The Energon Pub

[A Reprise in History]

The day the decrees were laid out, thousands of Decepticons cried out cheers, as if the cycle after cycle of long, seemingly endlesss wars, seemingly senseless wars, had all finally come to fruition. It was a day that would be considered pivotal shift in galaxy's future, the day that the Autobots were finally crushed beneath the force of the Decepticon hammer. Many celebrated, some with laughs, some with fresh Energon in hand, as the streets of Kaon, now a city being rebuilt from the ground up, were lush with a new life not seen in ages. This was what cemented Megatron as the victorious leader of the Decepticons, of the war, of Cybertron, and many Cons eagerly looked forward to the planet's new era that would be established under the purple banner. It would be a long journey ahead to rebuild so much of what was destroyed, but it would be worth the effort that they put into it. After all, seeing Cybertron restored to its glory was the collective dream of many a Decepticon.

Yet there was the other side of all of this. Those donning the red badge were now facing the ground, in despair, in anger, in loss. How could this have happened? Were their efforts all in vain? The Autobots were now a scattered group, hardly cohesive enough to be called much of a faction anymore. When news of the surrender first reached across the Bot forces, it was hard to believe that it had actually happened. Disgraced by failure, or angered by the actions of their leaders, each Autobot found themselves trying to grasp for any semblance of meaning to all this. Some went into hiding, trying to bide their time until they could put themselves together and perhaps continue the resistance against the Cons, gripping their fists tight in anticipation for a moment to strike. But most found themselves acting as second class citizens under the new Con rule, to play along with things until something concrete was settled among the higher ups. Now charged with mundane and labourous tasks, many Autobots were now to play a part in the reconstruction of the cities, to the designs architected by the Decepticons. Such would be life for those previously under the red banner.

Though a tenuous peace was achieved, not all could be said to have had the same joyous reactions to all of this. There exist Decepticons uncomfortable with the way Megatron has decreed this peace among Cybertronians, those who are disgusted by the thought of walking among Autobots. And likewise, there are those among the Autobots who hold mixed opinions about their leaders - what was to become of Optimus Prime now that his title merely made him a symbolic figurehead with no true power under this new Decepticon rule?

And so began anew, this chapter in Cybertron's history. Home, under the Decepticon banner.

A bar. Of course it was a bar. What else could it be. And the newly re-opened Jump Joint was as good as any. The war was over. Supposedly anyway. The Decepticons had won. Imagine. Who would have thought? Sure, he had believed they
would eventually win. But let’s face it. He thought they’d have won eons ago. He had 
been so certain. It wasn’t supposed take longer than the whole evolutionary arch of 
some organic species from the discovery of fire to the their bitter end in a self-inflicted nuclear holocaust. 

And now? It was difficult to believe this was it.

And yet this was it. He had been there. A witness to Optimus Prime surrendering to  Megatron in exchange for the Decepticons sparing Earth after some stratagem 
engineered by Megatron and Scorponok had ended up with enough spaceship guns
being pointed at the fleshling planet to turn its surface to glass more than thrice over 
if Megatron so willed.

And Prime… in a show of weakness he’d never understand had laid down his weapon 
and accepted a defeat just to spare a bunch of worthless fleshbags from extinction. 
Heck, he didn’t even fully understand why Megatron had agreed to the deal despite of 
holding such an edge over the Autobots but that wasn’t exactly something he had to 
understand. If he had to guess it was ultimately because of the dwindling numbers of 
the Cybertronians as a whole. The access to the Well of Sparks had been lost for so long. 
Not a single new Cybertronian had been given birth since the early years of the Great War. 
And if Megatron wanted to spread his Decepticon Empire across the stars like he had 
always preached  about their grand destiny – well, he certainly needed bodies to carry out 
such plans.

But it was not time for that yet. They needed to rebuild so much. And they desperately 
needed more energon if they wanted to achieve anything. But at least they had an organic 
world full of resources to produce it so, or so he had heard. Nebulos or something like that. 
So, the calm before the storm as some would say. Perhaps it was. Nevertheless, it was way 
too early to say. But at least for a time being before he’d receive new orders - Motormaster  could lean back and gulp down few cans of engex – in a relative peace.

It was just that… it was starting to get way too quiet for his tastes. And that hardly ever  boded well for those around him.

(OOC: AFTRHR gave me permission to NPC Wildrider. Thanks, bud!)



It came from nowhere, ill-fated and most unwelcome.

“You wanna arm wrestle, Deadster?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have no interest, that’s why.”

“Aw, come on! It’ll be fun!”

“No, and it will not be fun.”

“Sure it will! Come on!”

“No, Wildrider.”

“Just one time—one round and that’s it.”

“No.”

“How’s this, then?” The clank of an elbow-joint struck the table. “I’ll use my left arm while you use both of yours?”

“Wildrider…”

“What?” A giggle. “You scared I’ll beat you?”

A sigh.

“Yeah?”

“No.”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Precisely.”

Finally realising Dead End expressed no desire to arm wrestle, Wildrider shrugged. He then commented on how his thirst for engex persisted—how another one or ten drinks might help fix that little problem—so, rising unsteadily from his seat, he stumbled his way towards the bar. Dead End watched his team-mate thread through the clusters of patrons frequenting The Jump Joint (of which there were many), momentarily fascinated that even in his inebriated state, Wildrider avoided colliding into anyone, his swaying movements demonstrating a level of grace that appeared comical.

It was a miracle he’d relented this quickly. That was not always the case. When Wildrider became insistent, as Dead End called it, he mutated into a beast—a foul demon of such unbearable proportions that the warrior would rather throw his lot to chance and battle the Dinobots for his very survival than to continue enduring Wildrider’s foolishness.

Now his attention could return to the troubling matter plaguing his mind: the war. Or lack thereof. The war that was over, apparently. The conversations dominating The Jump Joint were, of course, associated with the war. About the next steps to be taken. About new history for the Decepticons. About their home world and the path ahead. About the Autobots.

Dead End didn’t know how to feel about their victory, despite the proclamation dousing the planet in its entirety. Regardless of where you were on Cybertron, you had received the news in one form or another. The war was over. It was enormous in its scope, vast beyond comprehension. It was an incredible amount to absorb.

“The war is over,” he said to himself. “Imagine that.”

He didn’t have to. Sipping his drink, Dead End stared at the floor, contemplating this new reality that had asserted itself over its predecessor. Absurd, this conclusion of the war—it was absurd to entertain, let alone accept. And yet. And yet, it was the truth. Supposedly.

Dead End shook his cranial unit. He wanted it to be true, wanted to believe the conflict’s end had been reached. It was pointless, anyway, the fighting.

Pointless for some, he suddenly thought. But not everyone shares that sentiment.

Dead End glanced at Motormaster. He wished he hadn’t.

An amusing little spectacle. That was the first thought that crossed Apeface’s mind as he caught Wildrider pestering Dead End for an arm wrestling match. He had been minding his own business alongside his buddy Snapdragon and several empty containers of engex but the general ruckus that followed Wildrider everywhere had peaked his curiosity.

For a moment he entertained the option of challenging Wildrider to that very arm wrestling match himself just for cheap laughs but that option passed quickly as the leader of the Stunticons gave a signal to Dragstrip and Breakdown to escort his rambunctious underling to his own table. No doubt Motormaster had seen an opportunity to teach Wildrider a lesson of humility. The big bully sure did enjoy flaunting his superiority over those weaker than himself. Not that Apeface’s own intentions had been that much different. If it weren’t such a bother and ultimately a futile effort that would only backfired on him in the long run the Horrorcon triplechanger might have taken the opportunity to show Motormaster that there’s always someone stronger around.

Instead, he ended up sending a crumbled, yet extremely oozy engex container lid flying towards Dead End’s general direction with a flick on his index finger. Perhaps the morose, yet extemely self centered bot would prove to be either entertaining or enlightening. Apeface wasn’t going to judge him just yet.

The Jump Joint

Arriving as an expectation—as Dead End had forecast when he glanced at Motormaster—it still surprised him to witness the raw power it emitted. The dissatisfaction. The impatience. The resentment. It all curdled under his leader’s stern facial-plate, threatening to breach the surface. Oh, yes—Dead End could confirm the sighting, the lovely visage of Motormaster, and he was immediately fretting about his welfare. He knew what would ultimately transpire.

There were those who were disgruntled with the war being over. It was obvious Motormaster was one of them.

Releasing a long and controlled sigh, the warrior resisted the urge to curse. It stole a considerable amount of energy from him to do so. To be a Stunticon. Fun and joy and happiness.

Yes. Well.

Dead End was drumming his digits against the side of his drink, critiquing an obscene image crudely but cleverly engraved on the edge of the table, when something landed near his pedes. He looked down and saw it was a container lid, slathered in fuel. Scowling, he looked up, tracking the lid’s point of origin, and saw Apeface. The Horrorcon was staring at him.

Dead End’s scowl deepened. Shock: an oaf like Apeface, aiming to cause a problem? No, no, no—this must be a mistake, an honest blunder on Apeface’s part, an accident that was purely unintentional. Apeface, brute that he wasn’t, would never engage in such repugnant behaviour. How Dead End was not fond of him.

And still he stared, the Horrorcon.

That was bad. Rather than a moment of amusement, Dead End felt like he was developing into a target for the saboteur. With his team-mates absent—Wildrider’s fifteenth trip to the bar in progress while Breakdown and Drag Strip had gone off to wherever catching up with old comrades, their proximity questionable—Dead End’s vulnerability shone brightly like light illuminating the dark. He was stuck; he didn’t know what to do.

So he just sat in his chair, trying to ignore Apeface. He’d grow bored, that wretch, and in a short span of time direct his attention to another victim where his petty plans could be enacted.

Five kliks. Five kliks and Dead End would be fine.

Avoidance. That was the solution? Playing ignorant as if nothing had happened despite of an obvious reaction which had preluded Dead End’s current state of denial. Then again, why not? What would have Apeface himself have done if someone like… say – Overlord, the infamous phase sixer famous for his flippant antics - had decided to take an interest in him? Yeah, he probably wouldn’t have been too keen to attract that kind of attention himself. But that was precisely the crux of the matter. In this very situation he was the Overlord and Dead End was… well, Dead End.

The first step. A slight nod towards his slothful friend’s direction to keep him in the mix in case Snapdragon could bother himself- which, knowing him - he likely wasn’t going to. The second step – an overly dramatic stretch of his massive arms and chest as he rose up from his seat and basically – yawned. Which lead to the third step, making an optical contact with Dead End. And the fourth step; walking with purpose over to his chosen target’s table.

And the fifth and final step; placing his large, greasy hand on Dead End’s polished shoulder plate and giving him a little squeeze that left five dents on the smaller Decepticon despite of the Horrorcon’s very mild use of his strength.

”Dead End! Buddy! Fancy seeing you here!” He hailed the Stunticon, sitting down on the free chair next to Dead End, ”You don’t mind me sitting here right? Of course you don’t! Hey, waiter! An engex to me and my buddy here! And make it slick!”