PART 173
——Cybertron. Lower east quadrant. Sub-level six. Maccadam’s Old Oil House has been in operation since the Golden Age. It is a place where any Transformer, regardless of faction, can converse with others over the most intoxicating fuel sources on the planet. When Galvatron entered the bar with his troops in tow, he felt the rage inside of him boil over.
——Galvatron’s arm shot out from his side, pinning Sweep-2 against a wall. He hoisted him up with one hand by the throat, searching his faceplate for signs of madness or malfunction.
——“YOU led us here, Sweep! YOU said there was a member of the Thirteen hiding inside of this establishment! Tell me… who among these dozen or so drunkards looks like a Prime to you?”
——Sweep-2 scanned the collection of Autobots, Decepticons, Empties, and Nails, and came up with nothing.
——“I don’t understand,” Sweep-2 protested. “My sensors are never wrong!”
——“Put him down!” shouted Blast Off, from a table he shared with Goldbug. His new Autobot acquaintance tried to shush him, but the Combaticon would not be silenced.
——“There are no Primes to be found among these patrons! If you wish to continue squabbling about it, then take your disagreement outside. You are ruining the atmosphere for the rest of us!”
——“Traitor…! hissed Cyclonus.
——“Quite the contrary,” dismissed Blast Off. “I’m here to scout for new recruits.”
——“Then why are you sitting with the enemy!?” accused Scourge.
——“I er…,” Blast Off was at a loss for words. “That is an excellent question.” he conceded.
——“Simpleton,” sneered Cyclonus. “This bar is obviously an Autobot spy hub set up to compile the secrets that spill out of intoxicated idiots like you. You forget yourself!”
——“I was considering switching sides,” interjected Goldbug.
——“Were you?” Blast Off asked wryly, drawing his gun on Goldbug. “Because that was not what we were discussing before these gentlemechs walked in. As I recall, you were inquiring about Iacon. So come clean “friend.” Is Maccadam’s really what this mech claims it is?”
——“It is,” concluded Galvatron, as he aimed his cannon at Blast Off’s head. “Goodbye, traitor!”
——“There will be no murder inside of Maccadam’s!” bellowed a burly robot from the back of the bar.
——“Ah, Alchemist,” grinned Galvatron. “Hiding in plain sight. How clever. For millennia I had you mistaken for a mere piano player. What a delightful surprise. You’re wrong, though. There WILL be a death inside this establishment tonight.”
——Galvatron’s particle beam struck Alchemist Prime squarely in the chest. The blast severed his spinal column, causing his head to jump out from in between his shoulder struts. Critically injured, he stumbles backwards into a wall, head dangling from damaged cables in front of his chest like a medallion.
——Galvatron steadied Alchemist’s swaying noggin between his hands and elevated it nose to nose. The glow of the Prime’s exposed Spark illuminated the macabre scene for all to see.
——“Through my lenses,” gasped Alchemist. “I can see what you lot truly are… a six-pack of rusting offal!”
——“Is that so?” inquired Galvatron, as he placed his thumbs over the old Prime’s eyes. “Then allow me to spare you the sight!”
——“EEAAARRRGH…!” screamed Alchemist, as Galvatron’s pushed his optic sensors into his cerebral cluster.
——Scourge plucked Alchemist Prime’s Spark out of his open chest and bit into it like an apple. Then he tossed the shrinking ball of light to his huntsmen, who proceeded to scrap over it like Slaargs.
——A figure armed with a sword stood in the roadway as Galvatron and his band of killers exited Maccadam’s Old Oil House. The stranger, whose blue paintwork had long since flaked off to reveal the silver metal beneath it, spoke.
——“I heard rumor that the spawn of Unicron was behind the slaughter of my brethren. I sincerely hope that you had your fill of carnage, villains… because your murder spree ends now.”
——“At last,” smirked Galvatron. “Prima has come out to play.”
(to be continued)