Forget Me Not: Epilogue
Forget Me Not: A Three-part saga from the planet Cybertron
Epilogue

“There! I told you we’d be the first in…here…”
Roulette, her arm round Hot Rod’s waist, sighs.
“And it wouldn’t be the first time you got it completely wrong.”

Slouched against the bar, Springer gives cheery wave while the other Wreckers burst into raucous laughter.
“Poor kid!” hoots Refute, “Didn’t cha know? Nobody beats us in a race to the oil!”
“But…but this place has only been open half a minute! How’d you lot get in so fast?”
“Trade secret.” Clawhammer points out a pair of empty stools. “But as a prize for being second best, we’ll buy your first round.”
“Now that is something we never thought we’d hear from you!” exclaims Rack in mock astonishment.

As the green mech ducks under his comrade’s punch, Hot Rod and Roulette take the proffered seats.
“Thanks. I think. Um.” He frowns. “Why’s Landmine holding the roof up?”
The orange giant, hands pressed against the low ceiling, glowers.
“I’m doing a friend a favour. Next stupid question?”
“Rrrriiiight. Err…”
Roulette pats him on the arm.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Probably something hush-hush and need-to-know. Is it me, by the way, or isn’t this place a bit…small?”

The oil-house is certainly a rather dingy and cramped affair – one long bar opposite the doorway, several partitioned booths along the walls and a few free standing tables between. There is barely enough room for the larger mechs to move about.

Springer smirks.
“Just wait and see.”


“Sorry to keep you gents – ah, and lady. Nearly ready.”
A stocky blue mech emerges from a door behind the bar, dusting his hands with a rag. He turns to a lever projecting horizontally from the wall. Grasping it in both hands, he calls over his shoulder.
“Ready yourself.”
Landmine gives him a dark look.

Throwing all his strength into it, the barmech pulls downwards. The lever judders then stops. Optics bulging, he keeps pulling, even when he has lifted himself from the floor.

Watching with a mixture of amusement and concern, Hot Rod coughs.
“Err…do you want some help there?”
“No…I’m fine…err…just…must be caught…”
After a while, he lets go and leans against the wall, scratching his head.
“I haven’t done this for vorns but I don’t remember it being so –” He stops and slaps his forehead. “What was I doing to that lever?”
“Pulling it,” answers Springer.
“I could kick myself!”
One push and the offending control moves smoothly up and clicks neatly into place.

The whole room starts shaking and the roof starts to fall. Landmine grunts as the full weight descends on him. With a mighty heave, he lifts it up again. And it keeps going.

Like an upside down elevator, the ceiling vanishes into a large shaft. In its wake, balconies and walkways fold out, complete with chairs and tables. Meanwhile, the walls of the bar room recede, even more tables springing up behind them. By the time to structure stops moving, the oil-house has doubled in length, trebled in width and quadrupled in height.

“There, much better,” says the barmech, squinting up at the darkened heights, “Although…”
He cups his hands round his mouth.
“Oy! Lightshow! Quaver! You’re on!”

A loud clang echoes through the room, followed by a scuffling noise and a muffled curse.

A Minicon appears on the uppermost balcony, clearly visible thanks to the reflective plates that coat his rotund form.
“Sorry, Mac…Quaver say’s he’ll be down when he’d finished tuning up. Doesn’t want to be flat for the big night.”
“You’ll be flat for the big night if you don’t start doing your job!”
“Lay off, Mac! I’m doin’ it!”
Lightshow leaps into the air, folding into a compact ball. He stops in the precise centre of the shaft and starts to spin. Lights of every kind burst into existence all around him.

The barmech smiles and turns to the assembled Autobots.
“Right, lady and gents: welcome to Maccadams! What’ll it be?”

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It does not take long for the much-expanded oil-house to fill to the rafters. For the first time in eons, the Autobots and their allies truly have something to celebrate. They intend to make the most of it.

With Polyhex firmly in their enemies’ hands and their leader dead, the Decepticons have crumbled. They went into a panicked retreat, their numerical and military supremacy useless without direction and their courage lost as they found themselves trapped between the invaders and the suddenly mobile and well-armed southern resistance. Wild stories about demons siding with Optimus Prime did not help either.

In the end, the only thing they could do was to fly for their lives, fleeing from the very world they had dominated for so long.

And to the victors, the spoils…

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Taking advantage of Roulette rushing off to a table full of Valkyries, Hot Rod eyes one of the barfemmes who have appeared as the bar has become more and more crowded. She giggles and moves closer. He grins in return and reaches for his empty mug.

“There yah are!”
Ironhide’s voice cuts through the general din. Guiltily, the young cavalier leaps to his feet.
“You’ve got your little flame-brain quite well trained,” Chromia points out from the drill-sergeant’s side.
“Ease off, lass.” Ironhide crosses his arms. “You missed parade.”
“I…” Hot Rod shifts nervously. “I was with Ratchet for a check up…he didn’t let me out ‘till you were all finished…I…err…thought he told you…”
“Huh. Anyway, yah missed the ceremony.”
“Ceremony?”
“Yep. I got a couple a’ things to pass on.” He flexes his fingers. “This is fer nearly getting Prime killed.”

The punch to the gut leaves Hot Rod bent in half, clutching at his freshly repaired armour.
“And this…”
He looks up, wide-opticed.
“…is fer saving his life.”
“Bu…wha…tha…uh?”
“Yes, it is. Yes, it’s yours. And yes, ah mean it.”

Straightening up, Hot Rod picks the strip of gilt and fabric from Ironhide’s hand as if expecting it to evaporate.
“The…the Order of Cybertronian Protectors…”
“Well done lad!” His idea of a friendly slap on the back nearly knocks the newly minted Protector face first into the bar. “Mah round, ah think!”
“Don’t give ‘im too much credit,” warns Chromia, “Everyone on the mission got them. Prime decided to have ‘em handed out by squad leaders. Said the ceremonies could wait until we’ve rebuilt some of the cities. Still…”

She grins wolfishly and before Hot Rod can react, plants a kiss firmly on his cheek.
“Maybe you aren’t as much a punk as you act.”
“Who are you trying to make jealous?” Roulette elbows her way through the onlookers. “Ironhide or me?”
“You’re both old enough to know better!”
“Probably. But to be on the safe side, I’ll remove him from your company. Come on Protector Rod.”

Taking firm hold of her mech, she drags him away from the bar.
“Rou! I was going to –”
“No you weren’t! They’re going to be playing dance music next and I want you in a fit state to be my partner. I’m not having you disgracing our fine order barely a deci-cycle after they’ve let you in.”
“Me? Dance? Oh…help.”

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“Nice oil.”
“A bit on the viscous side.”
“I like it thick!”
“Hmm. Well have a care: it’s not just your insides being clogged up here.”
“Oh, shove it.”
“I was considering doing just that. I haven’t quite worked out where.”
Ruin glares defiantly and drains his can in one gulp. Rack sighs and sips at his own drink.

“Look at ‘em!”
“What?”
Ruin slams down the empty can and points with his gripper. The dance floor is spilling over with exuberant mechs and femmes. The music veers wildly from Cybertronian to Earthen and something in between. There is no real rhyme or reason to the dances or the tunes. It is simply a joyful revel in the miracle of being alive.

“What’s wrong with them?”
“It’s…undignified!”
“This from a mech whose idea of fun is reprogramming Deceps with a hammer!”
“That’s different!”
Rack smiles thoughtfully.
“Are you sure you’re not just being grumpy because you can’t join them?”
“Well…”
“I knew it.”
“We could give it a go if we wanted!”
“With these feet? Anyway, who’d be crazy enough to be our partners?”

Rack’s shoulders slump.
“Yeah. Just looks like fun, I suppose…”
He trails off. Ruin follows his optics.
“Eh? Oh no. You can’t be serious!”
“Why not?”
“Common sense? Practicality? A certainty of the outcome?”
“I know there’s one outcome I’d enjoy…”
They look at each other.
“Why –”
“– not?”

“Ahem.”
“Ahem.”
Arcee and Racetrack look up. The conjoined twins beam.
“Would either or both of you two lovely ladies care for a dance?”
“A trip through the light fantastic? A rapid ricochet round the floor?”
The Valkyries exchange glances and burst into giggling.
“Oh, charming!”
“No…heh, hem.” Arcee steadies herself. “I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We’d love to, wouldn’t we?”
Racetrack nods, coughing back the last laughs.
“Aye. Love to.”
The femmes stand up, Arcee taking Rack’s hand, Racetrack, Ruin’s gripper. Rack matches their grins.
“Shall we?”

Behind them, Flare Up toys with her energon and looks at the dancers longingly.

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In one of the booths, detached from the partying, Springer and Jetfire face each other, growing more frustrated with every passing ‘second.
“Surely you can see the logic in rebuilding before we hunt down the Decepticon fugitives?”
“Have you got bolts for brains? We can’t waste time, Jets! We have to get after them asap!”
“What we have to do is reinforce our position. We don’t all have the endurance of Wreckers.”
“Well at least let those of us that do get after the ‘cons!”
“And split our resources in the process?”

Sitting at the rear of the booth, nursing a large mug, Optimus Prime leans back and lets their argument wash over him. Even after all they have been through, his two top lieutenants never, ever avoid an opportunity to bicker.

“Tired?”
His head snaps round. From the shadows in the next booth, a pair of vibrant red optics regard him calmly. Prime smiles wanly.
“It’s been a long week.”
“Heh. I suppose it has.”
The shimmer of a cup of energon momentarily comes into view.
“A toast to your victory. Isn’t that the right thing to say at this point?”
“Indeed.” Prime returns the gesture. “I just wish I could believe it is truly over.”
“The War?”
“The War.”
“You live. Your friends and comrades live. Cybertron has been liberated. Megatron is dead. You have an awful lot to be proud of.”
“And an awful lot to regret. I often wonder how our race can continue to survive. We have lost so much.”

There is a moment’s silence. The eyes dip, then come up again.
“I have learnt that what you were and what you have lost can destroy you. And that if we truly want to live, we must embrace what we are and what we can be.”
Optimus considers before tilting his head to one side.
“Perhaps. Yes. I think you are right.” He frowns. “Funny. I can’t place your voice. Have we met before?”
“Not as such. I …lent my strength to your cause not so long ago. Sorry for troubling you now. I simply felt in the mood to pass on a few platitudes”

“No, no. I agree with them.” Prime glances away for a second, frown deepening. “What did you mean…?”
The next booth is empty save for shadows.

“Hmm.”
Jetfire and Springer are still verbally hammering each other. With a sigh, he resigns himself to a night of the same. Something catches his eye, a figure all alone at the edge of the dancing.

“Enough of this.”
The other two Autobots look surprised, as if they had forgotten with whom they were sharing a table.
“Gentlemechs, this is a night for celebrating victory, not planning future ones. And if you will excuse me, I intend to join in with the former.”

A few long strides carry him over to the nearly unoccupied table.
“Flare Up? Would you do me the honour of joining me for a dance?”
The young femme’s face goes from shock to disbelief to terror.
“O-optimus…P-prime…sir, I…err…I’m-m n-not a very good dancer…I’m…um…too clumsy…I…”
“In which case, we will match each other perfectly.”
He smiles.

Still gaping, she tentatively takes his hand.

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Have you ever considered how the smallest coincidence and the tiniest of actions can have monumental consequences? Say a fractional error in a high-energy Powerlinx experiment. Or the chance encounter between a mech and his clone. Or the sheer dumb luck of a young caviller being in just the right place at just the right time. These are the things that shape the course of reality as much as the great battles or the actions of demigods.

For what is history if not a string of consequences? The big and the small, intermingling, rebounding, changing, growing, weaving a vast, unending pattern.

Precognition is merely the ability to see that pattern’s shape.

We have had many names, on many worlds. The Weapons Smiths. The Guiding Lights. The Shining Ones. The Fates. The Oracles. The Norns. The Watchers. The Star Sabre. But first and foremost, we are engineers. We watch the pattern, observing the ever-changing web of consequences. And we help shape it. A nudge here, a touch there, guiding, tending, protecting.

One day, we will be gone, faded into the depths of myth leaving only the idea of the sword. One day, the ordinary, extraordinary beings of today will be long dead, ascended into the realms of heroes and icons. One day, everything will be different.

But what we have helped happen, the events that we have worked so hard to bring about, they will never be forgotten. Even as the universe wanders ever closer to its end, even as our civilisation crumbles to dust, the memory of our history will live on, ethereal, immense, eternal.

We are leaving this world. Our time here is ended. Our race has found its paths, divergent and opposed as they are. There is nothing more for us to do. The pattern must be tended elsewhere. The seeds of the future must be sown among the stars.

As always, in the infinite tracts, in the reaches of the universe, there are things that must be seen to.

The work goes on.







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