There was a cold wind blowing across the Tagon Heights as the young Decepticon trudged towards company headquarters in answer to his creators’ summons. Out on the construction site, his fellow workers – many of whom were his siblings, built by the same creators – were gathered around the radio, speculating wildly about the emergency bulletin coming over the airwaves. Supposedly Polyhex had recently lost contact with Megatron’s flagship, the vessel in which the Emperor and his hand-picked crew had flown in pursuit of the Ark: the Autobots’ last-ditch mission to find more fuel for their starving troops. Not that long ago, speculation had been high that the war was nearly over. Now, the Decepticon Empire faced the very real possibility that both factions might be rendered leaderless while the war raged on.

From the tone of voice that had come over his comm-link, the young builder had no time to worry about Megatron’s fate, whatever it might be. His own fate was much more pressing.

A large luminescent sign hung glowing over the front door – a Decepticon insignia wrapped in the chain of a wrecking ball, symbolizing his father’s alt mode, with the boom of a crane protruding between the points of the symbol, a nod toward his mother’s alt mode. He let out a bitter sigh and pushed the doors open, making his way towards his parents’ office.

He rapped on the door. “Come in.” Two voices, male and female, speaking as one. Both were cold.

He pushed the door open. Two desks faced him, his father on the left, his mother on the right, seated with hands folded.

“We’re very disappointed in you,” his mother began.

“You have cost this company more than you are worth,” his father said, holding the spreadsheets of profit and expenditure that proved his statement.

He felt the anger rising in him, hot and choking, at the unfairness of his situation. “That’s because I’m not suited to this sort of work! Haven’t I always said …”

“As a creation of Monolith Construction Inc. you were designed and built to exacting specifications,” the patriarch Brickbat said. “I should know … I created those designs.”

“Then you shouldn’t be so surprised if I wreck things,” he retorted. “You’re the one who built me with destruction in mind.” He gestured towards the shovel he wore like a shield on his right arm. His alt mode was a truly massive bulldozer, capable of driving straight through reinforced fortifications.

“Don’t take that tone with your father,” said his mother, Duracrete. “He’s a wrecking ball – he knows full well that destruction has its place. My concern is more with your complete ineptitude at building. You’ve had more training than any of your siblings and yet an apprentice with a month’s training shows more skill than you.”

He bit down on his teeth. It was true. He had no ability with his hands, and the way in which his siblings fit girders and bolts and sheets of metal together into buildings was a mystery to him. For the first year of his life, he had ignored the poor results he was getting from his labours; then, after several discipline sessions, he had struggled to the best of his ability, vowing to please his parents at any cost—and finally, when even days and nights of nothing but study and practice failed to produce significant results, he had persevered as best he could, choking down a rising fury at the situation where he found himself shackled.

The repercussions of his work difficulties had spread out into other aspects of his life. The friends who had kept him company in his youth faded away as he fell out of touch from his long days and nights of study. His siblings, who had at first attempted to help him, began to avoid him for fear of sharing their creators’ disapproval. All his close relationships, his hobbies, his outside interests had been sacrificed in the name of earning his parents’ esteem, and he had failed. As his wrath grew, so did his propensity to take out his anger on those around him, and before long he did have an outside interest—namely getting into fights with his fellow employees. Fights which, more often than not, he won.

He felt that anger now, though he dared not strike his creators. “Then,” he said, teeth gritted, “why don’t you let me do something which I am suited for?”

“Work outside Monolith? Inconceivable!” Brickbat leaned forward, optics narrowed. “In ten generations none of our family has ever left the company! I would take you out of this existence myself before I would display our shame and your failure to the rest of the Empire!”

“What do you think you are suited for, then?” Duracrete taunted.

He won only some of his fights due to his brute strength. His dozer mode was formidable, but it was not his only asset. His mind, though he could not force it to think in practical terms of fitting prongs into slots, was good at predicting possibilities. He had the cunning to guess his enemy’s move before he made it, to put himself in a position to counter and press his own attack. This intuition now told him that his creators’ patience with his bungling attempts at construction was at an end, that he could not defeat the two of them at once in combat, and that his best opportunity for survival was to make himself valuable to the company in a way that did not involve construction.

“If I were you, I would consider improving Monolith’s security,” he said to his mother. “With the Ark vanished into space, the Autobots will be desperate for fuel and supplies. It’s entirely within reason that they could target Monolith projects as possible sources for their own materiel. I offer – with good evidence – that I have the ability to assist in the defence of our company’s sites.”

“You want to be a security guard?” his father said with disgust.

He shrugged. “You’ve already said I’m not suited for building. I agree. Nor would I bring shame on this family by seeking employ outside Monolith. Let me use the skills I do have for your benefit.”

His creators looked at one another and frowned … but they nodded.

He was good at his job, and after a few vorn on the job he was the head of Monolith’s security. His office wall was covered with the mounted heads of scavengers, Autobot saboteurs, and criminals who had attempted to prosper at the expense of Monolith. While he received no commendations from his creators, he learned to see the wall as its own reward. There, before him, was the proof that he was not a failure, that there was an area in which he could excel.

His success earned him some respect from the other Monolith employees – even some grudging acceptance from his siblings – but he had no use for those who had scorned him during his time of trial. He was seen most often in the company of a mechanical animal, some sort of felinoid predator that he must have tamed during his long patrols in the dark hours. The creature shared his living quarters and kept him company in the security ops-center when he was on duty. It also brought down more than a few thieves and Autobots itself, earning its keep.

He saw no need to volunteer the information that his animal companion was, in fact, a sentient Transformer, nor that she was a part of the Decepticon Intelligence Network. He did not share how they had met – he knew, and she knew, and that was sufficient. They held their silence, and permitted the rest of Monolith to make the presumption that he was the one who had named her Howlback.

They were a strange, silent and deadly pair – the tall assault dozer, brass metal trimmed with white paint, and the cobalt cat who followed him everywhere. In time, the news of their Wall of Heads became common knowledge in the Tagon and there was much less work to be done, for only the suicidal or the desperate attempted to attack Monolith’s construction sites. Monolith’s prodigal son had won for himself a life that was comfortable, if not entirely fulfilling, and he might have continued so had not a messenger from the Emperor arrived one day at Monolith.

“Requesting permission to deliver datapad to Monolith executives Duracrete and Brickbat.” The messenger saluted, then waited to be cleared through the security checkpoint.

The security chief frowned. Those were his creators’ names. “Show me the datapad.”

The messenger complied. Monolith’s security chief pressed the button on the side to activate it and review the contents.

TO DURACRETE AND BRICKBAT, PROPRIETORS OF MONOLITH CONSTRUCTION INC:

EMPEROR SHOCKWAVE HAS DECREED THAT EVERY FACTORY OR FAMILY WITH TWENTY CREATIONS OR LESS SEND ONE BATTLE-READY ROBOT (MECH OR FEMME) TO DARKMOUNT FOR TRAINING IN THE IMPERIAL ARMY.

It was followed by an Imperial Seal for authentication purposes.

Primus. His creators weren’t going to like this, weren’t going to be happy about having to spare one of their magnificent creations from the construction sites or assembly lines to be thrown into the carnage of war. Sometimes fate made it too easy.

He input his signature into the datapad and handed it back to the messenger, who nodded brusquely and held forth a second pad, this one containing joining orders.

From there, the rest of it was simple. He called his second-in-command to come to the op-center, where he informed her that she’d just been promoted to Monolith Construction Inc.’s head of security. She was young, but she was capable and he had trained her well. He left the op-center for the last time, never once looking back, and headed for his small personal quarters in a separate building at the edge of the complex. Untouchable, he thought, his creators would not even house him in the same quarters as the construction personnel.

It didn’t take him long to pack the battered rucksack he pulled out from under his recharge bunk. Security chief, and still most of his possessions were hand-me-downs from his siblings in construction. For a brief moment, it disturbed him that the sack was only half full. Was his life really so empty, that he had so little worth taking along?

He stepped outside and whistled for Howlback. Moments later, he saw the lithe cobalt form bounding across the rocks, running to his side. He could not fail to smile.

“We’re heading somewhere better,” he told her.

“You convinced your creators to release you?”

He showed her the datapad.

“Ah. Ah, I see,” she mused, “we will go to Polyhex Watch Central.”

“Says here I’m supposed to report in at Darkmount’s left gate.”

“To be a grunt private? A waste of your time and skills. You should be a unit commander – you’ve got the experience.”

“And you’ve got the contacts to make it so?”

“I have a few.” She squinted, her golden optics narrowing in a feline smile. “I will also need to effect my own transfer to Polyhex, arrange for another agent to replace me here.”

“Well then.” He slung his cannon across his back, picked up his rucksack. “Let’s get on with our futures, then.”

There was no one that he considered worth saying goodbye to, but today the thought brought no sorrow. He looked down at the quadruped figure padding along by his side, realized the one that mattered to him was coming with him.

Warfare agreed with him.

While many of his fellow drafted recruits were struggling to find a place for themselves in the ranks of the Imperial Army, Monolith’s prodigal son took to his new role as though he’d been designed for it. His fighting skills and tactical cunning coupled with the experience in leadership he’d gained from heading Monolith’s security division made him a rising star. He was fast-tracked to corporal, entered his first battle as a squad leader.

When he made sergeant, he was given a platoon of his own to command. Their liaison with Darkmount headquarters was none other than Howlback. He settled into another life of comfort and self-satisfaction, free from his creators’ constant disapproval, and in time his prowess promoted him to the top of his brigade.

He enjoyed being a field commander, and because he enjoyed his work he had no ambitions above his station. He was doing something he was good at – the line of brands across his upper chest was proof of that, each mark a medal for accomplishment in battle. He had given up on attempting to impress his family, had learned to impress his fellows instead.

And yet, there was a distance … something that kept his friendships casual, his relationships shallow. Perhaps the only thing he had successfully built was this barrier that allowed others only so close and no farther, or perhaps it had been built for him by Monolith long ago. At any rate, it added to his command presence and sense of mystique, even if it kept out most forms of emotional intimacy.

Save Howlback. When his fellow commanders were laughing over intoxicants or putting the moves on attractive partners, Monolith’s prodigal son could be found in his private quarters with the cobalt blue form of Howlback curled up on his lap, softly stroking her head.

Sometimes fate made it too easy.

Glacis, warlord of Uraya, was a warrior of courage and strength. When she advanced onto the field, the Autobots trembled, knowing their weapons could not defeat her. It was only when they went off-world, brought back a new superweapon, and fired a projectile loaded with deadly crystals into Glacis’ left optic that the Warlord of Uraya fell.

The alien weapon had to be destroyed. The prodigal son of Monolith knew that with any luck, there was only one – with any luck the Autobots would not be able to replicate or acquire another. The commander on his right flank was overcome with concern for his Warlord. He stayed by Glacis’ side, supporting her, but leaving his troops leaderless. They held their position but did not advance. The commander on his right flank appeared to be paralyzed with fear – she had seen what the strange superweapon had done to Glacis and had no intentions of being its next victim.

So, it fell to him. Roaring a battle cry, he led his army forward.

The Autobots leveled their strange weapon right at him. As if in slow motion, he pivoted, presented the wide scoop of his bulldozer shovel that formed a shield on his right arm. The deadly crystals lanced into the scoop, scattered, flew back out at the Autobots. They dodged. He raised his multi-barrelled cannon in his left hand and fired. The Autobot weapon exploded, sending him flying backwards and into an outcropping of rock, knocking him unconscious.

When he woke up, the battle was over. Two soldiers helped him to his feet. He was ready to ask if the Decepticons won when Howlback approached.

“The Autobots are in retreat. Their weapon is destroyed. Glacis has perished, and by assent of the field commanders, for your leadership in this battle you are now Warlord of Uraya.”

He sat at the table along with his fellow warlords and briefly wondered how he – a failed construction worker – had managed to come to this chair. His gaze swept around the table, analyzing his peers.

Thunderwing, Hereditary Lord of Valckasta. Became warlord upon the death of his father. Held the position through three coup attempts until he convinced his citizens that he was worthy of serving as their Warlord. It was generally agreed that Thunderwing would be the best Emperor out of their number, but in the vorn since Megatron went missing, he had not made any move to ascend the throne. Thunderwing had a strange fascination with occult lore and ancient mythology, and he passed most of his free time in pursuit of his strange research.

Straxus, Lord of Tarn. Allegedly ascended to power upon the mysterious murder of his predecessor. It was common knowledge that Straxus had, in fact, arranged that murder, and either cowed or coerced his fellow Decepticons to accept his rule. It was also common knowledge that Straxus’ ambition was as limitless as his greed and his cruelty. He had the ability to inflict great damage on the Autobots, but Monolith’s expatriate son believed that if Straxus were to become Emperor, he would inflict harm on the Decepticons as well.

Lavasteam, Lord of the Hellpit Territory. The position had been held by Lord Jhiaxus until only a few vorn ago, when Jhiaxus and most of his mechanisms had vanished into space on a desperate mission not unlike that of the Ark. Fah. If Cybertron meant so little to him, then let him go. Lavasteam was still consolidating her rule, having defeated five other contenders to earn the throne. She was too busy at home to have designs on the Empire.

Colossus, Lord of Vos. Before Megatron and his elite troopers vanished into space along with the Autobots’ Ark, Starscream had challenged the former Warlord of Vos to a duel, and won by killing his opponent. It hadn’t taken long for Starscream to bore of the tasks of running a city, and he quickly returned to his post as Air Commander. Colossus had simply stepped into the vacancy that Starscream had left, and, upon Starscream’s disappearance, took up the title of Warlord of Vos in earnest. Colossus was able but unrefined, a rough mechanism who did not understand the diplomacy needed of an Emperor. Just as well that Colossus preferred to hunt turbofoxes through the Silicate Wastes than pursue further power.

Mori, Lord of the Lower Realms. The other warlords knew little about Mori save her dislike of the surface world. She appeared when summoned, carried out her duties, and vanished back into the weird subterranean world from which she came. Thunderwing seemed to like her. The rest of the warlords, while they told themselves they could probably best her in one-on-one combat, were nevertheless disturbed by the reek of death she carried with her, enhanced by her sepulchral manner and her eerie alt mode, a soundless hover-hearse. Even the Cobalt Sentries could uncover nothing about Mori’s origin or activities, but in the strange societies below the surface, Mori’s word was law. He secretly thought Mori could conquer the Empire if only she were to want it.

And there was him. He knew that the other warlords considered him the Empire’s premier spymaster. It was a ruse. The infamous Cobalt Sentries spy network that had co-opted even Shockwave’s intelligence service was headed by Howlback, not by him. However, it suited both their purposes if the other Decepticons considered Howlback merely one more Cobalt operative and mistook him for the head spy. If any of the other warlords made plans to move against him, he would know. The fact that he would know through Howlback was irrelevant. The two of them had been together too long, trusted one another too deeply, for political machinations to tear them asunder at this point. Howlback’s greatest interest was the welfare of the Empire, and her second greatest interest was the well being of her sole friend. He did not fear that she would be tempted by wealth, companionship, revenge – her passions ran cold.

He thought now about his fellow warlords. Shockwave was not a visionary leader and everyone knew it, including Shockwave himself. Shockwave’s assignment was to oversee Cybertron in Megatron’s absence. This, he had done, and done well. But Megatron was lost in space and there was no indication that he would be back any time soon. The Empire was getting restless. Shockwave had kept them more or less in a holding pattern since Megatron had vanished, neither gaining nor losing territory, neither suffering great losses nor achieving great victory. In the mind of the Tagon’s son, stasis was as sure a death for the Empire as defeat.

Ever since he had become a Warlord, he had waited for Thunderwing to make his move on the throne and every vorn Thunderwing did not, apparently content for the meantime with his holdings in Valckasta. Now, the Cobalt network had told him that Straxus was growing rash and impatient, and that he was laying down preparations to have Shockwave assassinated to clear the way for his own rise to power. He had no doubts in his mind that Straxus as Emperor would be a disaster—the maniac would kill countless good Decepticons himself, and send countless more to die in foolish conflicts while he indulged his own bloody whims. Tagon’s expatriate son had heard of the death counts in Tarn’s gladiatorial arena, and each of those kills marked a Decepticon who could have met a better death in battle against the Autobots. And Straxus was not a strategist; he preferred brute force, and if that meant sending wave after wave of soldiers against the Autobots’ cannons, then so be it.

Outside in the street, the army was bored and angry, desperate to fight. The citizens’ favour of Shockwave had fallen. The Decepticons were ready to welcome a new leader, and he knew that they would side with Straxus over Shockwave, even if long-term they were embracing their own destruction. He might wish that Colossus, or Lavasteam or even Mori would take up the flag, but the odds of that were low. In the end, to save the Empire from disaster, he would have to move himself.

This time, when he came home to Monolith, he could detect a difference in how his siblings treated him. When he was a soldier, they openly looked down on him, despite his medals. When he was a field commander, they were barely civil. Now that he was a Warlord, his siblings were actively avoiding him and when he did encounter them, they spoke only when spoken to.

They were afraid of him now … but they still didn’t like him, and while they offered respect for his rank, they showed no love for the mechanism holding it.

He was here on business, to commission a contract for improvements to the Tagon fortifications. He had chosen Monolith because their work was the best – he would not endanger his soldiers for his own personal enmities. He sat in his creators’ office and dictated the terms of the contract to them. It was rare that any construction firm, no matter how powerful, would have disagreements with a warlord when his demands and compensation were as reasonable as these. And yet, he could see the looks of bitter resentment on their faces, the light approaching outright hatred in their optics.

When the business deal was concluded, he dismissed his retainers and faced his creators alone, speaking softly.

“I’m the Warlord of Uraya … what more do you want?”

His creators looked at one another and did not reply.

“I have done my best to bring home honours for this family. Medals, trophies of war, accomplishments of rank. I have ensured that the entire Empire knows of the quality of Monolith’s work and yet you still have no words for me as your creation. Why?”

His mother’s face was cold, but his father lost his temper. “You can do as you please but you will never be the creation we intended … the mechanism we built you to be!”

Though he was a warlord, he felt like a new creation again, wishing to retort with an infantile “well, I’m not.” As he bit down the childish reply, another thought occurred to him.

“You don’t want to admit you failed,” he said quietly.

“We failed?” Duracrete shrilled. “You’re the one who couldn’t weld a joint if your life depended on it …”

“And who designed me? Who built me? What flaws did you put into your creation of me?”

“Neurocircuitry is an imperfect science,” Brickbat blustered, “you could string a hundred chains in the same way and each would produce a slightly varied personality.”

“But you strung them. You brought me into this world and this is what you have created – a warrior, not a builder. And you can’t accept that, can you?” His optics darkened. “No matter what I do. No matter how many commendations I receive, no matter how many medals I bring home to honour this family, that’s not good enough, is it? I could be the Primus-forsaken Emperor and that still wouldn’t be good enough, would it?”

“This conversation is over,” his mother said, rising to his feet, his optics cold. “We will do as you requested in your contract. And you will leave.”

“Do you want them assassinated?”

Howlback’s question was delivered in a smooth, quiet tone, as if she were asking if he would like to indulge in some small but illicit pleasure.

“You would …?”

“If you prefer, or I could arrange for one of my agents to do it.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe in using state resources to solve personal problems.”

“Then you’re one of few. You should be fortunate that I consider it an admirable trait.” A feline grin.

“I do, however, admit a willingness to use personal problems to solve state problems.”

She tilted her head, intrigued. “Explain.”

He had sent a memo to Shockwave some time ago, requesting additional troops to defend the Tagon. No more soldiers materialized, and the Cobalt Sentries made sure that these facts were widely known. Therefore, when Autobot saboteurs blew the headquarters of Monolith Construction Inc. to ruin, there was evidence that Shockwave’s neglect had been indirectly responsible for the blow that wiped out the Decepticon Empire’s most accomplished construction personnel.

The Warlord of Uraya demanded that Shockwave vacate the throne. In one-on-one combat, after a full hour of battle, Shockwave ceded to the challenger. The new Emperor was secretly convinced that Shockwave had deliberately thrown the match in order to install a more inspirational leader at the head of the Empire; for his part, he spared Shockwave’s life.

In the ensuing drama, no one noticed that many of Monolith’s personnel had received orders from the Warlord of Uraya to report to construction sites away from Monolith’s headquarters. No one noticed that those personnel had reported with copies of Monolith’s files in their possession, or carrying valuable tools, or bearing loads of raw material away from the central warehouse. Monolith’s security chief, an accomplished female soldier, had quit two days before to join the Warlord’s army, at the invitation of the Warlord himself. Coincidental, that.

Straxus was enraged, of course, that his coup had been pre-empted. Twelve of Straxus’ robots either disappeared or met mysterious ends in the coming days. The new Emperor saw no reason to fight Straxus when his Cobalt Sentries could deliver the message even more effectively – we will not tolerate your games.

The first thing the new Emperor did was lead the Decepticons in an assault on the Autobot town of Altihex. Rumour had it that the Autobot saboteurs had fled to Altihex. The army, bored with long vorn of patrols and stagnant battle lines, responded with enthusiasm. The Autobots had murdered the Emperor’s family, and the attack somehow felt like an assault on the entire Empire. Vengeance would be had!

Vengeance, indeed.

“We won,” the Emperor said quietly. From the edge of the Tagon heights, he could see the smoke still rising thick from the wreckage of the Autobot town of Altihex. Howlback stood at his right side, as was her custom, and on his left was one of his field commanders known as Hammerfall.

“Of course we won,” Hammerfall replied. “The only thing better than a thousand troops ready to die for you is a thousand troops determined to conquer in your name. We had that, and we had you … at the front of the charge.” She hesitated. “I must confess something sir … I must admit a bit of trepidation when I discovered the reason why you were so determined to exact your vengeance upon the Autobots. The very insult to your family name that roused the troops to their peak of fighting spirit might have … well … in a lesser mechanism, it might have weakened him in a critical moment, turned victory into defeat.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “What I am going to ask of you, Hammerfall, is that you trust me. If I say I can lead the battle, then I need you to have faith in my word, and in exchange I shall be honest if I feel I must wait for another time. If such is the case, you will have to have faith in me then as well, that I will indeed rise to the occasion when the time is right.”

She nodded, bowed low. “My condolences regarding your family, sir.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “You are dismissed.”

Hammerfall delivered a sharp salute, turned, transformed into her tank mode and drove off. “She did well,” the new Decepticon Emperor said. “I would have her on my staff.”

“I shall see to it,” Howlback replied.

The new Decepticon Emperor reached out his hand and rested it on Howlback’s head, feeling the warmth of the cobalt spymaster’s body enter his arm.

“We have a memorial to plan,” he said at last. “My family will be buried in state, fallen heroes of the Empire, and I must cement my place in the hearts of my troops by playing the grieving son.”

“You would rather fight the battle of Altihex again, I presume.”

“A thousand times.” His optics darkened, and when he spoke his voice was bitter. “There’s some unspeakable irony in the fact that my family has done more for me with their deaths than they ever did with their lives.”

Howlback shrugged. “Perhaps you should be grateful you lacked any talent for construction. If you had, you might well be lying dead with the rest of your creators’ children. I did not engineer the plot to bomb the Tagon, after all; I merely made certain the Autobots had the plans to Monolith’s sub-basement on hand, to make it the most convenient of all possible targets. The evacuation of key supplies and most of the personnel was your doing, not mine.”

“Mmmm.” From the expression on his face, Howlback knew that he had accepted the logic of her statement, but not its emotional repercussions.

“If you had, you wouldn’t have spent long years working security with only a quadruped as a friend?”

That shook him from his angry brooding. He managed a partial smile. “There’s worse ways to live.”

“And now you’re the Emperor. Surely, once again, there are worse ways to live.”

“I wonder if I’d finally have impressed them, if they knew I was the Emperor.” He shook his head. “Listen to me. As if they were impressed when I was the Warlord of Uraya.. As if anything other than a construction genius would have been good enough for them.”

“What matters now, Trannis,” she said, addressing him without the honourific “Lord” – they had known each other too long to impose titles upon one another in private – “is what is good enough for the Empire.”

Lord Trannis nodded, reached out his hand to his long-time friend. She pressed her muzzle into his palm. “Then we have a funeral to plan … to bury my past forever. All of a sudden, I find myself looking forward to it.”