes every moment unbearable. He needs some peace of mind.

"S… sir?"

Viewfinders helm pans around in the same deliberately-slow way it had the sol before to fix its gaze on the trigger-holder. There's something about the careful motion that deeply unnerves the former-miner. It takes another few precious moments to find his voice again.

"Sir… the comm…. I… I don't mean to overstep my station, but what did they…?"

"That was my lieutenant, 4LT0N," the commander informs, vocals dispassionate. Almost bored. Thankfully he doesn't seem angry that ST-3V3 addressed him. "He informs me that his unit has successfully swept all Autobot forces that remained outside the mine. They will remain stationed on the other side of the mountain to bottleneck any others who might attempt to return the way they came. Now upon the recovery of our decoy unit, we will put an end to this match."

Match… D3V-1N's right, he does talk about this like it's a game…

Still, just a small bit of relief is allowed to flood his chassis. It's almost over. They're on track. They're going to win.

And yet they're still not back. The passage of time is fuzzy for the overheated mind, but there's an undeniable wrongness taking form. The entrance of the mine remains dark. He can't even hear the chaotic echo of voices from within the cavern anymore. All there is… is the roar of fans, the buzz of the heat, and the frantic pounding of his own sparkbeat speeding up by the nano.

Viewfinder gets a comm.

ST-3V3 jumps so hard he nearly drops the killswitch. His spark all but stops as he fumbles with it, careful not to disturb the trigger. In his panic he entirely misses what's said over the transmission. Whatever it is, it's over quickly. Viewfinder closes the link and advances on the eradicon. His lips move. He says something, but it's like the eradicon is hearing it through a barrier… muffled. ST-3V3 stares at the commander, uncomprehending, mouth slightly agape.

"W…what was that?"

Viewfinder repeats the order. This time he understands what the words mean, but they can't be right.

"Sir, they… they haven't come out ye—"

"Your squad is not coming. The Autobot forces are ready to be snared. Flip the switch. That is an order, soldier."

. . . . . . . . .

Everything is very still and very quiet. The only sound in the world is a high-pitched ring.

And then… as though the barrier is shattered, sound, light, heat, every stimuli floods back all at once. The force of the torrent is overwhelming. ST-3V3's entire processing unit freezes while he sways from the vertigo. An empty tank clenches, gripped by nausea.

NO. No no no no no. This is not happening. His helm whips back towards the dark mouth of the cave, trying to strain through the pound of his own sparkbeat to listen. Was one of those sharp sounds blaster fire? An electrical current spreads through his protoform, stabbing through the vehicon's struts like ice shards. His entire fame prickles. It's though he's just been zapped.

He can't flip the switch. They're still in there. Their frames are going to come tumbling out of that dark tunnel at any moment.

Suddenly, as though granted a vision, he knows this to be true. With omnipotent clarity, ST3 can feel it down in the very core of his spark. Feel it under his prickling armor. In his writhing cabling. It comes to him like a whisper, but laced with conviction unshakable as a mountain. Somewhere just beyond the shadows of the tunnel, they are making a mad dash. Dev and Dent and R0 can probably already see him.

It is going to be okay. They are going to come. Everything will be alright.

They just need a few more nanos. Make sure they have them.

Just give them a little more time.

Stall.

He hesitates, digit on the trigger, optics fixed on the tunnel entrance.

Come on guys… come on… come ON…

Several tense nanos pass in the shimmering heat. They're almost there… Any moment…

Viewfinder's optic ridge quirks in the same unnervingly slow way that his helm pans about. Or maybe it's just the surge of charge making the instants seem to drip by like thick oil. Whichever it is, it doesn't matter. His lip curls as he realizes he's being ignored.

"Soldier," the smooth voice is curt now, "You have been given an order. Do not keep your commanding officer waiting."

You're not my commanding officer, the vehicon wants to snarl. The mech he's loyal to is in that tunnel. He would never give an order like this… would he? No… Dev said something about mountains and the lives of allies. What was it again?

The entrance of the mine is still empty. But the voices are so loud. Something's going to come pouring out soon. It wouldn't be Autobots, would it? Dev and Dent and he had made several practice runs together. They knew the tunnels. Why would they have gotten held up?

It doesn't matter why they got held up. They're coming now.

"Unit ST-3V3, you have been handed a direct order from a commanding officer," Viewfinder barks. He traverses the expanse between them. Fearfully, the eradicon reels away. He stumbles backwards, but Viewfinder snatches him by the arm. Squat, he had thought this mech was. ST-3V3's perception had been faulty. Just because Viewfinder was shorter than most commanders he'd met did not mean he was short. Crimson optics blaze down at him, only microns away as the officer spits out a warning.

"Failure to comply will be treated as an act of treason. A crime punishable bydeath. You WILL comply with this order or your responsibilities will have to be carried out by force."

The commander's vanguard shifts uneasily behind him. ST-3V3 knows one of them from the previous night. It… it was H4 something… He sat with them in their circle. He laughed at one of Dent's jokes. Frantic optics probe the visored faceplate.

Please. Help!

His spark sinks as H4 turns his helm away.

"Soldier!"

No!

He grasps. He tries to grasp for something, anything, while his chassis heaves from the force of his vents. He just needs a tiny excuse to hold on a little longer. He's not ready for this. This isn't right.

"SOLDIER. FLIP THE SWITCH. THAT. IS. AN.ORDER."

Optics train on the mine entrance. The frames of his comrades haven't appeared.

ST-3V3's spark shrinks in on itself as his confidence that they eventually will wavers.

Who was on the comm with Viewfinder? What did they tell him? Was it one of his teammates?

What did they say?

A sickening convulsion wracks his chassis.

Angry echoes from the entrance grow louder, as do the commander's furious vocals. At the same time it's all fading out again. Everything muffles, like he's hearing it through a thick fog. He should be doing something right now. He should be taking action or weighing his options. He should dash for the cave or… or… interrogate the commander about the last comm he received.

But more importantly he shouldn't be here. The scout should. He should be in there. He should be in there with them. They were a team. And he wasn't there. A part of him screams.

WHAT SHOULD I DO?

Raw panic, hysteria, shoot through him like knives, tearing his insides apart. Every part of him rebels against the order. It goes against the fiber of his being. ST3 reels, helm swimming. Were it not for the grip Viewfinder has on him he would fall.

From his peripheral vision ST-3V3 sees Viewfinder's vangaurd advancing on him. The commander's mouth is moving. He's still yelling something again. The gentle voice in the vehicon's helm belongs to an entirely different mech.

Do you remember? You vowed to me that day…

He stifles a sob. It was supposed to be HIS sacrifice, though. Not theirs. He had it all wrong from the beginning. He was never cut out to be a soldier. He wasn't ready for this.

The voices from the tunnel are a howl.

You vowed.

He did. He vowed.

ST-3V3's spark abandons him as he tries to grasp for that resolve again, shriveling within his chest compartment until the space is hollow. In its absence, his vents grow shallow. Numbness seeps in, curbing the jagged pain of the ice.

He would have wanted this. ST-3V3 knows what he has to do. The only determination he can muster comes from the words of a condemned mech. Not from within himself.

Check. Check just one more time to see if they're….

No. They won't be there. They're somewhere far away now.

And with them is a frameless spark. His own. Because teammates… friends… stick together.

He's with his friends. Not in the valley clearing. That's why ST-3V3's frame feels nothing as the explosion shatters the air.

… … …

All things said and done it was a major victory. …That's what he heard one of Viewfinders mechs say in the aftermath. A major victory. Ten Autobot squadrons buried in a colossal explosion. A severe blow to the Valvoluxian Autobot forces. A massive counterstrike was already being planned to retake the upper portion of the territory. Megatron himself was sending troops in to storm the city now. There was rumor that they might even force their way through BrillianceGulf if they were successful. Lay siege to Iacon. Viewfinder was on his way back to Kaon to receive a medal for his brilliant tactical leadership. And why wouldn't he be? It was a major victory. Ten Autobot squadrons buried deep in the ground, never to see the light of day again. And only minor casualties.

A minor casualty. That was all ST-3V3's unit was.

Many mechs come and go as the sun passes overhead. Both the remainder of Viewfinder's troops and the evacuated miners return to mill about, surveying the damage. The mountain still glows faintly blue, shimmering with intense heat. Occasional tremors rocks the earth signaling either another level of the mine is collapsing somewhere in the depths, or alternately a huge energon vein is exploding in the fiery cataclysm. The mechs that throng the valley seem too caught up moving supplies towards shuttles and conversing amongst themselves to take note of this. Everything is very calm and orderly. This is just another day in the Decepticon army. No mind is paid to the fact that in all likelihood mechs, regardless of faction, are still alive down there somewhere. Alive. Being slowly burned and crushed to death.

Maybe that, he muses, is why they are called casualties. They are deaths. Horrible, violent deaths. And yet they are allowed to occur with no fanfare. Life and duty carry on in such a casual, uncaring manner.

He is sickened.

There's an urge… an urge to dig wildly through the molten rock. To search for them. In case someone was still alive down there. It's not acted upon. Viewfinder's soldiers scan around the remains of Azaxcia, picking up no life signs 100 kleps down. Below that… what did it matter? Any current survivor could never be dug up in time.

ST-3V3 hopes they're not still alive down there. He prays that Primus at least granted them a swift death. Because if he didn't, no earthly help is coming to save them from the caving floors and the exploding energon and the molten heat and the horrible, agonizing demise that will follow.

More mechs come and go as the day burns on. Each and every one shies away from the specter standing at the edge of the rubble. The one who hasn't moved since it happened. The one with the trigger still clenched in his servo.

… … …

Quiet dominates the valley as the heavenly bodies drifts far overhelm. The soldiers are gone. The miners are back at the camp. They will ship out early the next morning. They all have their marching orders. Each one has a purpose to fulfill and a place to be. More importantly, each one possesses an intimate sense that life will go on. The soldiers and miners in the camp have faith in the promise of a new day. That is what separates them most distinctly from the mech stooping in the clearing.

ST-3V3 has yet to move a single breadth from where he was when the mountain came down. His only motion the entire rest of the sol is to bend down and sit, curling his legs up into himself. Optics still fix on the vast, crumbled mound. Tremors ceased to shake the ground several joors ago. Only the occasional, ghostly-blue flicker of energon vapors igniting with the air show signs of what happened here. He doesn't even notice them. Outward stimuli have ceased to matter much.

Some time during the night a lone mech traverses the vast expanse of the valley. ST-3V3 hears his approach. Wonders whether or not he's friend or foe. He doesn't turn around to check. What does it matter whether the stranger is armed or unarmed… enemy or ally? He can't muster the will to care if the interloper comes up and stabs him through the chassis. It wouldn't matter. He's too numb to feel it.

But it's not an enemy. As they take their place standing just a few spans to his side, he recognizes a miner—come to stop and stare out at the ruined mountain with him.

Steve recalls the remainder of that ill-fated night in a haze. There was not much to recall. Grief. Numbness. Guilt. Agonizing guilt. And regret.

So much regret.

He and the miner never did address each other as the joors wore on. He supposes, in retrospect, that he, at least, just didn't have any words left. Perhaps the mech that kept him company suffered the same affliction. Or if he did have thoughts to voice… perhaps he didn't out of an understanding that to voice them would have corrupted the solemnity of the vigil.

It was a long, cold venture. The longest night of Steve's life. It as a night of hard truths… heavy grieving… and deep contemplation. When at last morning dawned, he was prepared to be a different mech. With the rising sun came perhaps not comfort… but clarity.

As light peeked over the distant hills, Steve's miner companion stirred. He turned, walked up to the vehicon, and placed a servo on his shoulder.

And then he left. Never to be seen again.

Yet another regret. Steve should have asked the mech's designation. At least thanked him. After all, that miner's actions helped weigh into a choice that shaped the course of his future.

Two decisions were made over the duration of his vigil.

The first… was that his days as a soldier were over. The moment he stood and turned his backstrut to the ruins of Azaxcia, Steve marched his way straight back to camp. The first thing he did was to submit his application to rejoin the Decepticon mining corps. Cowardice, some might have very well called it, though it all honesty it was no safer an occupation. Regardless, it was a decision he'd never since regretted.

The second decision was to return to Azax one day… Just like he was doing now. He had hoped he could come to terms with everything by the time he returned, rather than leave it buried and let it haunt him. Instead of stacking rocks as a gravemarker, he'd hoped to dig.

There was a question that still needed answering.

What if.

That is the question. The one that has troubles his recharge. Kept him lying awake deep into the night for countless cycles. Deprived him of recharge and energon and happiness and a clear conscience and peace.

What if he'd waited just those few extra moments like he'd wanted to.

The days got easier to live through as time went on… some days he wouldn't even think about the incident. Some days when he thought about it, it didn't immediately twist into his spark like a knife. As more and more time passed he was able to spend joors and sols and orns and even a vorn here and there without them crossing his processor. But the question is always there. And it is always a torture to consider.

Would they still be alive?

Would refusing his orders, even for just a little while longer, have made a difference that day? Viewfinder wasn't around anymore—probably long offlined. Steve lost his chance to inquire as to the exact fate of his teammates. But the answer is down there somewhere. Buried, crushed, perhaps half melted under teraquads of stone. He intends to find that answer some day.

But today is not that day.

Steve stares out where the mountain once was, rooted as though weighed down by a heavy chain. He can feel in the pit of his tank that he's not ready yet. Grief and guilt are still cold stones firmly lodged in his spark. The mountain has defeated him again.

And yet… he still clings to the hope that this will not always be the case. Out in the expanse of the valley he can imagine another specter toiling in the acidic mud—an older, wiser vehicon. One who will not flinch away from the past buried here, but carefully exhume it, thoughtfully ponder it, and respectfully set it aside in a place for it to be remembered.

He is not that mech yet… But Steve senses, at least, that he does have the potentialto be.

For now, coolant washes down the faceplate of a former-soldier… former-miner…

Mech…

Teammate…

Friend…

Brother…

Burning optics stare ahead fixed, in their vigil, on the memorial pile as it crumbles to sludge under hissing droplets. The caustic substance stings as it drips down into the eradicon's protoform. It streaks across his frame, eating its way through wax, gloss, paint, and even primer. Decepticon purple, a color Steve has worn most of his life, trickles away from him and seeps into the ground under the storm's influence. The mech notices as this takes place but sits through the deluge in silence until only the bare metal of his armor is left.

It didn't matter if the elements stripped his outer coat away. It would have to rain a long, long time to melt Cybertronian mesh and metal.

END

For the ongoing saga of Steve the Eradicon, you can look him up on Tumblr at st3v3-the-eradicon