Burnt Bridges: Part 5: Size Matters (Side 2)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Gigalonian’s idea of punishment comes in the form of a pit encircled by a sturdy fence, some little way beyond the mines. Menasor has been shackled to a cliff face opposite an entrance ramp. Every now and then he throws himself forward, trying and failing to break free to the accompaniment of more booming.

Descending into the pit, I keep a healthy distance between the two of us. Chains or not, care is the order of the day around here. My arrival brings a halt to the struggles and Menasor looks at me blankly. I sketch a bow.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The blankness does not dissipate.
“You would be Menasor, would you not?”
He has to think about it by he eventually nods. And then emits a voice. I say emits because it isn’t his voice.
“Who’re you?”
“I am Starscream. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Menasor’s chest explodes. A squat, apish Minicon as grimy as the Gigacon shoots out from behind the massive armour plates. His optic slit, a near replica of his ‘host’s’ flashes angrily.
“I’m Heavyload! Wanna make somethin’ of it, weirdo?”
“Most certainly not,” I beam benevolently, “I merely wished to complement you on your work at the dock.”
Heavyload shoots forward then back again.
“Thanks,” he grunts after straining his CPU.
“Boooom!”
I glance up at the bound dock-wrecker.
“Yess…it was most impressive. Except…”
“Except?” The obnoxious runt thrusts his snout towards me. “Except what?”
“Welll…I do not wish to be judgemental but…I couldn’t help but feel you could have done better in your choice of target. Why did you choose that particular locale?”
“It…went boom?”
How eloquently put…
“I’m sure…but tell me, wouldn’t a bigger bang be more satisfying? After all, why do you want to make things go ‘boom’?”
“Because the stupid Destrons and stupid Buildtrons say we’re reckless! Think we should stop breakin’ things! ‘Cept that’s what we’re good at! So we show ‘em!”
“Make ‘em all go boom!”
“Exactly!” I jab a finger skywards to underline the point. “So the bigger the better! Why bother with piffling docks when you could be, oh, destroying Trypticon himself, say, or the power stations.” I lean conspiratorially closer. “Those would make a really big boom.”

The morons look at each other, practically spelling their thoughts out loud.
“Why should we listen to you?” demands the scraplet.
“Because, for one, I’m willing and able to get your chum out of those chains. And also because I can show you both exactly how to make sure those stupid mechs never try to stop you again.”
Give the people what they want and they’ll follow you to the end of the universe. After another session of laboured thinking, Heavyload nods.
“Right!”
“Show what to make go boom!”
I smile my most welcoming smile. This was almost too easy.
“With pleasure. Believe me, if you do what I say…I’ll show you how to make things go boom in ways you’ve never even dreamt of…”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They say the best plans are the simplest. In my experience, ‘they’ are rarely accurate, yet I cannot say that what I intend to do next is the most complex strategy I’ve ever concocted. Menasor and Heavyload will throw themselves at the central buildings, destroying as much as they can reach. In the confusion, I will…oh, how to put this in technical terms…sneak round the back. Elegant. Yes, a very elegant plan. Now to see if it will work. I think I was able to drum the concept of holding back until my mark into the morons. So long as Heavyload got it, things should turn out correctly. Easy converts tend to be double-edged swords: they are so easily distracted…

Monolithic feet pass my hiding place as one or other of the attendants strolls around the Plaza. There are both Giga- and Minicons in evidence but the latter keep to their warrens and the former are simple to evade. Still, this is probably the closest I will get and remain undetected, this alcove the last cover before the courtyard to the centremost spire. Time to –

I stop, arm half raised. That noise… A distinct double booming sound, echoing over the city. Retrorockets, definitely, but of a very particular type. I look up just in time to see the bronze wedge ploughing across the visible sky. My joints only un-seize once it has vanished from view, leaving only a diminishing rumble.

Autobots. My CPU whirls through the changes this makes to my plans. Withdraw, go on, wait and rethink, try and discredit them before they can cause trouble, push on and get the Key ahead of their interference… I clench my dental casings. It’s far too late to stop now, not with Menasor and Heavyload in the field of play. At the very least, there would be awkward questions about how they got free.

I finish aiming and fire.

The beam of purple fire lances almost straight up. It grazes the edge of the tower, far, far above. Hm. I did want to hit the pinnacle but I suppose that will have to do. Now, any ‘second…

BOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM

Ah. Perfect. The attendants look round, startled. More sounds of destruction draw them away, those quicker on the uptake breaking into a run. And as they go, I make my entrance. Or rather, I fly across the courtyard and use theirs.

Keeping close to the ground, weaving around the bases of no doubt impossibly large sculptures, I race up a hall you could drive a battleship through. There are a few more mechs to avoid but I’m going so fast and they’re so busy worrying over Menasor’s onomatopoeic symphony that no one notices. I keep to the main thoroughfare, trusting my instincts. Overhead led me in from the main entrance on the other side of the tower and we just followed the walkway upwards. Hopefully this side will be exactly the same. The double helix would surely appeal to a Gigalonian…

Ah ha.

The Cog chamber occupies the top twenty or so storeys. Storeys by the Gigacons’ standards. It is filled, appropriately enough, with cogs. A very great many, ranging in size from the miniscule to the massive, all whirring and clicking away, the racket somewhere between a waterfall and an avalanche. It is as if the walls were liquid, bronze melted and fluid. The movement continues across the floor as well, ‘rivers’ breaking the surface into winding paths through the machinery.

And somewhere amongst all this, the Key of Matter awaits.

First though, I will have to deal with the surprised looking Gigacon who’s gawping at my decidedly unannounced entrance.
“Help!” I shout, injecting as much panic as my general feeling of impatience will allow, “He’s coming this way!”
As the surprisingly lanky giant opens his mouth to ask pertinent who, what, why questions, I close a few internal switches and blast him.

The interesting thing about the null ray as a weapon is that no matter how large or small the machine, it almost always has the desired effect. Admittedly, some targets require far more power expenditure to bring down completely but that is only because they have a far greater density of backup systems. It takes five point six seven ‘seconds for lanky to succumb to the crackling sapphire lances and crumple with a loud crash. Whether he’s alive or dead is irrelevant. All that matters is that I can now search in peace.

Hesitating, I scan the chamber, trying to judge which cog could be the ‘Great’ one. It doesn’t take long to determine that just looking won’t be enough. I can’t tell them apart. Fortunately, Soundwave was kind enough to provide a gadget for exactly this occasion.

The black box is just the right size for my hand and, appropriately enough, utterly featureless. It gives a single beep as I hold up, then goes silent. I scowl at it. Don’t tell me I came all this way to find that the damn thing is useless! Given that I haven’t the faintest idea as to what sort of device this actually is, I resort to the decidedly un-intellectual method of shaking it. It beeps again and one side starts to glow. A beam of white light springs forth, rather like a searchlight.
“Calibration complete. Searching.”
Of all the arrogant…only Soundwave would be so crass as to use his own vocal patterns for a user interface.

The searchlight sweeps across the machinery, illuminating each wheel in turn. Bizarrely, some remain lit after the beam has gone on, gleaming as if in direct sunlight, standing out against their dull associates. Slowly, a pattern of sorts emerges. My optics follow the beam, tracing the shapes with a suddenly feeling of exhilaration. With one last flourish, it reveals two vast circlets encircling the whole room and I almost applaud.

The giants enfold the lesser cogs, their stately progress governing that of the entire mechanism. Here, at the core of this city, sits a perpetually turning slice of a god’s heart. One so large that I haven’t just found it. I am standing inside it!

Only the foolish stand around and gape at times like these. The best way to show one’s appreciation of powerful artefacts is to take them and use them as quickly as possible. Soundwave’s box proclaims, “Search complete,” and I rise to greet my new toy. Per the advice given, I press the box against one of the larger facets.

The reaction is instantaneous. The Great Cog – or should that be Cogs? – starts to contract, ripping away from the sides of the chamber, smashing the unlit machinery out of its way. The thunder of destruction is deafening but I cannot block it out. My systems have locked, practically isolating my spark from my shell. Thoughts race through my processors, crazed fears of traps and arcane defences. Have I made a terrible mistake? Was all the Gigalonian’s openness a façade? Has this quest brought me to my death?

The Cog collapses towards me, towards the box. In moments it has dwindled to roughly twice my height, then to it, then further. Somehow it avoids crushing me, reshaping with disturbing subtlety. Then a set of prongs punches out from the lower curve, nearly impaling me. All at once, the paralysis has fled and I am left looking at a golden disc as tall as my forearm.

The Key of Matter.

Eagerly, I stow the box and take hold of the disc with both hands, lifting it up so that I may better admire it. A shock of power runs down my arms, followed by another and another. The cogwheels now decorating its surface start to spin anew, stately at first then faster and faster. Strange sensations surge through my armour, as if I were being drawn out in all directions at once. Abruptly I realise that the chamber itself is shrinking around me! All my earlier fears return full strength. Except… It is not my surroundings diminishing. No… The change is in me.

I am getting bigger.

Not extending as one might during transformation but magnifying, my body doubling, trebling, quadrupling in size. The sheer impossibility of this is as dumbfounding as that of the new components bursting into existence inside me, motivators and power units meant for a far bigger mech jostling for space inside my superstructure. My wings scrape against the edges of the tower, a jolt of reality amid the fantastic.

Mass shifting. That is what this is. Mass shifting on the scale that Metroplex is capable of. In stealing the source of his authority, it would appear I have also stolen his abilities. The Key itself seems to have become integrated into my torso, coming to rest somewhere near my rapidly enlarging laser core.

It occurs that that is precisely the sort of thing that happens to any newly ordained Prime. It also occurs, roughly at the same time that my upper body explodes out into the open air, that this could be very useful indeed.

Engines fit for a star-ship carry me out of the crumbling spire, downdraft pulverising the floors below. I flex arms long enough to embrace Goldmount and make fists with hands the size of shuttles. The raw, brute strength of this scale… In the spirit of investigation, I grasp the top of a nearby skyscraper and pull. Steel and stone break as easily as straw.

To say that I feel intoxicated would not be an overstatement. I find myself laughing with joy, revelling in the influx of substance. It is as if I were somehow more real than I had ever been before, more solid, more certain in a way that just existing could not compare to. On a whim, I splinter another building, watching in amusement the panicked scattering of the Minicons it had contained, now more than ever insects beneath my feet –

Snap
Hiss
Zzzzzzaaaaaaammmm

“OWWWW!”
Stinging pain caresses my shoulders. I whip round – taking several architectural features with me – and face my attacker.

Six Gigacons are running towards me, led by a bright orange mech. They are holding a variety of dangerous looking implements, except for the leader whose entire right arm is some kind of drum arrangement. He aims this in my direction and it splits lengthwise, disgorging a blast of electricity. This cascades down my torso, renewing the hurt.

I snarl.
“Well, well, well. Some spinal strut at last. I know you, don’t I? Quickmine, wasn’t it?” He fires again. This time I block the lightning with a hand. “How inventive of you. But I’m afraid that while this may be perfect for electrolysis, to me it’s a minor irritation.”

My jet-mode blasters, now as big as my jet-mode, rotate in their abdominal sockets and open up. The deadly hail smashes Quickmine from his over-sized feet. His friends return fire with heavy-duty lasers. I laugh again, this time incredulously.
“Attacking me with tools. Ingenious. But flawed.”
I weave through the badly aimed shots, amazed at how manoeuvrable I have remained. A right hook downs someone who looks like an oilrig with legs, while another salvo finishes off a mech with far more arms than he can possibly know what to do with.
“You are not soldiers and those do not make very good weapons.”

It’s pathetic. The fools simply do not understand how to fight, especially at close quarters. It takes no time at all to instruct the other three in the art of the humiliating defeat. Leaving them lying atop a few former high-rises, I elevate, preparing to take my leave. I have, after all, got everything I came for and considerably more besides. And I won’t even need to worry about waiting for a ship to get me home, not now I’m running on two of the Keys. A brief pause is all I need to decide that seeking out Menasor and Heavyload would be a waste of time. Perhaps if I had not been quite so upgraded they may have been useful but now, well…I’ll leave their boom-booms to fade into the distance, along with the explosions and the engines.

Hold on. Engines? Jet engines?

Five aircraft streak overhead in a tight delta formation. I recognise them at once. Optimus Prime’s quintet of knock-offs – wannabe Seekers built from stolen technology. Bah. So much for departing before the Autobots could interfere.

They bank and release their payloads. A completely futile exercise. The bombs’ detonations are as the pattering of raindrops. I return fire with an arm rifle that would not be out of place stood on its end in the middle of a modern human city. Regrettably, my aim is completely ruined by the torpedo that explodes against my head.

Recovering my balance, I look around for the perpetrator, with a view to returning the compliment. Absurdly, I find myself facing a blindingly white craft apparently driven by clockwork and a set of sails. With both a sizable deck gun and a glowing torpedo tube aimed in my direction.
“What are you supposed to be?”
In one fluid motion, it unfolds into a regal and (relatively) tall mech. He draws a broad, translucent sword.
“I stand as protector of that which you defile!”
The appropriate phrase here is, I believe, ‘blank stare’.
“Really? How nice for you. And I must say that is quite an impressive weapon you have there. But this is a real sword.”

My blades whirl from their storage with so much force that I have to fight for balance. As I lock them into my gauntlets, the ‘protector’ leaps at me, sword swinging. He’s fast. Very fast. Even so, it takes a great deal more speed to dodge a klick-long piece of sharp, tempered silicite.

So he doesn’t doge it. He goes straight through. The succeeding events are rather confused but the upshots are two fold. The sword plunges into my shoulder, causing far more discomfort than it should be able to. And my attacker is subsequently sent tumbling away, propelled by a pile driver of suddenly extruded armour.

Well, well, well…matter reconfiguration… I retract the plates with a thought and a grin. Now this…this could be fun. For instance, as I swing to smash a now decidedly unimpressive Superion, I snap out a few sizeable spikes. Again, I can’t help but laugh. Another shape whips past my optics, something red and winged.

Oh, how perfect…

“Prime.”
The dreaded Autobot leader hovers there, small as life. He stabs a finger at me, a midge gesturing at a leviathan.
“Stand down Starscream.”
“Now.”
To my left, the rather less tiny shape of Trypticon rises, mass-shifting so that he can nearly look me in the eye.
“AND RETURN THE COG!”
Tidalwave, to my right, flying up from the harbour, shaking the towers with his downdraft.
“Or face the consequences.”
Metroplex completes the encirclement, my equal in height carrying staff in hand and an expression of disappointment on his face. I look from one to the other. And my grin widens.
“The ‘consequences’? My dear Metros… I am now big enough to squash the great Optimus Prime between finger and thumb. Trypticon over there is little more than a glorified ground-pounder. Tidalwave may be vicious when roused but he’s hardly a seasoned warrior. And you? You were voted into power on the basis of your skill as an architect! That’s only one up from being given the Matrix because you can colour in pretty pictures! Now that I can do things like this” – I concentrate on my left hand blade and reshape it into a fission cannon – “the only consequences will be the ones you will be facing!”
That being a more than passable comeback, I punctuate it with a blast of ripped matter.

Metroplex catches it with the head of his staff, turning it aside. At this signal, the others spring into action. Trypticon’s super-sonic punches are easy to avoid but Tidalwave takes the opportunity to leap at me, arc-welded fingers blazing. As he scores several long scorches, Optimus begins to pepper me with ion-bolts. This damage is as superficial as it is irritating.

The ensuing struggle puts paid to what was left of the north corner of the plaza.
“VANDAL!” the aquatic artisan roars, “DESTRUCTIVE WRETCH!”
I clamp hold of his crest and twist. I would have done more but Trypticon chooses that moment to jump onto my back.

Slamming on the retros, I pirouette as fast as physically possible. It doesn’t exactly loosen his grip but it does turn him into a very efficient flail with which to batter Tidalwave.

A touch belatedly, it crosses my mind that Metroplex has yet to join the tête à tête.

He aims low. Trypticon at last lets go as the staff slashes into my legs, the blow powerful enough to knock me to the ground.
“Ooof!”
A ‘second passes and the staff whistles back the other way, the razor tips of the collapsed buckets cutting across my exposed chest. To compound the indignity, Metroplex then plants one mammoth foot atop the sparking wound.
“As a people,” he tells me, leaning closer, “we look for the best in others. Paranoia is a poison we can do very well without. But don’t mistake that for being incapable of defending ourselves, nor believe that we have never had to do so before.”
I look up at his stern face, wondering quite how to break this to him.
“Oh, sure. Tell me, Metros: ever had to fight someone with your powers at their disposal?”

What I do next is a little difficult to describe. There are some organic creatures that can shed their skins. Now, with the Key’s help, I can achieve something similar. Only much more explosive. The result carries Metroplex into the air, flight aided no end by a few missiles. He manages to lash out with his staff’s bucket end but I’m already moving to a more appropriate orientation. Hurtling upwards, I reach him as his course hits its apex. I drive my fists into his chest.
“Going down!”
Ouch. Did I just say that? Only over-revved drones spout such nonsense and they are about as far beneath me as Metroplex is now. I don’t go after him.

A quick withdrawal to the accompaniment of a shower of null-beams would be the sensible reaction to this situation. After all, no need to take risks. I accelerate towards space. Optimus comes after me, raking my retreating form with turbo-laser fire. Hm. I suppose there is one thing worth stopping for. Flipping over, I aim the fission cannon. A wide-angle blast should at the very least send him plummeting into painful and undignified stasis lock…

An image to savour in idle dreaming only. The Autobot cruiser in the small of my back is enough to prevent its realisation. Getting tired of having to right myself, I do so again, thankfully before demolishing yet more of the city. Checking the current landscape, I find myself temporarily alone, having halted some distance from the Plaza. Sensors ping and whistle as several large objects head in my direction. How annoying. Leaving is turning out to be far harder than I first –

Clang

Something lands on my shoulder. A number of somethings. I reach up to brush at whatever they are. And they avoid me.
“Urgh!”
Minicons! Slagging Minicons! The noxious little scraplets are swarming down my arms, crawling across my armour with magnetic ease.
“Get off!”
I thrash, clawing or throwing them off. Overhead’s there, alongside Highrise and hundreds of others. To my horror, I feel more land on my legs and back. Some of them start battering away against my head, even at my face. One crawls onto my optic and I nearly tear the thing out trying to get him off.

I’d have shed my ‘skin’ again except that there’s a bloom of agony inside of my right knee and things go very wrong. Spikes are being driven into my body from all angles, into every joint and seam and vent. The severity of the situation hits me just as painfully.

I’ve got a great deal bigger. So must the weak points in my armour. Weak points that someone with senses like Overhead’s would be able to find with ease. And it’s too late to do anything about it.

The spikes erupt randomly. Some go off one after the other, some simultaneously. All over my body, explosions rip through to my insides. To add to the torture, the Gigacons and Autobots burst onto the scene, assorted weapons blazing. Electricity, plasma, lasers, bolts, rivets, mining charges, fire-fog, harpoons, grenades, ATA missiles – the barrage is as varied as it is unending.

I scream.

Then, suddenly, I’m shrinking. I drop through the smoke and light of the onslaught like a broken lift, everything rushing upwards. The Key bursts free of my chest, star bright.

No. NO! Not now! I will not let my life end like this, atomised by a bunch of menial labourers, my prize fleeing to those unworthy of it! I WILL NOT LET IT! My flailing hands catch hungrily at the disc. I eagerly drag it back, clutching it to me. I deserve this! It is mine! Mine by right of daring and intellect and ambition! They are nothing! Fools following archaic ideals that mean nothing! This can never be theirs! It is mine! MINE!

KKKKKKKKAAAAAAAHHHHHHZZZZZZZZOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM

I scream again as my power plant goes into a state far beyond overdrive. In a supernova of fire and thunder, I escape. Sideways.

Not upwards and away to the safety of space. No. Sideways.

Only blind dumb luck stops me colliding with a building or a giant. Before I can think anything else, I’m in the sea. My engines cut out.

Spluttering, I fight my way to the surface, forcing my battered frame onwards. There’s a way off this planet. The docks. I have to be near to where those ships were moored. Just have to get there and –
“You go boooom!”

Universe, I hate you.

Menasor looms above the beach. He looks even filthier, if such a thing were possible, than he did earlier. One of his drills has been bent. Oh, frag it. Time to make the best of things.
“Get me to the ships!” I shout up at him.
He looks back, uncomprehending.
“The ships! Big, gold things! That fly! THE THINGS TIDALWAVE MAKES!”
That seems to get through.
“Tidalwave’s things. Yeah. Come.”
The bent drill is thrust down at me. I flinch back then realise he means for me to catch hold. I do so, finding a relatively clean patch.

We lumber off along the shore.
“Faster!” I yell at him, “We have to hurry!”
The lumber becomes a skating run, the Destron’s treads carrying us along at a decent turn of speed. Soon the golden ships come into view, a sight for aching optics.
“Get to one that’s finished! Quickly!”
“Then you show how to make things go really booom?”
Of all the stupid, moronic, shot-headed…
“Yes, then I show you how to make things go really boom. Now move it!”

It won’t be long before the rest of the city comes after me. I look around wildly.
“That one!”
I point and Menasor veers in the right direction. A wall of metal arches over us. The entrance hatch is open, the jetty unguarded.
“Take me in there! And close the door behind us!”
Brakes offering up a deafening protest, he skids across the threshold and we slow to halt in a cargo bay of the now-usual huge/massive/giant proportions. Heavyload leaps from his cupboard and sprints for a Minicon-sized control panel.

I extricate myself from the drill.
“Now, we have to find the control –”
“What are you doing in here?”
A Gigacon fills a hatchway at the far end. I look at him, then at my gargantuan associate. Remarkably, playfulness starts to tickle my processors.
“Menasor. Kindly make this gentlemech go boom.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bridge, or what I assume is the bridge, sits at the top of the ship’s raised rear section, overlooking the majestic sweep of its hull and is filled with equipment that is either too big or too small for me to use. Damn it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so permanent in my dealing with the Minicons working in here. My holomatter construct could operate the controls but without knowing which are the right ones…

I stop and press the fingers of one hand to my optic-ridge, a fleshling gesture that I’ve found to be surprisingly therapeutic. I am holding the Key of Matter. The last thing I need top worry about is which controls do which.

One mental exercise later and I have been furnished with a Cybertronian interface and, as an after thought, a correctly scaled seat. I had intended to enlarge myself again but I can’t seem to make that happen, despite being able to rework the ship’s molecular fabric with ease. More experimentation needed.

I make haste to power up the anti-gravity drive. The signs of pursuit are now fast approaching, the Aerialbots and their clockwork chum followed by their ship and Tidalwave. Across the ground come Metroplex and Trypticon at the head of a mob of extremely angry looking mechs. Hotchpotch artillery is already bouncing off the meteorite annihilation screens. They are no doubt going to try their hands at surrounding and boarding tactics. In moments, there will be no opening for the ship to get through. But then, moments are all one should ever need.

It is a bad idea to open fold-space windows inside a planet’s atmosphere. Of course, theoretically there’s nothing to stop one doing it, but there are a couple of factors that make it inadvisable. The gateway, once opened, will be affected by gravity, dragged away from the point one was aiming at. Understandably, this can complicate transference. Further, the impact on the atmosphere in question tends towards catastrophic.

I keep these cheering thoughts in mind as I punch the correct sequence to open an aperture directly overhead. With a disorientating lurch, time and space momentarily contract…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

…and with an equally jarring transition, a star-specked waste replaces the harbour.

Most impressive. Far, far swifter than the drives on any of my homeworld-built craft. You know, I think I’ll keep this one.
“Where are we?” a scratchy voice demands.
I look down to find Heavyload leering at me.
“On course for a rendezvous with my subordinates. Have our…unwanted passengers been dealt with?”
On cue, a distant ‘Boom, boooom!’ echoes through the ship, followed by a faint crunch. The Minicon snickers.
“Oh, yeah…”
“Excellent. Why don’t you go and help him clear up. I need to…collect my thoughts.”
He grunts and leaves.

I run a few diagnostics and wince. Major stress on all systems, armour integrity down by a fair chunk, burns and rips all over the place. Still, nothing a long soak in a repair bay won’t cure and, all things considered, a small price to pay for what I have achieved.

Leaning back in the chair, I hold the Tertiary Key up to the light, relaxing in the savouring of the victory. My dear Soundwave, forgive me for ever doubting you. The shear, unbridled, unmatched power of this object…and that of the Spatial Key…

Imagine, just imagine what the others could be capable of.

Imagine what miracles they could perform.

Imagine what they could do together.

Imagine the dreams they could make reality

Imagine my dreams made reality.

All my goals, all my designs, brought about just like that.

The might of the creator. At my fingertips.

Deep in space, alone save for a pair of expendable dullards and a ship the like of which has never graced a Decepticon battle fleet, I smile.

I can imagine that. I can very easily imagine that.

Two down. Three to go.

And then…

And then…

And then we shall see, won’t we?

Hm…

I wonder what being a god will feel like…







Transformers and associated characters are owned by Hasbro