INTERLUDE: THE END OF THE LINE

[AUTOBOT LOG – VERDANT PRIME]

LOCATION: Southern Ridge Training Zone, Verdant Prime

TIME SINCE THE FALL OF ARDENT NEXUS: 0.4 Solar Cycles

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–03:18:49]

POV: Hound

Twin suns hung low above Verdant Prime, casting pale light across the hardened soil. The morning wind cut through the camp, stirring dust around faded Autobot banners nailed to repurposed walls. In the distance, the broken shell of a downed Council freighter served as a makeshift command post, its hull groaning softly as it settled into the crust.

Hound spat out a thick breath as he adjusted the shoulder strap of his pulse cannon. The air was too dry, the energon was low-grade slag, and the recruits moved like they were on a scenic tour, not prepping for war.

"Form up, spread out, and move like your Spark depends on it," he barked. "Because it does."

A few of the younger bots grumbled — tired optics, jittery joints. Some of them had only seen a battle from the rear-line monitors. One, Relay, muttered as he trotted into position, "This again? Galvatron's halfway across the stars…"

Hound turned.

"You think the Decepticons are gonna send you a schedule before they burn your home to the ground?"

Silence.

Another bot, Pinion, chuckled from the back, "Heard the Council's too scared to let 'em near here."

Hound's optics narrowed. "That's what they said about Ardent Nexus. You wanna guess how that ended?"

He stepped forward, voice dropping low.

"They came through the walls like ghosts. Hit our flanks with plasma storms. You think this is just drills, fine. You'll be the first one leaking from your vents when they come screaming from orbit."

No one laughed after that.

They ran the drills again. Movement patterns. Cover fire rotations. Perimeter response. It was all muscle memory by now, but Hound made them repeat it until their hydraulics hissed with strain.

In the corner of the training yard, a rusting energon rig sputtered weakly, pumping pale pink fluid into half-shattered canisters. It smelled burnt. Sour.

Relay staggered over between rotations, taking a gulp. He spat it out immediately.

"This ain't energon…"

Hound growled, grabbing a canister himself.

"This is recycled boot oil with a sparkle filter. But it's all we got. So drink it and pretend it ain't killing you slower than a Seeker's cannon."

Some bots sat on cracked benches between drills, oil leaking down their plating, eyes dulled from the strain. One of them pulled out a small datapad, flipping through a crude recording of Cybertron's sky — the old sky, clean and metal-bright.

Hound saw it. Didn't stop him.

Let 'em remember. Let 'em feel what they'd lost.

Then he barked the next round.

"Alright! One more sweep pattern before downtime. And if any of you trip again during a breach sim, I'll throw you at Galvatron myself."

The field moved again.

Dust rose.

The war wasn't here yet — but its shadow was.

[AUTOBOT LOG – VERDANT PRIME]

LOCATION: Southern Ridge Outpost, Verdant Prime (Perimeter Walk, Adjacent to Training Zone)

TIME SINCE THE FALL OF ARDENT NEXUS: 0.4 Solar Cycles

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–03:03:21]

POV: Hound

The drills had wound down.

Hound moved slowly now, his frame groaning under old wounds and older regrets. The ridgeline above the camp gave him a clear view of the whole field — the recruits dispersing to whatever downtime passed for rest, the smoking energon rig churning out its flavored filth, and the long lines of rusted containers repurposed into barracks.

He grunted, pulling a flask from his hip compartment and taking a swig. Sludge, still warm. Tasted like a turbofox had pissed into a coolant tank.

"Could use a real energon cube… or a miracle."

 He didn't expect either.

As he paced the ridge, his optics scanned the land beyond the fences — dry gullies, sharp rock, and the white-tiled bones of a half-built Council facility abandoned mid-construction. Wind caught the torn remnants of a red Decepticon banner someone had mounted on a spear-pole. Trophy or warning, he didn't care.

But then he saw it — just beyond the drill field.

The statue.

Optimus Prime and Zeta Prime stood tall in council stone, weathered by storms and time. Zeta's stern expression was fractured by a lightning scar down his jawline. Optimus's hand — the one reaching skyward — was broken at the wrist, severed clean.

And still… Hound stopped. And looked.

He remembered.

FLASHBACK – WAR FOR CYBERTRON

LOCATION: Outskirts, of Iacon Evacuation Zone Gamma

TIMEFRAME: Cycle 4131.89 / Phase of the War: Chaos

The sky was on fire.

Decepticon artillery thundered across the shattered skyline, turning towers to slag and roads to smoldering ruin. The last battalions of Autobots — bruised, leaking, and running on fumes — clawed their way toward the Ark under a storm of steel and plasma.

And in the heart of it all, bathed in smoke and wrath, stood Optimus Prime.

His ion blaster roared in his right hand, laying down calculated bursts with surgical precision. From his left arm, a glowing Energon axe crackled to life — every arc of its blade cleaving through the darkness, carving a path through the chaos.

Flames kissed his chestplate. Shrapnel tore down his flank.

Still, he moved.

Optimus gripped a wounded red-plated Autobot trooper and hoisted him from a collapsed trench wall, dragging him behind cover without hesitation. As another two troopers stumbled nearby, Prime stepped between them and a strafing Seeker's barrage, taking the full blast across his plating without flinching. "Stand fast, trooper!" Prime bellowed, his voice cutting through the explosions like a war-horn.

"We will hold — no matter the cost. And I promise you…"

"…I will see it through with you all."

A fresh quake cracked the street as another defense pylon crumbled behind them, the ground splintering into void.

And yet — he rose again. "We hold this point so others may reach the Ark!"

"I will never forget you — any of you!"

"Autobots… transform and roll out!"

He didn't sound afraid. He didn't sound tired.

He sounded inevitable.

Then came the counter attack.

Optimus turned down the next avenue, where a Decepticon heavy with a thermal cannon led two more through the wreckage. He didn't pause.

The axe came down — clean through the first mech's chest.

The ion blaster followed — two shots to the second's neck.

The third turned to run.

He didn't make it far.

With the enemy scattered, Prime began checking the wounded. He knelt beside a flickering scout and manually restarted their spark regulator. He dragged a Wrecker missing a leg into a med transport. He moved from bot to bot — silent, present, unyielding.

Then he found Hound.

The old soldier was leaning against a broken barricade, chest rising with effort, one arm limp and sparking from the elbow down. Scorch marks ran across his plating. His eyes tracked Prime with wordless relief.

Optimus knelt beside him, scanning quickly. "Damage?"

"Just cosmetic," Hound muttered, spitting out a dry breath.

"You've got a cracked shoulder rotator and a fused servo line," Prime said, tone even. Then, quieter—

"But you're still here. That's what matters."

Hound let out a rough chuckle, optics dimming as the pain caught up with him. "If it weren't for you Prime….we'd already be dead. I'll remember this — for the rest of my life."

Optimus stood slowly, surveying the battlefield.

Smoke. Fire. Fallen Autobots. Stillness. "So will I."

Even now, on a distant world under twin suns, Hound could feel the weight of that moment echoing through time — burned into his spark like the first heat of battle.

That day… never left him.

Now there was no Prime. No voice.

Just drills.

Just waiting.

Just rot.

Hound's optics dimmed as he stared at the broken statue. He didn't speak at first. Then, softly — a whisper meant only for the wind: "Miss that red and blue bastard more than I care to admit."

He sat down against the base of the ridge, feeling the weight of his plating pressing into the dirt — a reminder that this wasn't Cybertron. The ground gave beneath him. Soft. Alien. He hated how it didn't fight back.

His servos tightened around the flask. "Wonder what you'd say now, Prime. 'Keep the faith'? 'Hold the line'? Easier when you're not the one counting corpses every damn cycle." "No… I'm sorry, Prime. I didn't mean that.

By Primus, I wish you were here with us.

I wish we didn't lose you during the battle for the Ark.

You'd know what to do.

Kup—he's okay, but he's not you, Prime." 

He leaned his helm back against the stone. For a moment, there was peace. Only the whisper of wind. The clatter of boots in the distance. The hum of the dying energon rig.

And overhead, the sky stayed clear.

Hound's optics narrowed.

They were coming.

LOCATION: Orbit — Stealth Frigate Null Warden, En Route to Verdant Prime Airspace

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL ASSAULT: [–03:45:00]

POV: Nightburn

 Silence suited him.

From the command alcove of the Null Warden — first of her class — Nightburn stood motionless. The vessel was born in the depths of the Echelon Scientific Citadel, forged by Shockwave's chosen minds for one purpose: precision infiltration and null warfare.

Lord Galvatron had seen fit to elevate him… but not above.

Nightburn still served as Commander Drachen's hand — sharp, silent, and unquestioning.

But through Drachen, he now executed the will of something greater.

Verdant Prime drifted below, serene and veiled in golden haze.

Lush. Civil. Unscarred.

It disgusted him. "There is nothing pure in this false peace."

He didn't say it aloud. He didn't need to.

The seven warriors behind him had already heard it — not through words, but through agony, silence, and forged obedience. This was their first operation. Their trial.

Our Lord has seen fit to test them.

A signal pulse clicked into his helm.

Brother-Captain stepped from the shadows.

He stood a head taller than the others, with a slightly flared helm, shoulder-guarded like a knight-champion, and a single vertical slit across his maskplate — a ceremonial execution visor. A quiet fury burned behind the glow of his optics. The glaive across his shoulder gleamed with purpose. "Trajectory confirmed. The Autobot orbital defense net is blind on all angles. Verdant Prime is exposed."

Nightburn's optics narrowed. "Good."

He turned to face the assembled team — tall, obsidian-armored killers trimmed in gold and violet, their forms sleek, predatory, and utterly still.

They didn't move.

They didn't speak.

They waited.

"This is not a simulation," Nightburn said.

"This is your trial by fire. Prove to him why you deserve to stand with him."

He gestured to the holographic relay — a Council refueling outpost, deep in the neutral zone. Cold. Remote. Forgotten. "He will not waste a warship breaching this world… not until the gate is opened."

"That burden falls to us. To you. This is what you were trained for."

A low hum passed through the deck as the drop pods armed their null-field dampeners.

One by one, each warrior stepped forward.

Brother-Ward.

Brother-Silent.

Brother-Rite.

And last — Brother-Captain.

He paused, then turned to Nightburn — voice low, unwavering. "We live to serve him… and only him."

The pods launched.

No lights.

No trail.

Just perfect descent — knives falling through a still sky.

LOCATION: Surface — Refueling Outpost Theta-9, Eastern Sector

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–03:20:00]

POV: Omniscient (Strike Team)

The outpost was quiet.

Autobot sentries paced the narrow gantries of Refueling Station Theta-9. It was a remote installation — fuel lines, energon tanks, long-range beacons. Unimportant. Barely maintained.

Which made it perfect.

A shimmer passed over the central spine tower — not quite light, not quite motion. A glitch in perception.

Then the first sentry died.

No gunfire. No sound.

A violet blade bloomed through his chest. Energon spilled in a slow arc. His mouth opened. Then closed.

Brother-Ward caught the body before it fell. Gently. He lowered it beside the access ramp like it might still dream.

Inside the primary relay hall, a team of Autobot technicians reviewed diagnostics. One leaned back.

"Anyone hear that?"

A faint click.

A shimmer.

Then silence.

Brother-Silent stepped through a soft veil of distortion and past three cooling corpses. His data-spine extended as he moved to the uplink, fingers slicing through encryption threads like silk.

No alarms were raised.

No alerts tripped.

Theta-9 was already dead. It just hadn't realized it yet.

On the outer rim, a tower guard turned toward motion that wasn't there.

Brother-Captain was already moving.

He didn't run. He walked. Each step was measured. Purpose-bound.

The sentry raised his rifle. Too late.

The glaive cracked through his chestplate in a single clean arc — not with rage, but with precision.

The body dropped. Brother-Captain stood still, optics dimming for a moment.

And remembered.

FLASHBACK –LOCATION: Undisclosed training floor beneath Galvatron's Citadel

TIMEFRAME: ~0.7 Solar Cycles Prior

 The floor was still.

Brother-Captain knelt, energon flickering down his left arm. Across from him, Galvatron stood silent, blade idle in hand. His optics, calm and cold, did not judge. They waited.

"You hesitated," Galvatron said, not disappointed. Simply aware.

"Yes, my Lord," Brother-Captain answered, helm lowered. "I misread your stance. I thought you would press, not feint. I failed."

He waited for pain. For silence. For dismissal.

None came.

Galvatron sheathed his blade and turned to a board — not quite chess, not quite war-table. Its pieces shimmered in symbolic geometries.

"You failed," he said, placing a piece.

"And then understood why. That is not weakness. That is strength"

He turned his helm slightly.

"You would not understand how many fail to realise this."

Brother-Captain said nothing. He remembered.

"He trains each of us differently," he would later recall. "With Brother-Rite, it's prophecy and poetry With Brother-Silent — unfinished mathematical equations. With me… it is movement. Correction. Restraint, Mentorship."

"Sometimes he watches us paint. Sometimes he shows us sculpture. He calls it art it was beautiful."

"Says it leaves a bigger impact than a weapon I do not fully understand."

RETURN TO PRESENT

 The outpost was already crumbling.

Brother-Ward moved through the reactor housing. His claws punctured the fusion conduit and twisted — overriding the stabilizers. The core began to hum out of sync, failing inward with grace.

Brother-Rite stood at the central relay, etching a circular sigil into the console face with one blade, while injecting the kill-code with his other. A slow ripple passed through the data streams — the outpost's systems stuttered, dimmed, and quietly failed.

Brother-Silent knelt before the long-range transmitter. From his forearm, a null emitter shaped like a closed optic slid into place. With a pulse, the node activated.

And across the outpost…

…the beacon died.

No transmission.

No fallback.

No trace.

Theta-9 ceased to exist on the grid.

A final camera flickered once — capturing seven warriors in black and gold. One at the front, glaive resting against his shoulder.

Then darkness.

LOCATION: Orbit – Null Warden, Command Alcove

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–03:18:13]

POV: Nightburn

 The signal vanished.

No spike. No anomaly.

Just absence.

Nightburn stood alone in the alcove as the relay holo blinked out. One more thread cut. One more incision left to fester.

Behind him, the bridge crew didn't stir. They didn't need to.

This wasn't victory. Not yet.

It was confirmation though that they were worth the time and resources.

A soft tone pulsed across the command display — data lock confirmed. No signals outbound. No trace left.

Theta-9 was gone.

Verdant Prime had been opened.

He deactivated the projection and stepped away.

Our Lord had given no speech.

Only a sentence, spoken without weight:

"As expected of my new warriors this world will fall."

And Nightburn had bowed.

LOCATION: Southern Defense Perimeter, Autobot Sector HQ

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–02:47:00]

POV: Kup

 The air was too still.

Kup's pedes ground against packed earth as he walked the upper platform overlooking the perimeter grid. The path wound between reinforced gun placements and Council prefab towers that had long since stopped pretending they were functional.

Above them, the sun hung like a weight — dull and orange behind gathering clouds. Heat radiated from the metal plates welded over old battlefield scars.

To his right, the primary energon rig sputtered again — a cough of steam, like it was choking on the last cycle of its intake.

Kup didn't look back. He didn't need to. He knew Thalor was still walking behind him — hands behind his back, steps lighter than a scout's, probably already composing his next report to the Council with every breath Kup took.

Kup tapped his datapad, pulled up diagnostics. His voice was hoarse. "Gate Ten's still out. Turret rows four and six haven't come back online in four days. Patrol rotation's down to fifty-two percent. We asked for support cycles ago."

Thalor's voice came crisp, unbothered — like an evaluation being read aloud. "The Council has reviewed your performance."

Kup stopped. One step. Turned slowly. "Performance?"

"You were given a single task at Ardent Nexus: hold the gate. Delay the advance. Secure time for fallback maneuver Delta-Six."

"You failed."

Kup's mouth opened. Closed. He stared, jaw tight. "We were outnumbered five to one. You gave us second-rate artillery and a shield wall half the size we needed."

Thalor didn't blink. "And the Decepticons shattered it in less than a cycle. That data has been filed."

He started walking again. Kup followed, slower this time.

"You're not here because you earned this outpost," Thalor continued. "You're here because the Council determined removing you would draw attention. Verdant Prime's worth lies in its perception. Your presence maintains that illusion."

"A symbolic command post," Kup muttered.

"A politically viable one," Thalor corrected.

They walked in silence for a few more steps.

The ridge gave way to a downward slope of rust-colored dust. Council markers marked a boundary fence long since half-buried by the wind.

Kup shifted his weight as he walked — and felt the ground sink just slightly beneath his pede.

Not much. Just enough to notice.

He looked down.

A thick, pale vine had coiled beneath the dirt and cracked under his step — its surface crystalline, like translucent glass. It oozed silver. Still twitching.

Kup crouched slightly. Watched it.

It wasn't the twitch that got him.

It was the silence.

"Cybertron never gave underfoot."

"That's how I knew this wasn't home."

He straightened. And walked.

Ahead, the outpost perimeter command node blinked softly — diagnostics cycling. Kup checked it.

Theta-9.

No update.

Last signal: 27 minutes prior. No disconnect notice. Just... nothing.

Kup frowned. Tapped the feed. Refresh cycle completed. Still nothing.

"Theta-9's late."

"A relay delay or rotation fault," Thalor said without looking.

"You're projecting. Again."

Kup didn't respond. He just stared at the screen.

Then, softly: "Every battle I've ever survived started like this, the quiet."

LOCATION: Mess Hall → Personal Quarters

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–02:33:00]

POV: Kup

The mess hall was nearly empty.

A single overhead strip flickered near the back wall. The ventilation system ticked softly — always off-cycle, always just a little too loud.

Kup sat at a dented steel table near the window slit. The energon in his flask tasted like old coolant and regret.

He didn't drink it for taste.

He sipped, slowly, letting the burn coil down into his chest — not to calm him, but to remind him he could still feel something.

Behind him, voices.

Quiet. Unaware. Or maybe they didn't care.

"Kup's losing it."

"You ask me, he was always just a stopgap. Council needed a name. Not a leader."

"He used to be sharper. Back when he wore the Wrecker badge."

"Optimus would've seen this coming."

Kup didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Just stared out the slit-window as dust blew across the landing pads.

He didn't turn around. Didn't speak. Just finished the last of the flask.

Then he stood.

And left.

LOCATION: Personal Quarters

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–02:28:00]

POV: Kup

His door hissed shut behind him.

Kup stood in the middle of the room, blinking like he wasn't sure why he'd come here.

The air was still.

Stale.

The cracked Wrecker badge caught his optics first — still sitting on that rusted little shelf near the power coupler. He'd meant to get it mounted properly. Six cycles ago.

He stepped toward it. Slower than he wanted. One leg scraped with every step now, the servos too old to calibrate right. Too many battles. Too little time for repairs.

His finger hovered over the badge.

Then pulled back.

Instead, he turned to the holo projector.

It flickered once — then activated.

Optimus.

Standing in a field of smoke and ash. Calm. Strong.

Speaking to a group of young bots not yet forged when the war began.

Kup watched.

Didn't blink.

"…we may be surrounded. Outnumbered. We may fall here…"

"…but we do not fall alone."

He clenched his jaw.

His optics burned.

He didn't cry. He couldn't. Not anymore.

He turned away — and then snapped.

Kup grabbed the projector and ripped it off the table, flinging it against the far wall. It sparked, sputtered, then powered off.

"You were the spark, Optimus! The fire!"

"You could rally bots with just a fragging word. You had belief!"

 "And what did I get?"

 He grabbed the badge. Looked at it — then threw it. It bounced off the ceiling, landed under the cot.

"I got silence!"

"I got a council that counts corpses and calls it strategy."

"I got a dirt world that doesn't push back!"

He paced — limping, seething — knocking over a crate, his shoulder smashing into the wall.

He stopped.

Looked down.

One servo clutching the cot frame, the other clenched into a trembling fist.

Then, softly. Barely a whisper:

"...I just want to go home."

 He sank onto the edge of the berth. Not because he wanted to sit, but because he couldn't stand anymore.

The room was quiet.

No recordings.

No voices.

Just one old soldier.

His shoulder locked as he sat. His whole frame creaked with the weight of centuries.

The silence pressed in. No voices. No alerts. Just the ticking of his own failing systems.

And the sound of his own systems ticking

 Down.

 He could feel it in his frame — a low rattle in his spine, a soft buzz around his spark chamber. Not just stress. Not wear and tear.

Decline.

He was going to die.

Not in glory. Not in command.

Maybe not even today.

But soon.

Today.

Tomorrow.

Or the next cycle.

 Kup sat in that silence.

And waited for the inevitable.

LOCATION: Southern Ridge, Platform Six

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–01:53:00]

POV: Hound

Hound hated it when Kup got quiet.

Not the usual grumbling, ground-down old-timer stuff. That was just Kup. But when the old bot started calling defense codes without warning, shifting to yellow alert without blinking—

That meant something was wrong.

Something big.

The wind stung harder now. Dust kicked across the ridge as Hound stood beside the cannon nest, optics fixed on the trail in the sky.

The ship was getting closer.

Burned plating. Stabilizer damage. But no drift. No distress signal.

Just controlled descent.

"Looks like a funeral barge," someone muttered behind him.

Hound clicked his comm.

"Unit Nine, sweep pattern Delta. Confirm trajectory match, confirm visual. Approach low. Non-lethal unless they pull hot."

"Copy that, Commander. Engaging sweep."

 Three Autobot troopers broke from the line — light scouts, wings folded, boosters flaring as they lifted off from the ridge, tracing an arc toward the descending ship.

The storm clouds overhead shifted as it came lower — just above the final pass.

"I'm not seeing movement yet."

"Looks like the hull's been patched—wait. Something on the flank panel—"

Silence.

"Unit Nine, repeat last—"

Nothing.

"Signal lost."

Hound's spark tensed. The wind around him stopped.

He looked at the horizon, where the clouds were starting to part.

The ship hit the landing zone like a broken fang. Metal slammed into stone. The impact shook the valley floor.

And for a moment, everything held still.

Then the front hatch opened.

Smoke poured out.

Hound didn't see a silhouette.

He didn't hear a roar. Or a speech. Or a battle cry.

He just felt the ground pulse beneath his feet.

And something inside him cracked.

He whispered.

"Well, frag me sideways…"

"Kup was right."

A shadow moved through the smoke.

LOCATION: Autobot Command Deck

TIME TO SURFACE-LEVEL DECEPTICON CONTACT: [–01:48:00]

POV: Kup

The hatch opened.

Smoke curled out, thick and slow, like the world was exhaling ash.

No signal.

No warning.

Just a figure in black and gold armor stepping through first — glaive slung across its shoulder. Behind it, more followed. Too tall. Too calm. Their eyes glowed faintly.

Kup's servo tightened around the rail.

 Vox Ultima.

He opened a channel. His voice barely more than gravel:

"This is Commander Kup. Defense protocol Sigma-Twelve. Full combat posture. All towers engage. All squads deploy. Lock the gates."

He looked back toward the ridge — and saw it.

Hound's body, slumped over a plasma cannon, smoke rising from a hole clean through his chestplate.

Still.

Cooling.

Kup's breath caught.

His optics locked on the ridge above — where something massive moved behind the smoke.

A hum — low and rising. Charged.

Then a flash of purple light.

 BOOM.

The platform shook.

The sky turned red.

Kup barely whispered:

"Ah, frag."

And in orbit...

The Decimator began to descend.

[END TRANSMISSION