In Consistency

Internal personal log:

Our attempted conquest of Theta-Quad Valley failed completely. Not because I or my squad screwed up and got sloppy.

Partamer, a go-to-bot of mine, warned me to watch my aft. Smelt it if I didn't think the laser blade in the back might be from Shockwave. Three of my mechs met their deaths at the parameter watch. Myself and eight others stepped straight into a trap. The Autobots almost didn't have to fire a shot.

Shockwave proclaimed Theta-Quad Valley a simple task: surround the valley, set up tri-flare cannons at four positions and declare it Decepticon territory. Even Cylinder, who was negative in the processing department, had the chance to succeed in this mission. Shockwave assured me my underlings and I would find no trouble.

Once we escape the Autobots, I plan to have a... 'spark-to-spark discussion' with Shockwave.

Pacing my small cell only made it smaller. Stripped of weapons, comrades and ego, the best I could do was eavesdrop on the occasional conversation. Autobots came, left, reported and joked as they passed our cells. Backstroke slumped in his cell across the way and silently glowered at everything; even the single mecha-fly that batted against the lighting fixtures. The Autobots discovered they had more prisoners than cells. I did try to convince the Autobots they could just save room and bunk me and a couple of my underlings in one place.

Guess even Autobots aren't that stupid.

"Hey, Major?" that came from Clawsanjaws in the cell beside mine. The... some type of bulldog wannabe, one of my more annoying but brilliant soldiers, liked to talk; especially if he thought it'd irritate me.

"What is it, corporal?" I snarled.

"I'm gonna break outta here, find me some grub an' come back later. I'm bored outta my slaggin' processor."

I searched the ceiling as if it had the ability to give me patience.

Backstroke scoffed. "Keep dreaming, you triple-timed reject."

"Hey!" Clawsanjaws snapped. "Shut your afthole! Nobody either asked or invited you."

"Break out and MAKE me, smeltin' loser!" Backstroke took offense to everything.

"Just give me THREE fraggin' minutes, Backstroke and I WILL!"

"IF YOU TWO DO NOT SHUT YOUR PIPES OFF I WILL PERSONALLY BREAK OUT JUST TO DO SO!"

Rumors about my policies are mostly true. I am one of the toughest generals out there. I put up with nothing and every punk under my feet learns that the hard way. Ganymede expects his squadron and troops to respect and adore him. But he's a throwback model and the punch line of many lewd jokes. I put the fear of Magnus in my troops. I don't say anything I won't do.

"Wooo! Hey, girlie-girl! You comin' in t' serve me somethin' hot?"

Some Autobot idiot thought it cute to send a femme down here to the wolves. My mechs might be under my tight control, but they're still animals. I glowered at the tall femme who paused before my cell, digipad in hand. The 'wolves' continued to howl down the corridor.

"Are you Ultra Magnus?" her voice might be strong and she was certainly built to withstand a good shot. But she was still a she-bot.

"Yes," I answered. "Tell me, who's the short-sighted afthole who sent you down here? You make a nice target and you're upsetting my soldiers-CLAWSANJAWS IF I HEAR ONE MORE SYLLABLE OUT OF YOU I WILL REASSIGN YOU TO PAINTING DUTY FOR THE NEXT EIGHT TURNS!"

The femme glanced left to right when all my Decepticon flunkies shut their traps. She redirected her attention to me, her mandible dropped. She recovered four point nine seconds later and straightened her posture. "We are currently having accommodation technicalities and I've been sent to ask if you would share a cell with one other person."

The left corner of my lip components twitched with bewilderment. "I do believe I made an offer much earlier. It doesn't take a supercomputer to determine number of prisoners verses number of cells. Do... the Autobots have a word for the kind of meta-processor you're using?"

She flinched in front of me. Were I her D.I. I'd give her the lecture of her life about emoting in front of the enemy. NEVER let your enemy know what you're thinking. I stared, baffled by her lack of discipline. "Does your superior officer know you work with the military for a living?"

Understanding my crude remark, the 'wolves' laughed and hooted, egging me on. Once again, Clawsanjaws flapped his lip components: "Get ON it, Major! Kiss his aft, little girl!"

"You check that mouth, Claws!" I snapped. Equally as fast, I looked back at the femme. "Yeah, little droid. You can send that robo-mouth right here, right now!"

She glared. "We're looking for cooperation, Major Ultra Magnus, not a side show."

"HEY!" Claws shouted again, "that's MAJOR-GENERAL, you slag-headed socket!" His comment rallied another round of noise:

"MAJOR-GEN! MAJOR-GEN! MAJOR-GEN!"

Her jaw dropped again this time with offense. She scanned the rowdies then looked to me to control the noise. All I did was shrug. It was her fault.

They elected Timeframe to bunk with me. Timeframe, like myself, possessed the tenacity for exactness. I liked his reports because they were always in order, down to the half-micron. Timeframe also liked to keep busy. When he's not scurrying across the battlefield, penetrating enemy lines for a good scan, he's off to town, looking to do something else-and always more than one thing at a time. Timeframe was my best recon officer. But, like the rest of them, he liked to get under my finish. Outsiders who know nothing about Decepticon culture might mistaken swift and immediate reprimands for abuse.

The femme who called herself Cam, supervised the transfer. I cooperated only because keeping an optic on Timeframe gave me something to do. For him, however, he'll be a bundle of nerves.

The minute the energy lines snapped back into place, Cam and two other Autobots exchanged digipads and signed them. The other two busy bodies departed. Cam and her assistant remained, exchanging a word or two. Then Cam smiled strangely.

"You're not the typical home-grown Decepticon, Major-general," she said. "I think I could almost respect you." I grunted. "I should very much like to get to know you better."

"Oooh!" Timeframe mocked. "She thinks you're cute, Major."

She scowled. "I pity you, Ultra Magnus. There's so much more you could do, so much more you could be than a war criminal. You have so much potential."

"To be sure," I answered patiently. War criminals do not need pity. I refused to listen to the enemy's brand of reasoning.

"Perhaps one day you might change your mind and see things-the world-from a different perspective."

"Let me guess," I returned, "something about a golden age when Cybertron will light up with an unending power source and never again will we need to fight over sources; there will be enough for all." I hate Autobot propaganda. Their self-righteousness oozes like thousand year-old oil with the stench of a substandared refinery. They believe in their own propaganda, too. Their naive assumptions will eventually destroy them. They have-and deserve-no destiny.

She held a steady gaze as if searching for a weakness in my armor. "Say what you will, Ultra Magnus. Either way, someone will no doubt want to speak with you-"

"I don't negotiate with enemies, Corporal Cam. And I'm not interested in anyone preaching to me.

"How about me, cutie pie?" Timeframe interrupted. "I'd like someone to speak with me. Maybe you? And can you take me to the mess hall? How about a tour-"

"Shut up, Timeframe," I growled.

"Awe come on, Major-gen!" my underling whined. "I been sittin' here forever. I gotta have something to do-race around, get some target practice, squish some-"

He did not see me move. My foot plus his face equaled a dented wall. "I SAID stand down!"

With a nervous twitch on her lip components, Cam wordlessly departed. She liked me, but not as a Decepticon. I did not miss the judgment in her expression. She did not understand the amount discipline required to keep Decepticons in line.

For the most part, Decepticons are a collection of undisciplined, unruly savages. Strength, ability and capacity are the factors that determine where a person stands in society. The upper-echelon are composed of those who know how to use their meta-processors and/or those who fight better than most. 'Power flows to the ones who know how,' Megatron once said to me over a flagon of 20-weight.

Often that even means two things: One, the underlings will always test their superiors. Weakness is unacceptable. Two, the same tests often result in social cannibalism; backstabbing, setups and sabotage.

But power is not my interest. My loyalty and concern lies with the people; those who depend on us for guidance and survival. The Decepticons have been trampled on, despised and exiled by the Autobots time and again. The Autobots claim they can't trust us but they have no qualms over betraying whatever trust we have placed in them. They claim they want peace but Decepticons know-in the core of our sparks-that it means peace through Decepticon suppression and slavery.

Not going to happen. You cannot cage a creature who needs to fly, fight and conquer.

And as my luck would have it, I am now slotted to have a 'talk' with some fresh showroom floor model named Optimus Prime. I've only heard of him and now I must concede to his superior tactics. Until recently, Autobot armies have populated the battlefield with ideals rather than weapons. I've even heard their heralds shout propaganda at the Decepticon front lines. "Aren't you tired of always fighting? We are two sides of the same weapon. Come! Lay your weapons down and let's discuss this."

Not on my watch and my underlings know it. I have a good, solid squad under my command. Timeframe has bad manners and Coldstrike has insubordination problems. But I know I can count on them on the field. Recently Shockwave sent me four newbs. Bad, bad timing. I wanted to bench their tinfoil afts based alone on their inability to stand at attention.

I told one newb, Dirge, the only thing he was good for was polishing the underside of an Autobot transport droid. He did not take that lightly and, per my training style, he and I dove into the first lesson.

That lesson, of course, is that his aft is mine and short of blowing himself up, he'll never escape me. I'm tough on my squad, I know. But I will not work or fight with anything less than a crack unit. Not for power or prestige, but for our future.

If only Megatron were more patient.

Some oversized scraphead named Lyonz Paw made a pitstop at our cell. All my mechs sat tense, ready for a brawl. I shook my head the moment two other grease clots joined Paw. Each short thing gripped a Pericles .629 plasma rifle. The Autobots took no chances with us. Maybe they were intimidated by my height.

Lyonz Paw, shorter than me by two heads, nodded in my direction. "I'm off t' guess you're Ultra Magnus," he said with a strong, Northern Pichaken accent.

I stood to face my enemies on equal ground. "Ah. How about that, Backstroke? He's slightly smarter than you are."

"Never better looking, Commander," Backstroke grunted.

Lyonz Paw wiggled his finger toward himself, indicating I was to follow. I trailed after Shorty and kept an optic on my right and left flank. The plasma rifles never relaxed in the guards' hands. Our journey led us through the Autobot base. Several rooms contained injured and recovering wounded. I spotted a well-used map in another room and one more room, with a broken door, stood in silent witness to a heated argument. I did not recognize the mechs and they paid us no attention.

We halted before a set of sliding transparent doors behind which one Autobot sat at a desk and another stood to the side, no doubt reporting. If the mech behind the desk was Optimus Prime, I found all the witness and survivor reports grossly exaggerated.

Lyonz Paw turned and smiled at me. "Today is your lucky day, Decepticon. Our boss isn't here. Instead, you get to stamp it out with Mister Newbie himself, Chief Warrant Officer Prowl. Good luck."

I stepped forward and my two tailgates followed suit. Testing the Autobot guards, I took a stand six yards shy of the officer's desk. He ignored us at first. One digipad followed another, passing through his hands with efficiency and attention to detail. Fifteen minutes later the small slender Autobot lifted his blue optics and beckoned us closer with three waves of his hand.

I refused to move. Captive or not, he was not my superior officer. When Officer Autobot acknowledge my resistance, he rounded the desk and leaned against the front, arms crossed. "Reportedly you are Major-general Ultra Magnus." he waited for my response but if I opened my lip components, he'd hear nothing nice. "Well," continued, "I suppose this means we're not going to be charge mates. Your loss. Care for some energon?"

I tucked my emotions off my face but dipped my chin slightly. "Drinking with the enemy? Does your commander know about this?"

Shorty pushed himself from the desk and from a nearby cabinet, retrieved a flagon of Autobot swill. He downed half of it, returned to his desk and sat. His optics glued to me like a predator.

"If you plan to glean information from me, you'll get nothing," I warned.

He shrugged and finished the swill. "What can you tell me that I don't already know? You're Major-general Ultra Mangus, one of six in line for Megatron's second in-command, even above Shockwave. You're popular among the Decepticons, both on the battlefield and in the arena. You have received a number of accolades for many off-planet missions. You've accomplished many commendable things, even by Autobot standards and yet you are hardly older than Optimus Prime."

I nodded, a little impressed with their military intel. "Well, that still does not make us bunk-buddies. What do you want from me, Autobot?"

"Prowl," he corrected. "And all I want is conversation. You, me, two chairs and the desk."

Scoffing is not my thing; it's a sloppy expression but I failed to keep the huff of disbelief from escaping. "So... rather than waste me-as you should, if you're a professional-you'd rather waste time and energy psychologically analyzing me for weakness? What sort of tactic is that? I'm, I think I'm insulted. And what's with Prime, anyway? Has his cowardice gotten the best of him so that he won't face me in battle?"

"Optimus is not here," Prowl answered matter of fact. "I am. And yes, I have the authority to do with you as I see fit. I could either have you executed outright as the enemy of peace and freedom. Or I could be brutal about it; have you drawn and quartered, impale pieces of your body along the city walls. I could keep your head and mount it on my wall and talk to you on occasion. Oh, you'd still be alive. I can arrange that. But you'd never be able to talk again. You'd be considered a shameful failure among the Decepticons so that they would not even bother to come to your rescue."

"You're lying, Autobot." I growled.

"And then there's your friends," Prowl added. "I could have them scrapped and used to patch up weapons and vehicles and drain their life blood and feed it to our pet sharkticon downstairs."

"Fine!" I snarled. "Let's get started!"

He laughed. The stupid, short-statured Autobot laughed. "Decepticons are always so eager to fight and equally as eager to die to achieve their aim. It makes me wonder: what do you fight for, Ultra Magnus? What cause do you support? Do you have a cause, or do you fight just to fight?"

I measured his question, analyzed his words one at a time, testing for a trap; the hint of a challenge. Maybe the Autobot was trying to gain knowledge by a more personal, subtle means. However, two can take this fight: "I fight against Autobot politics," I finally answered. "I fight against Autobot propaganda and the lies spread across Cybertron."

He turned quiet, even disturbed. "I see. What lies, Ultra Magnus?" he skipped a beat then added: "can I call you Ultra Magnus?"

"Why should I repeat your own words?" I answered coldly. "After all, the phrases and promises originated from your superiors. Unless, naturally, you plan to 'explain' it all to me... use subtle phrases and ideals to teach me about the benevolence of your race and culture and why the Autobots are so much better than the rest of us."

He still stared, still baffled, still surprised by my resistence to his psychological, subversive attack. "You're really bitter about Autobots, are you not? And won't you please have a seat?" he proffered a hand toward the guard on my left. Said Autobot pushed a chair across the floor and set it beside me.

I still passively refused. "All Autobots fear, hate and mistrust the Decepticons. All Decepticons resent, fear and mistrust the Autobots. Why are you so surprised?"

Prowl rounded his desk again, leaned against it and folded his arms. I held his complete attention and I could not decide what to make of it. He measured me with his optics. "Not all Decepticons are the same," he replied evenly. "And neither are all Autobots. The propaganda you speak of, no doubt, comes from politicians and bureaucrats. None of it comes from Optimus Prime."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" I snarled again. "Why are doing this, Autobot? What's your point? Do you plan to preach peace, good will and equality for all? And if we'd just put down our arms and surrender, everything would be bright and shiny? Maybe you're not up to date on current events: Intaguid City was a Decepticon city. Why would we attack one of our own cities?"

"That is exactly why you're here, Major-general. That's exactly what we're trying to figure out-"

"Well, we didn't attack it," I allowed my voice to soften minutely but kept my guard up. "But don't get the idea that we can work together. I am not remotely interested in working with you."

Again he turned silent then reclaimed his chair. "I am... under the impression that you bear a personal vendetta against the Autobots, Ultra Magnus. Were you a prisoner of war at one point?"

Casting my optics left, I ignored the huge map on the wall and all the remarks thereon. I did notice the short conference table before it and a broken chair lying nearby. Deep gouges and dents marred the wall. I frowned. "Let's just say that I have a serious phobia regarding betrayal."

"Fair enough," Prowl accepted. "Just one more thing before we release you, Ultra Magnus:"

Did I hear him correctly? Did he say he was going to release me? I must have flinched, even slightly, because the Autobot's lip components lifted in an equally subtle smile. Very sloppy on my part. Very, very sloppy.

Prowl asked his question: "is your life good? I mean, are you happy doing what you do?"

I stared, dumbfounded. "...what... kind of question is that?"

Prowl shrugged again. "Well, it's just that, one soldier to another, standing on opposing sides, I wonder what is it about being a Decepticon that retains your undivided loyalty."

I had no real answer, even to myself. "I'm just a soldier, Prowl. Nothing complicating."

True to what he said, Chief Warrant Officer Prowl released me and my underlings. Of course the Autobots took no chances; they dumped our afts four hundred miles outside the nearest Decepticon holdout. Still, I gave marks to the short... to the Warrant Officer for keeping his word.

But Prowl left me in a quandary. What was once a simple matter of doing the job, accomplishing the mission to the best of my ability, now became a series of questions. What of Autobot propaganda? What of the Decepticon's own propaganda? What did my job cost someone else? Doubts rotated in my cranium. Questions ran unchecked.

Was I doing the right thing?

Was I on the right side of the war?

Am I really happy doing what I do?

End–for now.