Burnt Bridges: Part 3: Feral (Side 1)
Burnt Bridges: A Five-part saga from the planet Cybertron
Part 3: Feral

Eager for the hunt, I pad four legged through the forest, seeking a trail. I sniff the air. And I stop.

There is fire on the wind. Not the fire of the mountains, full of stone and dirt. This tastes of metal-flesh and rage. The king hunts tonight.

Cautious now, I test the threads of scent that fill the world, looking for direction. I smell fear. I smell dread. I smell thunder. I smell prey fleeing before the onrushing storm. And I smell something else, something I did not expect – the rotten stink of the swamps.

This gives me pause. Repugnus and his kin rarely stray so far from their oozing homelands. Why would they do so now? For a brief moment, I wonder if Undermine is abroad. But that is foolish. He shed the taint of his brother’s territories long ago.

I lope towards the edge of my lands, curiosity prevailing over instinct. The odours of fire and swamp become stronger, mingling with those of my fellow hunters. Close to the meeting of my territory and that of little Shadowfang, I crest a rise and gaze down upon the valley.

Smoke hangs over the far forest, spreading from the Temple. The beacon of the Burning Throne is clear even in the morning light but the lower steps are gone beneath a grey, shifting blanket.

I listen carefully. Everything is buried beneath rustling leaves but I can hear the crackle of burning and…whistling?

A thunderclap startles me, making my fur ripple. A thunderclap from below? I bound down the slope. There is the thud of falling trees and the hiss of burning sap. The forest folds around me but not for long.

Something has gouged a trench through my land, smashing and scorching a wide path. It is as if the earth-fire had flowed into the valley…no. Not quite. I delicately paw the ground. It is very hot but I can bear it. It is as if a falling star had struck. That is it. I tread along the edge of the trench, balking at the fumes that line it. I soon come upon my ‘falling star’, the thing that would destroy my trees.

It is the king.

Draco Prime, the mightiest warrior ever to live, lies at the end of the gouge, axe still gripped in his hand. His skin is glowing beneath streaks of dirt, heat pouring off to turn the air to fog. I creep closer, astonished. He did not fly here of his own will. He was thrown.

But there is nothing, no earth-scream, no flesh-beast, no vine-thing, no hunter who can throw Draco Prime. Nothing can fell him. Once, that was not true. But he has sat upon the Temple-top for too long. The Throne’s fire burns inside him too greatly for challengers to trouble him.

So what could have done this? I can see his face now. His eyes are closed but…there is something on his lips I have not seen for many seasons.

Draco Prime is smiling.

Suddenly his eyes snap open, life-light blazing brightly. Slowly, using his axe as a crutch, the king rises to his feet, shaking his head as if in disbelief. I back away, fearful. To have seen him felled…

He still sees me…and his smile only widens.
“’Tis a great day, Wolfang!” he booms, finally standing his full height, “At last a warrior walks in the world who I cannot overcome in a moment! At last I can truly fight!”
It is more words than I have heard from him since…I cannot remember! And spoken so joyously! He is neither sullen nor hateful. He sounds and looks happy!

Before I can speak or even think in answer, he is gone, leaping into the sky’s embrace, aim true for the Temple. I look after him and know in an instant that I must follow.

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The first thing I realise is that the smoke is steam. Its cloying scent obscures everything. My coat is soon as soaked in water as the trees I pass. The mist drifts through the leaves, harming sight as much as smell. I feel…isolated from the world. My senses are muffled and only the tiny sounds of my paws on the ground place me in this realm of whispers. The whiteness begins to thicken, moving closer as if to smoother those caught in it.

The land moves down, sloping into grass and scrub. The trees thin and not just because they have been engulfed.

Drackagrai. I am on its shore. Why can I not hear the water’s movement? The fog cannot be so…

Water? I am down to the bank and all I see are rocks and sand. The water is not here. The great bowl is dry.

I crouch on my haunches and consider. There are whispers of heat and death here, the thinnest of ribbons of fire and combat. What opponent could be worth such an effort? What battle must have started to lead the king to burn the Drackagrai into mist? An unpleasant feeling creeps up my spine. Worry. Fear. I stare at the expanse of blackened dirt. Dare I to cross? Dare I to continue?

Crack.

Sound. Movement. Enemy. Bare fangs, spin, tense, growl.
“Rrrrrrr….”
“Raaah!”
A black four legged like me bounds up, mock snarling at my challenge. I relax slightly. Shadowfang is no threat. Not yet. One day. But I do not have to fight him today.
“Hail Wolfang!” the youngling greets, “You too head for the Temple?”
I bend my head, the only response he needs.
“I also!”

“And I.”
No growl, this new voice. A deep, round sound, as rich in tone as the world in scents.
“Hail Wolfang.”
“Hail, Teacher.”
I bow fully this time. Backstop moves as a hunter despite his shape. Not big, the Teacher, not big. But powerful, strong and with fangs of his own, worn as horns but the equal and better if many another. Old as the world is he, and as wise as time.

“He did not sense me till I was close, Teacher!” Shadowfang chirps happily, “I crept up and near-pounced!”
My eyes narrow but Backstop is not at all impressed.
“In this mist, with this strange sight to aid you. Do not be proud, Shadowfang. No true hunt is so easy.”

He comes to my side and looks into Drackagrai.
“Daraco Prime boiled the lake away with his fire. He must have turned the full might of his soul against his foe. And yet still their blows ring through the valley. There is something new in the world. Something that can match the unmatchable.” He speaks in a whisper, softly, reverently. “Something new…or perhaps something old… We must hurry.”
He sets off across Drackagrai’s bed, ignoring the lifeless swimmers that lie on the once drowned rocks.

Shadowfang bounds after him and I walk behind, content to let the Teacher lead. The youngling is soon questioning in the incessant way of those not long in the world.
“How strong must this new hunter be? To challenge the king? To best him?” His awe is rightfully great. “How strong and mighty, Teacher?”
“Does might matter so much?”
“Of course, Teacher! You told me it does!”
“Might of thought. Might of determination. Those who cannot accept defeat nor allow themselves to give up. The prey can bring down the hunter if it is determined enough.”

The pupil snorts.
“Only in numbers!”
“What of that?”
“It is cowardly!”
“But necessary. What of this?” The Teacher nudges a dead Sharril-grinder. “It is not the mightiest of Terrors, yet it is often the victor because of its unreasoning, mindless tenacity.”
Shadowfang sniggers.
“And what of Stormfront?”
“I did not say might of will is always enough, but I can be. Stormfront has never given up his dreams of kingship, not once. His defeats do not deter him – his belief that he can change the world for the better is too great for them to. One day, his determination may succeed.”
“Determination? He is not determined! He is stupid!”

I stop listening as the questions become more wide ranging. I have heard and asked them many times before. The Teacher knows so much. He will speak of the world s it is and was. He will say how to hunt well or how to fight well or even how to hide well. He will answer every question he can and will turn none away. But words cannot make you a hunter. Only hunting can. Only the chase and the kill and the cruelty of the world’s hate.

My lessons are all learned and I need no Teacher now.

We draw closer to the Temple, climbing out of Drackagrai and back into the forest. The sounds of battle grow louder, breaking through the fog. Trees lie dead and destroyed all around, charred and shattered.

The scent of the swamp again. And of the king. And…some other…sharp, cold…unknown.

“Odd.”
Backstop is looking closer at a broken Jargal and the gashes in its poisonous bark.
“This mark…it…hmm, no matter.”
He says no more.

The first stones of the Temple come into view, worn grey rocks as big as me and cut smooth and square. The forest and the mist thin out, leaving my senses free of their crushing embrace. I become fully aware of those around me. Not just Backstop and Shadowfang but many others. Hunters every one, all moving towards the Temple. Tyranos, Cheetor, Rhinox, Primal, Wreckloose…so many enemies…but no danger. We all have come to see this battle, to catch a glimpse of this magnificent foe.

“Come to watch the show, have we?”
A harsh, grating squawk from above my head. My hackles are up in an instant.

The thing is clearly a flighter but unlike any I have ever seen before. His feathers are straight, making him look like a collection of black blades. Though his wings are folded as he perches in the trees, his span is clearly huge: he must be far bigger than a normal hunter. His beak is like his feathers, sharp and straight, and his eyes…seem to be so big that they join in the middle of his head and are as deep and orange as a fire’s heart.

I have never seen him before, or his like. I catch a trace of his smell and it is as strange as his appearance, full of things I do not know how to describe.

The shape beside him I do, however, know well.
“Hail Stormfront.”
Backstop offers the words of welcome but receives none in return. The great ice-bird flows from the branches and plunges to the ground, shifting as he comes. Stormfront lands before us, metal-flesh vibrating slightly from the motion.
“If the Teacher and his charges have come here too then Draco Prime must truly be in danger.” There is not a shred of heat in his voice. “A hunter who can succeed where I fail. Fascinating.”

Tall, with vast wings and layered plates of feathers and hide across his body, he is not unlike Draco Prime in appearance. No reds and oranges colour him though, only blues and greys.

His sword has claimed so many souls that he is, without dispute, one of the greatest of our kind. He holds the frozen north in a grip as cold and solid as the wastelands themselves. Yet it has never been enough. Something inside him burns with a desire and a fury equal to the blizzards he rides. A fury I have never been able to understand.

He stares up at the Temple heights, looking at the still unseen battle. Backstop walks to him, solemn.
“Will you come with us to see this new champion?”
“Would there be any point?”
“Draco Prime may yet triumph. His defeat is far from certain.”
“Hah.” A soft sigh. “What does it matter? I have been the second greatest hunter for over three thousand seasons. But what good am I now? Why should Draco need my meagre challenge any longer?” He turns his back to the pyramid. “Send word to me of the victor. Come, Doubledealer. It seems our journey is wasted.”

The other flighter, Doubledealer, looks shocked and angry at his words. His feathers start to stand on end, as if ready to strike. But only for a moment. After that, his reply is almost playful.
“Ay, my lord, ay! Seems our plans must be rethought!”
“No. They must be abandoned. Come.”

Stormfront unfolds his wings, flaps once and shifts back, vanishing up and out of the valley. Doubledealer gives the three of us on the ground a beaked grin.
“Enjoy the show, plebs. Be seeing you!”
With that, he too is gone.

“Who was that?” Shadowfang asks, “He spoke – he looked – strangely.”
Once more, Backstop is slow to answer.
“I do not know…and I wonder if we shall ever know. Something…did not happen here. Stormfront’s companion spoke of plans…very odd…”
“But we are here for more important things,” I interrupt.

Letting them take up the roll of followers, I continue to the Temple steps.

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We climb the steps alone, all of us now two-legged. The other hunters stay below. I understand that. I do not think I would approach this close if the Teacher were not with me. He travels without fear of challenge. No other can do so.

Nothing troubles us until we have reached the wide ledge halfway up.

“Halt!”
“Stop!”
“Stay there!”
“Don’t move!”
Brimstone and Undermine. Both reek of dust and of being close to the king for so long. Who can say why Draco Prime allows them to live at his side? But allow it he does and they have taken it to mean that their words are his.

“Do not come closer!” Brimstone warns, his wings trembling, “You cannot pass!”
“Ss ss ch…get back! The king battles!” Stepping into our path, Undermine waves his flail. “He – ss ss ch – demands no others come close!”

If I can skewer Brimstone by throwing my sword, I will only have to deal with the far stronger Undermine. I will have to get close to him, under his main arms. His smaller arms are weaker but sharp. I will have to be fast. Blows to the neck and eyes. Cut and bite, then rip and pummel…

Backstop smiles.
“The king does not demand these things. He is fighting. He has no time for such demands.” His fingers splay wide open. “And we have no time for you.”

I feel my metal-flesh begin to move, my fur to stand on end. The Teacher’s strength wraps itself around all of us, pulling at our skins and hearts. It focuses in on Undermine and Brimstone and lifts them. They rise into the air, struggling helplessly. Then the Teacher throws his arms apart. The grounder and the flighter vanish out across the forest.
“Come. We have wasted enough of our attention on these distractions.”
With surprising speed, Backstop continues towards the top. I shake myself, trying to escape the sensations filling my body.
“I hate it when he does that!” Shadowfang shakes far harder. “His ‘mag an a tis m’. It makes me feel all…strange.”

I ignore him and obey the Teacher.

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I do not know what I expected to see upon the Temple-top. How can you imagine the unimaginable? I simply know that what I see before me is not what I expected.

Draco Prime stands before the Throne, both his hide and his axe near breaking point. Yet for all those wounds, his expression has only moved closer to pure elation. The Throne itself is unchanged, the green flames washing across the weathered stone as they have since the world was born.

But what faces them both…

It is clearly…alive…and in some fashion, akin to a hunter…but…I do not have the words…

It looks like it should be dead. Its innards are open to the air through great gashes in its skin. Chunks of that same blackened, once green metal-flesh hang loose…but do I mean metal-flesh? It is…too smooth…yet at the same time lacking the sleekness of a true hunter…almost as if the thing were made from Temple stones. It has claws – clearly, they have to be that. But they are more like great shells, squared off, golden, toothed things that seem far too big to be useful weapons. A long tail arches over the creature’s head, like a stinging-beast’s but as smooth and ruined as the rest of its body. A hooked barb hangs from the tip, on a strand of some kind of black vine. The head itself…horned…damaged…I can see no more. And the scent – something strange mixed with traces of the swamps.

But for all the devastation wreaked on the creature by fire, by axe and by fist, it still moves with some grace, its claws swiping faster than I would have believed possible. As I watch, Draco Prime’s axe lands a glancing blow on one huge arm. The lack of effect makes me wonder if the damage was wrought by the battle. But what else…

There is no time to take all this in. They rush into a destructive embrace, claws locked against axe, metal-flesh against metal-flesh, fury against fury.
“SSSTTTTOOOOPPPP FFFFIIIGGGHHHTTTINNNGGG MEEEE!”
The slurred shout is a mix of howl and scream. Draco Prime matches this as well, with a wordless roar. His shape flows and suddenly the creature is grappling with his other form, all three heads snapping and snarling. No flame. He is more weakened than I thought.

But somehow the foe is able to lift the king from the ground and, as break-flames spit from its arms, slam him back down with bone-shattering force.
“I…keeeeep…trrrryyyyiiinggg…tooo maaakkkee yooouuuu unnnndeerrrrstaaand!”
It – he, I suppose it must be – tries to reach the Throne but Draco Prime fastens onto his thigh and shin, biting almost completely through. He drags the stranger to the floor, third head lunging for his neck. A claw smashes across the advancing skull.
“Plllleeeeeeaaaasssseeeee!”

Why would someone so powerful waste words on trying to halt the fighting?

Draco Prime surges up, the broken head folding back to heal, the others wide open. For a moment, they are both moving too fast to follow, their blows ripping through the air and each other, screaming and raging and tearing and cutting and slicing and howling and smashing and biting and claming and –

“Nargh!”
The foe falls on his side. Draco Prime returns to two legs and raises his axe for the final blow. A claw moves into its path. The blade cuts into the golden skin, grinding through to the joint. The foe raises his head.
“I…toooollldddd…yoouuuu…toooo…stooooppp…”
Draco Prime just bears his teeth.

I…feel something in the air, now. A…sensation of something vast descending on the world. Something…something to change everything. It is not a scent or a sound or a sight or a touch. But…I can feel it.

The foe’s tail twists round his body, seeking, questing. Parts of the tip slide back while others move outwards. Two long tubes, like branches or bones but shaped from…green ice appear. They glow like the sun and then…

And then something like captive sunlight jumps from them. It strikes the king in the chest and throws him aside as if he had been hit by a physical blow. He lands hard and lies unmoving.

The victor rises, ignoring all but the Throne. It seems to me that the flames burn brighter as he stumbles to it, as if they were reaching out to him. They touch and for an instant, my senses are…gone. I am not just blind or isolated, I am completely apart from everything and everyone, as if I have been plucked from my body and dropped into a yawning pit, dragging into nothingness. I scream.

The world returns and I realise it is not me who is screaming. The new king is disappearing beneath a wave of green fire, the Throne’s glory engulfing him. His skin blackens and bubbles, parts of him vanishing as dew before the sun. He is stripped to the bare bone as fast as grass-blades bend in a storm.

But as quickly as he was destroyed, he is rebuilt. New sinews and heart, new muscle and joints. He rises anew, still strange to behold but now formed of metal-flesh, still alien but now carved from the Throne’s glory. Black where he was once green, he steps away, freed from the inferno and gleaming in its light.

Draco stirs. He pushes himself up a little and sees the new ruler. His shoulders slump and contentment flits over his face. In one smooth motion, he rises then falls to his knees, waiting what is to come.

“Hail the king.”
Backstop’s words break the onlookers from their rapture. We kneel too, though we do not bow our heads, and lay our blades before us, watching, expectant.

The king stares at us, looking from one to the next, the Teacher, Shadowfang, Draco and me in turn, with a look of absolute incomprehension.
“What in the universe are you doing?”

Something is wrong here. Something is very, very wrong.

“What are you doing?” he repeats, “Get up!”
We obey, all save Draco who does not move.
“You too! What are you playing at?”

“He is waiting for death.”
The king looks at Backstop, surprised.
“Why?”
“Because he expects it.”
“What?” The king leans down and looks at Draco. “Shouldn’t he be repaired?”
“Re-paired?”
“Yes! Fixed! Healed!”
“But you have defeated him. He does not wish to be healed.”
Again, the look of astonishment.
“But…he is the one I fought? His wounds aren’t…I mean…great Primus…they’re already closing up! How can…nanites don’t work that fast!” He focuses on Draco’s down-turned face. “Stand up for Primus’ sake! I’ve no wish to kill you if your own mechanisms can handle your wounds. GET UP!”

Draco slowly looks up at him, confusion mirrored. He rises, unable to resist the command any longer. The king turns back to Backstop.
“Now, who are you? All of you? You don’t wear any insignia but I somehow doubt you’re Autobots. Are you from one of the expansion squads? Or are you some kind of Autobot group? You’ve clearly adapted to the environment – and enhanced your basic superstructures. How have you been able to accelerate your internal repair so much?”

The Teacher seems flustered by this onslaught of questions.
“I…do not…understand your words. We do not heal fast. Indeed, he heals slowly because he is so big.”
“Heals slowly?” Fresh disbelief. “That is slowly? What the Pit is fast then? And do any of you actually have names or do you just point and say ‘him’ and ‘he’ all the time?”

He doesn’t know who Draco or the Teacher are? This is getting more and more strange.

“Ah. That is Draco. I am Backstop. This is Wolfang and the youngling is Shadowfang.”
“Good. Pleased to meet you. I am Scorponok. And while we are on the subject of basic information, where is this place?”
“The Temple-top.”
“No, no. I mean, what planet? What world?”
“What world, king? It is the world.”
“The world? But…does it have a name?”
“Yes. It is Animatros.”

I have heard that name from the Teacher only once before, long, long ago. Now, as then, he says it with the utmost reverence, speaking as of something powerful and great.

“Never heard of it.”
“King, I do not understand –”
“Stop calling me that!” Scorponok raises a claw in anger. “I am not a king or a…a…” He stares at the vast weapon, mouthing. “What…what has happened to me? Why…what…what?”
At last, some measure of recognition comes to Backstop. He advances and points beyond the king.
“You were embraced by the Burning Throne. I am sorry, I should have remembered. The Throne’s blessing is too much to take in without being disorientated.”

Scorponok looks to the Throne.
“Burning…oh…yes…I remember.” His brow furrows “I…remember…the power source…a pooling of…of Matrix energies. I felt it…calling me…drawing me? But…but the crash…the radiation belts…” A distant look comes into his pale blue eyes. “I was dying! My body had been wrecked! How could I…how could I have…” Now, he looks back at his claw. “This…reformed…my exo-shell has been completely restored and my internals feel…very odd.” A bright scarlet blade springs out from his skin. “And…wait.”

His tail bends down to eye level. It has changed. No longer does it have its dangling barb. Instead, two great spears extend in place of the green icicles, set either side of a patch of hard gold caprice.
“Where…where are my tools?”
He flexes both claws, as if searching for something inside them.
“My…tools…my tectonic sensors, my manipulators, my fabricators…WHERE ARE MY TOOLS! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?”

In a moment, he has gone from bemusement to utter rage. He towers over the Teacher, weapons snapping and lunging instinctively. In a series of hideous twists, he changes into…

I think it must have once been a six-legs…a stinger or a gripper…but like his two-legged form, it is too blocky, too square…and it has no legs. Where they should be are more slabs of grey metal flesh that move like flowing water, pushing Scorponok along as they do so.

A black shape darts across my vision.

Shadowfang leaps at the king, snarling.
“Leave him alone!”
His claws scrape uselessly over his target’s hide. Scorponok catches the youngling on his flank. The strike is remarkably elegant, the motion fluid. Shadowfang is instantly crushed into the ground. The great tail snakes forwards, poised to drive the spears into the trapped four-legs.

“No…”Scorponok’s whisper rings out across the Temple. “No…no, this is not…”
He withdraws, letting Shadowfang rise, and stands on his legs.
“I…apologise…I must be more disorientated than even I think I am…I lost control…I’m sorry.”

More and more, I do not, cannot understand Scorponok. His is a warrior yet he does not wish to fight. He is powerful but does not want to use that power. He has been given a body greater than that of Draco yet he is angered by it.

The king’s gaze sweeps over everything around him.
“Who built this Temple?”
His voice is level and cool, constrained by his will. Backstop shakes his head.
“It is as old as the world. It was not built.”
“Bullslag. Cut and shaped stone, with poly-bond seems, I’d say, weathered but still intact and if I’m not mistaken, some kind of metal skeleton. Hm…and that ‘Burning Throne’ of yours. Matrix energy, spark resonance, internal reformatting, yes, but external as well…”
The voice trails off before suddenly becoming loud and commanding.
“I am going to ask you some questions. I just want you to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Understand?”
The Teacher nods.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, have you ever heard of Cybertron?”
“No.”
“The Decepticons?”
“No.”
“Megatron?”
“No.”
“The Autobots?”
“No.”
“The Great War?”
“No.”
“The Matrix of Creation?”
“No.”
“Primus?”
“No.”
“Prime or Primes?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”

Scorponok frowns.
“So you have never heard of the Matrix but you have heard of the Prime. Intriguing. And not of Primus either. But wait.” He points at Draco. “I got past you and to this Throne. I defeated you and now I’m ‘king’ and you should be killed. Tell me, ‘Draco’, shouldn’t you be Draco Prime?”
“Yes.”
“I was talking to him, not you Backstop.”

Draco looks up, dazed.
“Yes, king.”
“No. No, listen to me. I am not your king. I cannot be. I’ve blundered into this world by utter chance. I come from the planet Cybertron, another world a long way from this one. Well, I think it is. I can’t imagine this planet being close to home.”
“Another world?” Draco breathes.
“Yes. Up there.”
“In the sky?”
“Beyond the sky, among the stars.”
“But the stars are just the reflected fires of the world!”

Suddenly, Scorponok laughs, long and hard.
“Great Primus! I’ve on the planet of the primitives! No, you idiot! The stars are suns, great burning spheres like the one up there now, each with worlds going round them, worlds like this and others completely different! Slag, there’s a whole universe of worlds out there beyond that sky, more than you can possibly count!”
Entranced, Draco’s eyes trace the length of the stabbing claw up to the sky.
“All the stars, suns…worlds without number…like this one and different…”

This is utter madness – it must be!

Or am I the mad one for opposing my senses? I have never seen, smelt or heard anything like Scorponok in all my life. He is alien to me and to the world I know. Accepting what he says as truth would at least clear my confusion a little.

I wonder what another world would be like. Would it hate hunters in the way this one does? Would it be free of creepers and snatchers and earth-screams? Now that must be madness. Those are the things that make a world.

The king who does not want to be king has stopped laughing at the sky.
“If none of you are going to be any help, I suppose I should do my own exploring. Hmm…this not-built’ Temple of yours…” He points a claw at the floor, then mutters something almost inaudible. “Damn. You could have at least left me my structural analysis package. Nothing…hang on…ah!” A faint clicking sound comes from within the weapon. “Traces of some kind of cabling embedded in the stonework. No idea what kind of sensor I’m using but it seems to show this network up fairly clearly. The cables look like they converge…here.”
The slab he touches is no different from any of the others. I move a little nearer and sniff. It smells no different either.

Scorponok traces the outline of the block. With a soft hiss, it rises up out of the Temple. Beneath the stone is some kind of …plant? It’s a mass of creepers but it smells like metal-flesh and there are things that look like eyes entangled in it.
“How did you do that?” Backstop breathes.
“Do you know what a fold-space transmission unit is?”
“No.”
“A resonance pattern inducer?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t bother trying to explain. Now.” With incredible gentleness, Scorponok reaches out and taps one of the ‘eyes’.

A loud grating noise thunders out from behind me. I start, landing on four legs, fangs bared…to face a gaping hole.

One entire corner of the Temple-top has dropped away, leaving a void, a great black maw. This is too much. The Temple is – was – unchanging, stable, solid. But now it is not, it is changing to the will of this alien.

This is not my place. Not my world.

As Scorponok walks to the void, Draco hanging at his shoulder, Backstop and Shadowfang following, clearly curious, I bound away and down the side of the pyramid, jumping tens of steps at a time.

Not my place. Not my world.

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I rejoice as the forest welcomes me back to itself. This is my world. All the same, I do not truly relax until I have returned to my hilltop territory. The broken trees have already been consumed by a layer of new growth. Soon there will be no sign of Scorponok and Draco’s battle to disfigure the land.

I taste the air again, trying to ignore the bitter tang that drifts from the distant Temple. Prey. Close to. I listen. To my left, in the brush…something large or perhaps a group of smaller creatures. No. Definitely one. Many legs though. Something that creeps with hard skin. Not very pleasant or hard to kill but…but I need to hunt in my own territory and feel my teeth sink into metal-flesh if only to drive away all thought of other worlds and alien kings.

Slowly, silently, I steal across the glade. This will be a simple kill. The prey does not register my approach but blindly continues on its way. My claws extend, ready to tear. Closer. Closer. Now.

My muscles launch me into the air, propelling me straight at the many-legs. It is far too slow to avoid me, if it even saw me coming. Its skin gives way before my weapons, break-flames and life-flow bursting forth. The prey squirms in my grip, unable to get free and killing itself quicker with its struggles. Foul liquids spurt onto my fur. I plunge my fangs into its neck, savouring the bitterness, letting it root me –

What was that?

A sound that does not belong. A grinding noise such as the Temple made when it opened.

No. Not here. Not in my lands. I will not allow this.

I rip my teeth from the corpse and sprint deeper into the trees.

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