Nytare. Mine! My Spark!

Introduction

Well, let's go.

You somehow found my fanfiction and decided to read it. In order to avoid a situation like "mice and a transforming, but very aggressive red-eyed cactus", it is worth reading the introduction and deciding whether you need to read this fanfiction. And since you decided to read it, well, as they say, you were warned. My opinion in many ways does not coincide with the canon, I can rotate this canon in my favor (and such an ambiguous and contradictory canon as the world of transformers, even more so), interpret events in different ways. I take information from comics, cartoons, and movies, making up my world story the way I want it. In general, I can (and will) do various God-abominable things with the canon.

And now a little more about what might be.

Let's start with the world in which everything happens, or put in a word about the poor canon.

This story is written in the Transformers universe.

But! As always, there are a couple of nuances.

Firstly, the warnings specify AU (Alternative Universe). If you hover over the warning (for the Ficbook), you can read the following: "AU is a story in which characters from the canon world find themselves in another world or in other circumstances unrelated to the canon. It could also be another fork in the canon events."

In my opinion, it is quite an exhaustive definition. And for those who have forgotten or did not know, I want to remind you that changing one event entails changing the whole story. This is the so-called causal relationship, which is reflected in the event series (chain of events), it is also the logic of the narrative. Therefore, changing one event changes everyone's much-loved canon beyond recognition.

Secondly. As for the canon itself. It is ambiguous and contradictory both in the cartoons themselves (anime is also a kind of cartoon, if anyone has forgotten) and in the films, it has many event inconsistencies and contradictions, and in many ways the logic and psychology of the characters are not respected.

Third. Again, regarding the canon that some people love. The scriptwriters turned it the way they wanted. Something was added, something was changed to the exact opposite. So it's ridiculous to talk about a strict canon system. If desired, you can find evidence that Megatron is Optimus' older brother, or vice versa, that they are generally representatives of two different species and one of them (poor Megatron) It was created by the Allspark (Energy Cube, Great Spark, Matrix of Leadership) in other words - a natural-born being, as far as this definition is suitable for a cybernetic life form, and the other (Prime, which is Optimus) was created artificially by some incomprehensible "Creators" from "living metal", which requires (unexpectedly) organic matter. Moreover- it is alive. Oil and plastic, apparently, did not come out with mugs.

Fourth. Again, about him, about the poor.

Everyone understands the canon in their own way.

The same notorious energon. Initially, it was neither toxic nor dangerous and did not cause any harm to organics. Then suddenly, at the behest of the cartoon's scriptwriters, he went berserk and picked up all sorts of nastiness, got acquainted with a dark relative, made an agreement and became toxic, turning into "undead water": it seems like he is toxic and generally harmful to people's lives, but he can treat injuries inflicted by a dark evil brother without harm to the victim.

And right there in the comics, people climb up to their ears with this energon, and nothing happens to them. Other organics (not humans) actually swam in it. And also nothing.

The canon is so canonical...

I'm not saying that energon changes color the way people breathe: all the time. Sometimes it's iridescent, sometimes it's light blue, sometimes it's pink, then purple, then orange, then suddenly green or red... especially when it splashes out in the form of blood from the unfortunate transformers. Oh, yes, these poor devils sometimes have some strange body fluids (saliva, yeah), then they seem to crystallize and disappear, then something else....

The arbitrariness of the scriptwrit... sorry, mysticism!

We will continue with the poor transformers

Whose origin is vague, confusing, contradictory, and incomprehensible to the Transformers themselves: the Prime, which is Optimus, says "this is how our race was born," and then Lockdown also piously convinces that some Creators riveted them on their knees from metal created from poor dinosaurs (well, or from other poor devils, which is not the point) and, most importantly, Optimus completely agrees with this assurance. The backstory to the film shows how the Transformers were created by the Allspark on Cybertron (by the way, the Cube was in the temple in Kaon) for some idiots.

They would have decided eventually!

The time and reasons for their appearance on Earth are equally vague, mysterious, and beyond logical analysis. In cartoons, one thing, in a movie, another, and a third at once with time inconsistencies and so on.

I don't say anything about comics at all. I only found five different Soundwaves there. Instantly! And they even differed in color and size. And the carcass configuration. I will also keep silent about the three simultaneous Shockwaves. In general, they are interesting creatures, with a vague history and an incomprehensible origin.

I am generally silent about the reasons for their deaths: according to one version of events, they are hidden in the darkness of history and buried so deeply that they cannot be found with a hundred grams. On the other hand, they are more than clear, but then the Autobots look frankly ... unpleasant companions.

You can choose anything, and all diametrically opposed stories are equally canonical (one is cartoons, the second is comics, the third is movies, and there is also a fourth book).

About personal fuckers, in the sense of the psychology and personality of our large and not quite organic friends, especially about the pens of the formidable Lord Megatron and his impossible, in the sense NOT possible under normal conditions, shoals.

It's possible to talk about Prime's glitches and the distortions in his character and personality for a long time. There is pathos, and unjustified reverence for people (who, for him, as for a theoretically eternal being, should be somewhere on the level of "ordinary, active cockroach"), the actual betrayal of his species and his native planet, bringing his own comrades under the axe, amazing brainlessness and lack of sanity of mind in his presence. In general, a lot of things. And this is despite the amazing cruelty of Orion Pax (and that was the name of our dear Optimus before he was struck by the Matrix, if anyone does not know).

And, most importantly, PATHOS! The sea, the oceans of PAPHOS!

No, I understand that he is a Prime (you can cry from the actions of other Primes in general, some Zeta and Sentinel are worth something), but you need to have a brain. I mean, use them, not fuck them.

But, back to Megatron.

The story of the main villain of the entire disepticon is sad. Lord Megatron seems to be smart, reasonable and dangerous, he is an excellent and experienced leader and combat commander, his subordinates are powerful, they kill with difficulty, but they constantly merge for some nonsense reasons. Is that their karma? After each major, fatal defeat, Meg is not even allowed to die normally: just a little bit - resuscitation discharge and come on, dear Meg, work for the benefit of society, and we will set you up again and let you down, or let you down and set you up... or we will bring an ally who will betray you, let you down and set you up, or the authorities (who appeared from out of nowhere) we will inform, which will deceive, frame and betray. In general, life is wonderful, and we love you very much! And don't you dare die! We'll find it anyway, we'll get it from the bottom of the ocean, we'll take each other for spare parts, but we'll make you live! Bad, but not for long! And then - in a circle.

Cartoons with poor Megatron do about the same thing as movies: Unicron won't let you die, then a healing spark will discharge, then Shockwave (or Soundwave) will be reanimated, then something else will happen, but the beloved, brutalized toy of the Allspark will certainly be revived and thrown into the hottest cauldron. Meg doesn't know how to sit in corners and doesn't want to.

What can I say, an extreme guy. Active, trying to do something, achieve something, get something. Well done, in general.

But Meg just wants greatness for her race. Not a bad wish, by the way.

Does he hate people? Well, which of us is not without a flaw?

But that's not the point. It's about personality and character.

Interestingly, Megatron's personality is surprisingly stable throughout the canon (including cartoons), adjusted for events: he is a smart, charismatic and very calculating leader, an excellent military commander, a great fighter, and so on. And his periodic completely abnormal and incomprehensible paddocks occur surprisingly timely: exactly when, according to the plot, it's time for him to die in the name of the Great Good. Well, or just lose in the name of the same, the good. That's it, and all the brains, the mind of a military leader, prudence, the ability to analyze a situation, tactical genius, the ability to fight, and all the like are somehow abruptly replaced by the behavior of a teenager trying to foolishly assert himself.

Strange. Or is it Prime that affects him so much? Did you bite his?

There was no pathos, there was no pathos, and then suddenly, how he tramples, how he tramples... That's right, Prime got bitten!

Or is pathos transmitted by airborne droplets? Along with the loss of common sense and combat experience for millions of years. Yes, the arbitrariness of the scriptwriters is such an arbitrariness: evil must surely die at the hands of GH, even if he can smear this GH with bloody porridge all over the planet. And do not forget, when fighting with GH - Heads the Evil One abruptly becomes dull, squints, weakens and forgets to use his brains. He catches a debuff like that. Yeah, self-renewing.

At the same time, before its ridiculous death / defeat, Evil IS BOUND to fail spectacularly. Thoroughly so that everything he painstakingly did for the entire movie/series/comic book would go to waste, preferably in front of his eyes (yes, the collapse of Cybertron in front of poor Meg, who so badly wanted to save and reanimate him). Evil must SUFFER! Here! Moreover, in such a way as not to arouse sympathy: maliciously, with pathos and stupid pens, where would it be without them, relatives.

And it's easy to find out that Evil is going to mess up: before that, he either makes a throne for himself, or necessarily assumes a pretentious pose, copying Prime (exactly, bitten!), or pushes some kind of heresy to Starscream, who listens to him faithfully, in general, behaves strangely and unnaturally.

Oh, yeah. Starscream.

A wonderful intelligence officer, the leader of Cybertron's best seeker triad (and for a moment, the Seekers are distant star intelligence among their other functions), one of the best spies and saboteurs of the Dis, who deceived two Prime rulers along with the entire Senate combined, who suddenly turned into a complete, complete moron, hungry for power. And constantly betraying his leader, to whom he is infinitely loyal (the words of Starscream himself, when he kneels before the wounded gladiator: "Megatron. I give you my undying loyalty.") Which, by the way, is perfectly confirmed by the comics.

Honestly, I like this sicker bastard, but he turned into a solid flying joint by the will of the scriptwriters! And Megatron's phrase: "You let me down again!" stretches like a red thread from the first episodes of cartoons to the movie inclusive.

And how come Meg hasn't nailed him for that yet? It's true, the man's nerves are adamantine and his patience is cosmic. Or he remembers the last Starscream, who is a great scout and schemer, who brought him victory in the uprising.

About power and the desire to get it

One minute Meg craves power to the point of bloody autobots in his eyes, then he meekly gives it to another and even bends his knee (yeah, to Prime, the one who said: "I made a career out of killing Primes"), then he makes a throne for himself (the name justifies or just suffers from nonsense)... and again the power gives away. He's kind of inconsistent....

So does he want power, or does he not give a damn about this stuff?

The canon convinces - it longs.

And the events in the canon show that he doesn't really crave it, and even so he has this power, how much more? And so under him is the entire military elite of the race (remember who the disepticons are).

Although, if you want and have the right imagination, you can find any explanation or come up with it and string it like an owl on a globe.

Okay, long blah blah, that's interesting. But let's get to the specifics.

What you WON'T SEE in this fanfiction:

You will not see openly crooked-armed and stupid disepticons. Be realistic. These are action movies, gladiators. They should be able to fight on the level of unconditional instinct! And the fighting is excellent. Crooked-armed people simply do not live with this lifestyle (do not forget that gladiatorial fights were to the death)! And no need to tell tales about how they are always easily killed. Take away the arbitrariness of the screenwriters, and the Autobots' lives would be sad but short.

You won't find the all-conquering Optimus Prime. No matter how you look at it, Megatron is much more powerful and has much more combat experience. You will not see how disepticons suffer from strabismus in its extreme degree. Yes, they are living beings, a full-fledged Artificial personality, capable of emotions and illogical actions, but they are cybernetic creatures with all the bonuses of such a mind carrier. They are accurate, they know how to calculate the pre-emption of a shot.

So it's quite possible to shoot so that their target lies down and no longer gets up. Make adjustments for the target's speed... well, you get the idea.

You won't see such a disgrace as was shown to us in the first film (I'm silent about cartoons - they were filmed for children and therefore the level of cruelty, logic and so on is adjusted to the perception of children), when a crowd of diss couldn't shoot these military idiots.

Don't tell me stories about shelters and stuff. No one canceled their thermal imagers, along with their cold logic and vast combat experience.

They've been fighting for millions of years! That is, that helicopter (which Blackout) could bring down the entire military base alone, but not a dozen people? It's ridiculous and unrealistic.

You won't find the ubiquitous "Grave Wind".

Let's be realistic, they don't teleport. They drive on their own. Well, or they fly. And any movement takes time. Sometimes a lot.

You won't find... yes, you won't find a lot of things from the canon. And a lot of things you'll suddenly discover, but I won't describe them anymore, and that's how the sheet turned out.

Beginning: That's who would know...

The energy cube existed even before time started counting down. We don't know where he came from, but we do know that he carries the power to create worlds and fill them with life. That's how our race was born....

We lived in peace and harmony, but as often happens with great power, some wanted to use it for Good, while others wanted to use it for Evil. And the War began.

The war that ravaged our planet until Death reigned on it, and the energy cube was lost in the depths of space.

We spread out across the galaxy in the hope of bringing him back and restoring our homeland, we looked at every star, every world. And when we had already lost hope, the news of a new discovery forced us to go to an unknown planet called Earth.

But we're... too late.

Optimus Prime

It was an ordinary, unremarkable day. Work, work, work with a short lunch break, and again - a stuffy cafe and the same boring job as a waitress for a pittance. For the umpteenth time, a tired thought was beating in my head: why did I come here at all? What for? Why did she give up everything and fly with her... then still her beloved boyfriend to faraway America, leaving behind a good job, friends and family? He's understandable. He was offered a prestigious position in a large design bureau, a high salary, and excellent prospects....

Probably, a stupid blind infatuation has done its job, clouding the mind. I rushed to a foreign country, raking out all the money, believing in the assurances of a loved one that everything would be fine, great prospects were opening up in distant America, we would be happy, and others-other loud promises that turned out to be lies.

No wonder they say that love is akin to insanity.

Max took off to the local Olympus very quickly, because he is really an excellent designer, and he is very beautiful in himself. And I... I stayed at his foot like a cast-off ballast: his feelings somehow subsided very quickly, Max did not return home more and more often, preferring to rotate with his new acquaintances and colleagues, and I was left alone in a one-room rented apartment, which I could barely pay for....

It takes a year from assurances of sincere love to a complete breakup.

Was there even this love? Or were they just my illusions?

"Nina, are you sad again?"

Smiling Lynsey gracefully sat down on a chair - a charming mulatto woman with lively brown eyes, dark skin and a magnificent shock of black curls. The same designer as me... only she had a job in her field, unlike me. The girl is local, talented, and spectacular. And the energy was overflowing. She seemed to glow with it, with this energy: cheerful, graceful, with a beautiful figure, which was amazingly emphasized by a scarlet dress with a full sun skirt to the middle of the thigh.

"It's hot today." I forced a smile.

I didn't say anything about the fact that there was nothing wrong with the visitors because of the heat, and, consequently, with the revenue. Why bother her with your problems? All I needed were stories about Willy, along with a description of how good social services are in the United States.

"Come on, let's eat and relax." Lynsey jumped to her feet and pulled on my arm. "Get distracted! Cheer up, or you'll get stuck with your job!"

Let's eat... She'll be the one eating, and I'll be the one sitting next to her and listening to her... wise Native American ideas. I've been tormenting you for two years now! And you can't be rude: Willy likes this twirly girl, and she's not a bad girl herself. He just likes to get into his soul and give advice too much.

"I can't, Lynsey. You know, Willie... I don't like it when someone isn't working."

On behalf of the "master" I was shaken up. I feel like a slave... to a fat Negro. Oh, I'm sorry, an African-American with the manners of a minor boyar.

How disgusting...

But it's useless to argue with Lynsey.... I've already learned this during our acquaintance.: The girl has an amazing ability to ignore my objections. Why she comes here every day to talk to me, I still don't understand: we weren't friends, communicating only at these moments, the character and outlook on life are different. Sometimes - dramatically. We live in different social strata, and we don't cross paths anywhere except in this cafe.

Sighing, I took off my apron and sat down at her table.

Maybe she's right. Is it really worth relaxing, taking a break, and everything will go as expected? Although... where will it go... only downhill... unless a miracle happens and I can finally find another job. So far, I've had absolutely no luck with this event. There are enough cash reserves for another month of housing payments, which Will has to pay in about a week. You can buy clothes and go for an interview at an interesting office three blocks from home. If it works out, I can break out of this damn circle. If not...

Damn, if it doesn't work out, you'll have to decide whether to buy a ticket and return to Russia without a penny in your pocket or try to hang around here. Okay, we'll see how it goes in a week.

Lynsey kept up, and I gave up: it was easier for her to give in, otherwise she would be offended for three days. Do I need it? The owner doesn't seem to be there, the customers don't either, and Marie, standing behind the cash register, won't turn me in. So you can sit with this restless one. Anyway, she'll calm down quickly and get to work: she has about forty minutes left.

Half an hour later, after hearing that I needed to contact social services, a psychologist, and the manager of her company, I tried to gather my strength. The rest did not improve the situation: they paid me from the production with a penny rate, but there were no clients today. It's too hot. The mood finally slipped to indifferent apathy, fatigue and stupefying heat beat on the sleepless brains, adding to the fog, so that the condition was somewhere at the level of the urban sewer system.

Should I really leave?

She would have left a long time ago, but her natural stubbornness prevented her from admitting defeat and giving up. And I stubbornly continued to work at this cafe, trying to scrape together money, running for interviews and trying to somehow make ends meet.

A sluggish thought stirred: if nothing changes, I will change my job on principle. I'm just stalling here. A little more, and I will finally be drawn into this gray muddy quagmire, and all dreams of a bright future and an interesting life will evaporate under the yoke of everyday life.

Living in a large city in a foreign country did not benefit me: my character deteriorated, tolerance fell somewhere to the level of urban collectors, understanding and love for others completely evaporated along with illusions and faith in human altruism and mutual assistance. But patience has developed. And the understanding that in this life you are not needed by anyone except the tax service. Even my family: they had been calling for about a year, but as soon as my problems started, they quietly disappeared from the horizon, content with short messages to the mail. My parents have enough problems with my older brother and younger sister to take on mine as well. As they say, she's alive and well.

I wanted something... different. Not this "ordinary life of the average American," which catatonizes the brain! I wanted something... in short, I wanted something. As the near future has shown, you need to be more careful in your desires!

Gunfire, explosions, and screams rang out suddenly, rolling in like a tsunami wave, shattering the dreary day and spinning people into a whirlpool of events. At first I thought it was someone who switched the TV to a movie, but... I was mistaken: the shots were heard on the street and very nearby. Lynsey got nervous and ran outside to find out what was going on, but I stayed at my workplace: I was not allowed to leave the cafe until the end of my shift.

And then events started like an avalanche: panic reached our intersection, someone was shooting at someone, people were running, pieces of concrete and fragments of our building fell from above. Lynsey panicked and started running around the sidewalk in front of the cafe, not knowing what to do or where to run. I was in no hurry to leave the room. The building is sturdy. It's not an earthquake, so there's no point rushing outside. If they're shooting... even more so. Why expose yourself and catch a stray...

Two robots crashed into the roadway right in front of the window, and all coherent thoughts scattered. Huge, about ten meters! One is red and blue, the other is more powerful, silver in color. Immediately, passersby screamed, ran around, ran in. I saw Linsey running down the street. I didn't try to catch up with her and bring her back to the cafe: it was useless. In this state, she is unlikely to listen to advice, rather, she will drag her down the street. Let she run. Not a small one, your brains should be in your head!

I cautiously approached the broken window and looked out. Chunks of concrete, somewhere very close - explosions and gunfire, the sound of massive footsteps. So ... and the robots are not alone ... somewhere very close there are more of the same giants.

There was no fear. Just tired apprehension. The robots don't care about me. I'm nothing to them. They don't know about me, and if I keep my head down and attract attention, they won't find out anymore. I'd rather sit here and watch.... There is less chance of catching a bullet or getting a huge mech under your foot. And nothing will fall on your head. The robots began to move, and the silvery one propped himself up on one elbow, peered at the man standing right in front of him, dressed in a blue pullover and black formal trousers....

Bah, it's Stephen! The asshole from the HR department who locked me up at the initial interview just because I'm Russian. And when I got a job at this cafe, every day this bastard comes here for lunch and annoys me with petty nagging.

"How... DISGUSTING!" The low, hoarse voice was filled with disgust and irritation, as if an outsider had seen something vile and disgusting.

With a snap of his fingers, the silvery one threw Stephen away from him, and with a scream he crashed into a taxi car and curled up, moaning. Alive, well, wow! It was possible to bend over from such a blow, but no, it was intact. Judging by the way he cheerfully crawled under the car, nothing was even really broken. Look how he rustled!

Pity didn't even stir... and if anything did, it was a feeling of deep contentment. I like this fur and its approach to people! And really... disgusting! This particular one is moral.

I couldn't help but laugh nervously. Yes, only for this Silvery one can forgive the demolished place of my penal servitude! It's a pity, you can't rewind! I'd like to watch it again! And then another one. And more.

Suddenly, it became clear that Silvery had not set out to kill a man. He simply threw it aside with a snap of his fingers, as people throw away an insect that has crept too close to them, which it is a pity to crush, but there is no desire to tolerate nearby. And he threw it away quite carefully: if he had made a little more effort, Stephen would have been lying by the car like a broken doll. A powerful mech could easily smear a man with bloody porridge on the asphalt, could turn him into a bag with broken bones with a single touch of a finger, or throw him away so that he would remain a smear on the wall of a house. Could. But he didn't. And he didn't even touch the people struggling to get off the asphalt in his immediate vicinity. They were as close as Stephen, except they weren't in front of his face. The huge mech allowed the people to scatter, and only then began to rise.

The red-blue one stirred, opened his hand, releasing some kid clutching a metal cube to himself and began to broadcast some pathetic nonsense about this very cube, which should be placed somewhere in his chest, he, in the sense of fur, would sacrifice himself to destroy the unfortunate cube and all in the same the spirit. It was happening in close proximity to me, and Red's voice was loud enough to be heard verbatim.

A guy named Sam muttered something, yanked through the intersection and lay down behind a pile of broken concrete. In the middle of this very intersection. I lost sight of him, but I knew he wasn't running out from behind that pile. It would have been obvious. The silver one was just starting to get up, the Red One turned over and got up too, blocking the opponent's path to the guy with the cube.

"It's just you and me, Megatron!" said Red.

So the Silver One in the world is Megatron. I will know the name of this embodiment of humanity.

"No! It's just me, Prime!" He growled, literally spat out an enraged Silver One.

And he's furious. It shows. It was felt in his every movement, in the intonation of his low, rolling voice. I don't know what exactly made him so angry: the situation, or specifically the red-blue congener. Both opponents know each other very well and are clearly not the first to encounter such skirmishes. Otherwise, why all the scraping? It's like an old unspoken ritual. An attempt to convince the opponent, senseless and useless, but habitual, which neither side wants to violate. Otherwise, the fight would have already started. A fight, not these arguments.

"At sunset, one will stand, the other will fall!" The pathos in Prime's speeches made my jaw clench, but one good Megatron pitch quickly interrupted this blah blah.

"You're fighting on the side of the weak." The Silvery One growled contemptuously, approaching the rising enemy, intercepted him and threw him into the nearest building again. "And that's why you're losing!"

I wonder if Prime is CONSTANTLY losing, then why is he still alive? Is he being spared? Or is he constantly being rescued? Or is Silvery so unlucky that he can't finish off his old enemy for some reason? Can't or won't.

Well, then the banal fight began.

No matter how ridiculous it was to realize, but two high-tech intelligent beings simply and without fuss punched each other in the face. With their Fists. Without any frills or special techniques. An ordinary, ugly fight! And the red Prime was inferior to a much more powerful silver opponent. And more experienced, because Megatron's combat experience is clearly much greater than that of his kinsman: he moved too clearly, blocked attacks too easily, calculating the enemy at once. Looking at this, I began to believe Silver's statement about Red's constant losses, but the more curious the question became, how did Prime survive? I don't know about their other encounters, but in this fight, Red had no chance at all: he wouldn't have made it to sunset, and Megatron would have smeared him around the city in five minutes if he hadn't taken his soul away, methodically beating him and saying something to him in a strange harsh language. a growling tongue. Harshly, sarcastically, contemptuously, breaking into an angry growl and furious words dripping with hatred. Silvery didn't need the enemy's muddled responses. He wasn't interested in them, as if he knew everything in advance. Every word. Every objection. He wasn't even listening, he was just hitting and talking.

I watched the disassembly of the huge aliens, standing under the protection of the building. Of course, I could have run away to save my precious skin, as other people did, but... so that I would miss SUCH a sight?!! Never! I won't forgive myself later!

Stupid? Yes. But this happens once in a lifetime, and it's not too rich in events and adventures, which something in the depths of my soul craved so much.

Other extreme sports enthusiasts also shared my opinion: I saw a guy gawking at what was happening from the restaurant across the street, and two more were filming a fur fight on their phone. Three lame scumbags with no instinct for self-preservation at the other end of the intersection were waving their arms excitedly, clearly rooting for some kind of fur and completely ignoring the attempts of a group of military men to remove them from the street. Judging by the violent enthusiastic reaction of the scumbags to the actions of the Silver One, their sympathies belonged to him, which, however, is quite understandable: the powerful mech moved very beautifully, smoothly and swiftly, and beat with knowledge. Professionally, prudently, harshly, strongly, but carefully.

Why Megatron still hasn't torn Prime's head off, even though he could, has remained a mystery to me. But he finished off the victim to the state of an unresisting, but not too crippled body quite quickly and technically.

The first explosion made me recoil in surprise. My feet went on glass fragments, I lost my balance and fell on my ass, cutting my hands on the glass, and the silver giant swayed from a direct hit by a rocket. The explosion! Glowing dull purple drops fanned out, drenching me from head to toe, and I sat among the glass fragments and watched as if fascinated by what was happening....

The mighty victor was shot like in a shooting gallery: The rockets exploded, knocking him down, inflicting colossal wounds, the soldiers around him fired, and he got up and got up to receive another rocket or grenade in his back or chest. He stood up, splashing purple drops. He stood up until, finally, in a final dash, he rushed after the fleeing man with the cube in his hands...

I got up, climbed out, and silently watched a powerful and proud creature die, liberally doused with a sticky purple substance that made my skin tingle slightly. Yes, it's kind of hostile to us humans, but... but...

"I'll kill you!" Megatron was already crawling towards the man, unable to get to his feet. He crawled and growled: "Mine! My Spark!"

The red one stirred...

"Sam! Put the cube in my chest, quickly!"

But the kid... the kid did something else: he blew himself up, lifting a cube filled with shining blue light with both hands and... put it under the Silvery Man's torn chest....

I didn't see what happened next. Massive Megatron completely blocked visibility, but now, a blue wave passed over him, flowing onto the asphalt, and he staggered back on his knees, clutched his chest, covering the red-hot spot, wheezed... and collapsed backwards.

I shook my head, retreating into the darkness of the trashed cafe, and the words came out of my mouth:

"What a... pity..."

I still didn't understand what happened next: the purple liquid that the dying alien had lavished on me suddenly shimmered, sharply absorbing into my skin, a strange blue-light blue wave passed through my body, and the world... somehow faded by itself.

Prime's words were the last to be imprinted on his fading consciousness:

"You left me no choice, brother...."

Chapter 1: The Diamond in the Landfill

Eight and a half years later

"Where are you going?" I purred affectionately, creeping up to the little scoundrel retreating from me.

The scoundrel was sidling away from the table and was now retreating, sticking out metal plates and helplessly waving the milk nozzle: he knows that attacking me is fraught.

"I'm asking you, WHERE'S MY COFFEE, you little bastard?"

The arrogant and long-established toaster, flashing its red, slanted, cunning eyes, slowly crept up on its terrified counterpart, carefully rearranging its outstretched paws: this parasite had done its job and prepared toasts for me, so it could calmly poison the lives of its relatives. Standing on tiptoe, the vacuum cleaner gripped the edge of the table with thin segmented fingers and moved the hose funnily. All this was watched from the ceiling by an alarm clock that escaped in the morning and a phlegmatic fan that stubbornly continued to do its job. Until he wants to fly.

"Coffee! Immediately!"

I put the cup on the table and pushed it towards the terrified coffee machine, which had inadvertently come to life. This bastard ruffled up, forming cannons, but as soon as a tiny blue lightning flashed between my fingers, the change blew away and obediently poured coffee. With milk. Then he carefully pushed the steaming cup away from him.

That's a completely different matter! And they say that disepticons are not amenable to training. They also give in if you find the right whip!

Clever. - I picked up the cup, sniffed, took a sip... no, without any coasters, everything is as it should be: coffee latte with sugar. And did you have to squirm like that first and then panic?

She reached out and patted the disheartened parasite on its tousled head. A small dysepticon of my own production stomped dejectedly to the other side of the table and defiantly transformed into its original form: a Bosch coffee machine.

"But don't get into the offended position here!" The coffee machine ignored me, aggrievedly flashing a red indicator. "If you're offended, I won't give you any treats!"

This argument worked flawlessly: the litle disepticon stopped portraying the innocent victim and immediately transformed, faithfully looking into my eyes. And the toaster, the sycophant, even brought a plate of toast. And fried the way I like it: evenly, with a crust.

"It will be delicious in three days!"

The little ones looked downcast, but they couldn't stay depressed for long, just physically, and soon the toaster got into a fight with the coffee machine again, slamming it with a red-hot foot. Koff screamed, spat a trickle of milk at Tos and ran to complain to the Dust about the limitless man, who was slowly but surely seizing power among his small relatives, hiding behind the plump green carcass of a former vacuum cleaner.

At that time, Nyashka, the food processor, was climbing on the imperturbable huge stove, which had escaped after me from my previous place of work, and was looking into empty pots, checking them for the presence of "yummy". Naturally, there was no such thing, and each piece of debris was characterized by the word "no", angrily scattering the covers. The stove didn't like it, and just a couple of seconds later, the pest jumped up with a squeal, flashing its burnt paws. Already on the floor, choking on a raspy curse, he expressed his dissatisfaction to the listeningly listening Litya. The swearing was completely childish, but it was very emotional and expressive.

However... they were all ordinary children. Even the old trailer we lived in. Although not. The trailer looked more like a lazy teenager. He's also... alive. But he didn't drive us and rarely transformed, preferring to keep the shape of the car and not glow unnecessarily. And his complaisance was explained simply: he was saving up energy for a third alt-form. He wanted to become a racing car, and I promised to personally make a "yummy treat" for him, so necessary for gaining strength, if he would be my home. So we have a complete understanding with the calm and balanced Trell.

Someone knocked on the door. Panic began among the relaxed disepticons: the little things quickly ran into their places and took on a natural alt-form, returning to the appearance of household appliances, from which they originated. The displeased stove pulled the curtain shut with its clawed paw.

"Nana, are you there?" Mark Dykes' loud voice rang out at the door. The Evil one hissed, but when he met my gaze, he returned to the form of a teapot and fell silent. That's what a nasty dirty trick it is! It stands and boils, illuminated by red diodes.

"Mr. Dykes, I'll be right back!" Straightening my clothes, I opened the door and jumped down onto the sandy, rock-packed soil.

"Nana, the holiday season will start in a week and people with cars will arrive. I'm going to have to ask you to make room in the parking lot." The good-natured man said somewhat guiltily. "I hope your car gets fixed soon." I spread my hands. "The car is old. They can't find any spare parts. And what is there is very expensive."

"Look at the dump. She's three miles away from me. They seemed to have cars on the move. Mark pointed somewhere to the west. "Go there. I'll give you a bike. Maybe you can pick something up."

"Thank you. I'll take a walk, I can walk. The weather is good today. Solar."

The joke about the nice sunny weather in Nevada was on duty.

Mark laughed and left, and I began to think where to get this mythical car that I didn't have. Of course, the Trell could transform into a pickup truck, it had such a shape, but how am I going to explain the sudden disappearance of a large van?

Sighing, I returned to the trailer, and red glowing eyes were already staring at me expectantly from all sides, only the kettle was hissing angrily and spitting boiling water towards the door: he disliked Mark after he unceremoniously grabbed him to pour himself tea.

"Well, it's a small thing. We're going to have to get out of here soon." I rubbed my face. "Trell, while I'm gone, make sure that this pack of uglies doesn't scatter."

Four red eyes appeared on the wall and winked. He likes to bully this small pack: without his permission, they may spit here, but they won't go outside: the Trell is bigger and stronger.

I didn't put off going to the dump: it's still early and I can get out before the heat sets in. And maybe I'll really find a car: even if it doesn't drive, it doesn't matter. For me- it will go... after it comes to life. The main thing is that the whole dump doesn't come to life... and doesn't try to kill me.

Although... it seems that not a single lively disepticon has raised his paws on me yet. They did dirty tricks, of course, but not out of malice, not wanting to harm. Their nature is like this: belligerent and aggressive. And they vent this aggression in constant skirmishes and hunting each other. It is quite understandable and familiar pastime for combat cybernetic creatures. Even tiny ones.

Or am I already used to them? To constant fuss, hunting, outbursts of aggression and anger, endless swearing and squabbles that instantly stop as soon as real danger appears. The instincts of a belligerent creature do not depend on its size: small disepticons crave battle, venting their aggression on each other, arranging a kind of outdoor games with a combat bias.

A hot breeze blew in, raising fine, powdery dust. The sun was shining brightly from a clear blue sky, untouched even by light clouds. It's going to be hot. And at night, it's cold as always. Pulling my wide-brimmed straw hat lower so that the shadow covered my face, and adjusting my homemade poncho made from an old cotton pareo, I stomped on, already habitually putting a small plastic button in my mouth.

Three miles is not such a long distance. I've already gotten used to hiking in the desert. I learned to walk on it so as not to get heat or sunstroke and not to get dehydrated, having developed several simple rules that help to live normally in this territory.

It is necessary to drink properly in the desert. Especially when hiking. Strictly observing the water norm, following simple rules for its consumption and using simple thirst control methods. Such as an ordinary button stuck in your mouth: a foreign object stimulates salivation and slows down the onset of thirst.

And you also need to be able to dress. Especially to dress up and walk properly. I've learned. And for the same reason of controlling the consumption of moisture in the body, I refused the bicycle brand offered. The usual measured step is less harmful. I'll get there easily and without unnecessary stress on the body in the desert.

How did it happen that I moved from a big metropolis to this deserted hole? I had to... Willie, you asshole, you kicked me out of my job at the cafe and didn't pay the money, writing it off to pay for the damage. The funny thing is that his expensive stove, along with the pots and the cash register, suddenly ran away after me. Yes, Cassie... This wonder-hungry creature stayed in the trailer to meditate over colorful candy wrappers and bottle caps, carefully counting them and carefully storing them in cells in his stomach. He's the epitome of GREED in a surprisingly quarrelsome and petty disepticon: he drags everything that glitters and looks beautiful, and it's very difficult to take even one wrapper away from him. I had to take his LIFE once.

This execution impressed EVERYONE, and after that my little ones became amazingly compliant, unconditionally recognizing my right to command them. Including the newly revived greed. He even gave me a stolen wallet somewhere. The thought came up again that Cassie should buy a couple of decks of cards and let her meditate. He'll like it.

As I stomped along the side of the road, I remembered my life, which had changed dramatically since that momentous day when the Silver One doused me with his blood. I knew intellectually that it wasn't just the purple liquid, there was something else, but what? I did not know. I didn't even have any assumptions due to lack of knowledge, and the chaotic pictures that had been composing my dreams for years hadn't brought much understanding yet... except that I suddenly discovered that the squeaks and barking curses of my scoundrels had acquired the meaning of coherent speech. And here are the images that glided through my mind.... Apparently, I haven't grown up to their awareness and understanding yet....

Anyway, about a month later, when the severe phantom pains were gone and the alien coloring disappeared from my skin, I found the first litle dysepticon in my apartment.

It turned out to be... my cell phone. Nokiy. Quarrelsome and harmful, like all disepticons. He was the first person I unknowingly revived back then, but far from the last. Time has shown that I can transform any technique into transformers, even just passing by... if I don't control myself. And now most of this filth of my production is running around somewhere in the desert, having emigrated with me from the big city. The most annoying thing is that they don't leave me far, except for those who, for some reason, immediately left for unknown distances. Given the extremely lousy nature of all the disepticons, and I was the ONLY one who could do it, my life was... not boring: like the teacher of a vicious kindergarten of small demons, each of whom was somehow armed with MILITARY weapons. Even if it's small, like a needle thrower or a nail thrower. But they could kill ANYTHING! Oh, there was also an electric drill that came from nowhere, crawling out only to feed.

The nicest one turned out to be Tos, who took care of me in his own way: every morning toasts were waiting for me, even if there was no bread or money. That's where he got the bread? He was mysteriously silent, saying a vague "tama"... The phlegmatic, silent Duster generally tried not to stray far from the Trell, carefully removing the results of the debacle inside the trailer, as well as Lithi, our stove, who secretly kept order, and the little gopniks tried not to annoy our lady.

After all these troubles in recent years and the showdown between transformers, we felt very uncomfortable in the cities. Even the energon sensors worked on me a couple of times. LOOK AT ME!!! Not at my assholes, but at me! Or were the sensors reacting to the energon that the dying Silvery had doused me with?

I sighed. Who am I lying to?... Something's been happening to me ever since. I'm kind of a human being: I need to eat, drink, sleep, but...

"Tuta!" suddenly there was a sound from under my feet, knocking me out of my thoughts.

I almost jumped! Tos rolled around my legs in a partial transformation into the second alt-form of a large toy car and held a wriggling rattlesnake in its tenacious paws.

"Tos, how many times have I said it, it's poisonous!" The toaster immediately twisted the animal's neck and tried to calm it down. Sighing, I coiled the snake more compactly, shook its tail and put it in the back. Tos hissed and cracked contentedly, imitating the sound of a rattle, examined me and took me back to Trell: the meat was spoiling quickly here, and the refrigerator was part of the van.

He returned an hour later, along with happy blender, riding someone's skateboard, when I was already approaching the dump.

"Where was it stolen?" I asked bluntly, knowing that I wouldn't be able to shame them.

Once stolen, it means they are stronger and more cunning, and the skate is their legitimate prey. That's the whole logic.

"Tama!" Disepticon hissed his satisfaction and shook the ratchet he had torn off the snake.

These are inventive scoundrels!

"Has someone else arrived?"

"Yeees." a small pest rode along the road and got a lot of pleasure from this uncomplicated process.

You'd think he couldn't ride on his own wheels the same way! Maybe! But it's much more interesting to do it on a stolen skateboard!

And let someone prove to me that these brats are not alive and do not feel emotions! Out, they're happy, they're already glowing! However, their happiness usually comes out sideways to someone: either they scare the passers-by, or they drive some kind of animal to kondrashka.... Well, at least they bring meat sometimes. Or whatever they can steal.

The smartphone, which was entrenched in my breast pocket, switched on the music and covered itself with a flap: he did not like the bright sun and was now muttering something displeased. What? Ah, the network coverage was not satisfied! The signal is weak and malfunctioning.

And why do you need a signal? I asked suspiciously.

"Nada!" The pocket creaked angrily.

The music is over... homegrown music lover.

It was with this escort that I stomped to the dump. Tos and Der immediately got sucked into the tall, dry grass, dragging the skate with them and arguing.: They were going to catch snakes, but the skate was in the way, and their natural greed did not allow them to abandon their prey. I went to get acquainted with the landfill workers and its owner. Maybe they'll let me pick up the car. Maybe even for free. Especially if it is old and for some reason not very convenient for cutting and disposal.

The owner of the dump turned out to be a skinny, lanky man named Nail. That's how he introduced himself. When asked about a cheap car, he phlegmatically waved his hand, offering to walk through his patrimony in search of treasure. As it turned out, some of the exhibits have been here for years, maybe I'll find something... if they didn't steal the spare parts before me. But I was looking for a CAR that would then leave on its own. Unfortunately, serviceable cars were not suitable for me: there was no money to buy them.

I wasn't happy about the dump: what stood on the common area is hardly capable of coming to life even in my hands. In most cases, all that remained of the machines were completely stripped skeletons of varying degrees of rust, stacked one on top of the other. Some were already compressed and towered in uneven grotesque piles, which were supported by powerful metal beams dug into the sun-scorched earth. Some of the cars still have their interior trim and some interior elements, some even have seats, but the engines and all more or less useful spare parts have been removed for a long time.

Tos and Der got out from behind the bent and pressed body of the pickup truck. Surrounding me, the little ones chattered, jumped from their overwhelming feelings, pointing somewhere deep into the dump. They found something. Something so important that they could barely describe it coherently from their bursting emotions.

"Tama!!!" Tos screamed, choking with incomprehensible delight. "Tama!!!"

Der was nodding actively and hopping impatiently on its short legs, buzzing and whistling. Okay, let's see what these parasites have found: usually, small skeptics are not mistaken in their assessment of technology.

I couldn't get to this "tama" quickly, because I couldn't get through where the small pests were seeping in, so I had to go around. But finally, I saw an overturned skateboard abandoned, piles of cars cut and pressed into pancakes, and a hefty armored military tractor standing almost at the press, which had already been used for sawing.

Old. It was almost completely rusted through, with a crumpled and twisted back and cabin, as if the transformers had dented and kicked it before they put it on the saw. There was an abandoned welding machine lying nearby, which had already been dragged towards me by two parasites.

"Put it down! I still don't have enough money to pay for your damaged device!"

The little girl exchanged glances, quickly turned the device around and dragged it away, after which she returned to the huge military vehicle.

"Tuta!" the former toaster was bouncing around a huge flat tire.

"And what is "tuta"?" I grumbled, looking at the powerful and definitely dead tractor. Something strange happened: Der respectfully stroked the wheel and chattered with delight.

Strange. They didn't react that way even to brand-new technology.

"This junk?" I asked skeptically.

The little thing was already filled with indignation from such neglect, jumping up on the spot, stroking the pieces of the tire, as if apologizing to the silent giant for my words.

A really strange reaction. Such sincere adoration and admiration, downright reverence for the dead tractor. I walked around the rusting monster that had been thrown into the landfill, already mentally preparing for the fact that I would have to force the Nail to give me this rusty junk.

"Okay, okay, don't freak out." I muttered.

The military tractor looked... terrifying. Torn tires, smashed, partially torn out headlights, broken windows of a cabin crushed by some titanic impact, doors already cut off lying nearby, a rusted, peeling, partially shattered body... A sad sight.

"Tuta!" again, the small disepticon drawled wistfully, managing to climb onto the hood and gently feeling the twisted metal.

"Yes, I see it. Tuta... full of achtung." The small ones jumped on the spot, and then, suddenly, they abruptly shrank, having managed to drag the skate after them: the owner of the dump with two workers taxied out from behind a pile of scrap.

"Oh, I found our main exhibit." Nail grunted as he approached the tractor.

"It's hard not to notice him: a colorful car." I replied neutrally.

"Colorful." the Nail nodded. "But it's junk. Even the engine was eaten by rust: porridge under the hood."

"And how did you get it?"

"Yes, they found it in the desert. They were tired of dragging this colossus. We thought we'd find something valuable, but here..." He shook his head. "When they opened the hood, they found only a rusted mess inside."

"It's hard to disassemble, it's impossible to move without a tractor." One of the mechanics, a red-haired guy, spat irritably. "While the doors were being cut down, they got dirty."

The man shook his head.

"They dragged me in vain. Only the fuel was burned."

Is this really my chance? If they're so disappointed with the car, maybe they'll give me this tractor. He's bothering them anyway!

"Do you need it?" I asked cautiously.

The men laughed.

"Baby, I'd throw this stuff away, it just takes up space."

"Is it completely rubbish?" I asked despondently.

The redhead nodded, the Nail spat and confirmed:

"Full."

I sighed. Little red eyes stared at me pleadingly from under the flattened cars. The little ones won't forgive me if I leave this tractor in a landfill.

"And if the engine is changed?"

"It makes no sense: his bridge is broken. It won't go anyway, but to repair it..." The Nail spread his hands. "It's easier and cheaper to buy a new one. It beat him well: it only holds the shape, everything inside is broken."

That's it, that's it! Well, what if...

I really wanted to get this tractor! My hands are shaking! This desire arose latently, imperceptibly, quickly gaining strength and firm confidence.: This is it. Exactly what I was looking for. I NEED this tractor! There was something about him... something that made my body shudder. Some kind of vaguely familiar hidden power, a feeling of something like that... I don't even know what to call it. Recognition, or what? This wrecked tractor stood out to my perception, as if a blinding bright ray had focused on it. Just the thought that I might NOT GET it made me feel unhappy. And the longer I was near the tractor, the more clearly this feeling appeared, literally screaming: "MINE!".

The Nail in my throwing noticed that I had succumbed to this strange Call so much that I lost control of myself, staring longingly at the wrecked car as if it were the most valuable thing in the universe. Moreover, the value is definitely MINE!

"Forget about that car, baby. I'm sorry for her, but..." he spread his hands. "It's just for cutting."

"And if..." I faltered. "And if... well..."

The mechanic chuckled.

"If you want, take it." the owner of the dump graciously waved. "It's more expensive to cut it than to just throw it away: it's too strong, it's an infection. There is more fuss than profit. I can even take you out into the desert. People don't drive here very often, so you'll have a couple of days to bring a tractor and take it away. But then you'll have to pay for our fuel."

My hundred...

"Oh, come on." I took out the bill, without regret giving the last money into the hands of the Nail. "How far can you take it?"

He thought about it, automatically folding the table and putting it in his pocket.

"There's an old gas station nearby." Finally, he said. "It's been abandoned for ten years now, but there's a carport, so you can park the car. If you want, we can take you there. And it's not far from the trailer park: you can walk for half a day if something happens."

I almost jumped for joy.

"I want to! Can you take my trailer there? Because my Ford is still under repair, and I'm constantly running back and forth.... He's at a trailer park ten miles away."

"We'll give you a ride, why not."

Seeing my impatience, the Nail was surprised:

"Now?"

"Please!" I whined, making a plaintive face.

The guy chuckled, but... didn't object. While his workers were starting their tractor, he waved his hand at me, inviting me to follow him.

"While they bring this junk to the gas station, let's go, I'll drop off your trailer."

I jumped after the Nail, and soon we were driving an old pickup truck to the parking lot, where, after saying goodbye to the good-natured Mark, we picked up Trell and drove along the highway to a distant abandoned gas station.

As soon as the tractor disappeared from sight, my brain turned on and started working normally, and I almost bit my elbow and ass at the same time when it dawned on me what I had done. I bought a battered military tractor with my last money! A tractor that has a 99.9% chance of never coming to life! And all because, for some reason, I couldn't figure out what made me jump, like Cassie over a colorful candy wrapper!

However, I did not play back. I bought and bought. I used to trust my gut: too often it saved me, pulling me out from under the raids of Gravediggers, to go against such a powerful surge for just a hundred bucks. If I'm so twisted out of the blue, then there must be a reason for that!

I must say that I was a little nervous: after all, I didn't know the Nail and its mechanics, and trust hadn't worked out too well for me in recent years. But I was worried in vain: the guy really brought me to an abandoned parking lot and even waited with me until an old tractor appeared, barely dragging my dubious purchase.

A military tractor was rolled under a dilapidated canopy, and the tow rope was unhooked. The Nail, already getting into the car, said:

"Well, come on, baby. If anything, contact us. Just look, be careful here: the place is abandoned, you never know what."

"Thank you." I sincerely thanked him.

The men said goodbye to me cordially and drove away, raising columns of dust, and I ran to my future car, near which the former toaster and blender were already jumping with wild excitement.

And it doesn't matter that the tractor is rusty and broken! This is MY tractor!

And I'll figure out how to revive him!

"Tuta!" Tos deftly climbed into the cabin, waving his paws invitingly.

The short-legged Der was squeaking while standing downstairs: he was too clumsy and couldn't get into the car on his own.

Is that what they're trying so hard to show me?

Having hooked up the former blender, I climbed into a spacious but very dirty cabin, which had long since parted with its seats ... well, everything that could be removed. Even the mounting points were gone, along with the torn-out metal of the floor, as if these seats had been torn out with meat. But the steering wheel remained intact: an excited Tos hung on it and stroked... the emblem with a predatory angular face, which appeared on the scratched metal after being touched by a little brat.

I froze, as if frozen, staring at this clear, intense purple emblem. A familiar logo. To the point of pain, to the point of tears, to the smallest tilt of rigid predatory straight lines... A huge military tractor, killed to death, turned out to be a disepticon. Finally and irrevocably... dead.

Chapter 2.1: restoration of the dead disepticon.

"And what should I do with you?" I muttered for the umpteenth time, walking around the tractor.

Blue discharges of energy snaked through the body, patterns and dark stripes of alien coloring appeared on the skin, dotted with changeable writings flowing through the body and changing after the waves of blue energy. It was deadly hot outside, but I didn't feel it at all in this form: just a strange dryness, as if there was nothing valuable around, no energy. Just the usual small but dazzlingly bright sparks of my brats.

She adjusted her short, dirty shorts. The same dirty, dusty denim top and skinny vest with lots of pockets are all my clothes. I left my shoes until better times, when I return to the appearance of an ordinary person: I have only them and I didn't want to kill them completely. His only weekend clothes, a long-sleeve shirt and relatively new shorts, lay in a neat bundle in the shade near the hammock.

Something fell somewhere, and I heard the raspy, expressive swearing of small-time scoundrels and the sounds of super-small-caliber machine guns firing. They're hunting each other again... So they're not too lazy? There was a rocket explosion, and someone screamed.

"Shut up!" I snapped.

The screeching and shooting noise abruptly subsided.

"How many times have I told you! No shooting on my territory!"

I looked out from behind the tractor. Tos made an innocent face and released the beaten Koff. The feisty kettle gurgled with boiling water, carefully making sure not to spill a drop of valuable liquid. Not even steam escaped from the sealed container: It was his water supply in case I was generous with a treat.

Seeing my displeasure, Tos sidled up, transformed into a toaster, strained himself, and produced... two fragrant, crispy golden toasts! That's where this parasite steals FRESH bread from? I can't imagine! There's not a soul within thirty miles of here! Well, he doesn't transform it out of thin air!

"You are forgiven." I replied graciously, accepting the sycophancy.

Tos transformed again. I patted the bastard on the small head, and a wave of energy washed over him, which made him bigger and a little more powerful, reorganizing himself again. At this rate, the small-time scoundrel will become the largest in the group. It's already up to my waist, and before that it barely reached my knee!

Koff was whimpering piteously, cradling his injured paw. I patted the victim.

"Tos, stop hurting your kin for fun! It's undignified!"

Tos frowned, shifting the movable brow segments. I took a bite of the delicious bread, chewed, and explained my point of view:

If you want to control them, it's your right, but this right must be earned, not won or received from my hands: you must not offend them, but train and train them. The government imposes responsibility! I look after you, feed you, protect you, and take you with me. And I fix it when you cripple each other! And I also have to somehow smooth out the results of your dirty tricks!

These words made Koff squeak, showing me his injured limb. I shot a small discharge into it, which completely restored the victim of my overly aggressive toaster. But Tos thought about it and watched very carefully, clearly shaking what he said into a long segmented "mustache".

"Thanks for the toasts. Now, do something useful, but don't let me be distracted. Ill-naturedly, make some tea."

The kettle disappeared somewhere, but soon returned, faithfully handing me a battered cup with boiling water and a tea bag.

"Well done."

Maliciously, he cracked the lid, as if hinting that he REALLY wanted a bonus.

"Zlydia, you've got boiling water again. I can give you a treat, but do you remember what happened last time?"

The kettle squeaked in alarm and slammed the lid shut. Last time, he almost tore into a lot of little Zlydia's ones when the reaction started. He learned his lesson, but today he somehow forgot something. I have to remind you periodically.

"When you cool off, come back."

Zlydya was upset: because of his evil nature, he was constantly angry and freaking out, and the water was boiling. A vicious circle. To get a treat, you need cold water, and to get cold water, he himself must be calm and cold-blooded, which the little diseptic could not do, which made him angry and, as a result, boiled.

"It's all gone, little thing!" The red-eyed brats obediently disappeared, disappearing into the desert landscape: that's what, but we learned to hide very quickly and very efficiently. Especially after the Grave Wind squad rode past us... They even checked the suspicious tractor, but it was still just a pile of dead, rusty metal, and therefore aroused no interest. We hid as well as we could, praying that those freaks wouldn't scan the area for energon.

Fortunately, it was terribly hot, and therefore the brave soldiers did not linger and drove away, satisfied with a cursory inspection of the unfortunate tractor. Anyway, in the alt form, transformers practically do not sound and do not stand out at all on energon scanners. Even if you put this scanner under his hood! We checked, we know.

We've been in this dump for almost three months now. The nail arrived a week after the purchase of the dead disepticon, but we all hid, and I left a note that I would return soon with spare parts. He examined the wrecked tractor, shook his head and drove away, and never appeared again. Apparently, he decided that I had abandoned a hopeless car after all, and left a note so that no one would fire her. If I were just a human, I wouldn't even start messing with a dead dysepticon, but... I'm not really a human anymore, so there were chances to revive this pile of rusty junk.

But, strangely enough, so far the result has been zero: the tractor has not reacted to all my attempts to resuscitate it in any way, the blue energy seemed to drain from it, giving no result. Was he really COMPLETELY dead? But even the usual equipment came to life, and here... But there's nothing here.

There was no one to ask for help: a wave of hysteria about alien living machines was in full swing around the world. They were captured and mercilessly destroyed. The "Grave Wind" was raging. The corpses of recent allies were being bought and sold like some kind of trash, the autobots, who were so happy for the people, suddenly disappeared... or were destroyed by these very people. I guess they came under the pressure of the gratitude of the race, which they so wanted to save from their own kind. Where the surviving disepticons have gone is generally a mystery. The purple-valued ones disappeared, as if they had never been there. I was trapped in a desolate Nevada, forever unable to enter the city: the damned energon sensors screamed at me like a hysterical woman on a corpse. You can't send small ones either... the reason is the same. So it remains to wander around the desert state, visiting various garbage cans and landfills in search of an unexpected treasure, like this tractor.

I wish I knew WHO it was! And, preferably, before this "who" is revived.... If it ever happens.

The more time passed, the more often I had doubts that the dead disepticon would ever come to life, but some kind of stubbornness did not allow me to give up and leave the powerful car to rust at this old abandoned gas station.

The very thought of such a possibility caused a storm of instinctive indignation, and I returned to the tractor over and over again, despite my doubts and lack of results. It was like madness, mixed up with possessive instinct, stubbornness, and old memories of that fight and the mighty creature dying in front of my eyes.

Yes, that time the leader of the disepticons somehow came to life, only to die ignominiously two years later, this time definitively, on the ruins of Chicago, killed by the hands of the red-blue Prime. It is unclear what happened to the body of the Silver One, but this time there was no pretentious burial at the bottom of the ocean, which was so actively gossiped about on all channels at the time. Megatron disappeared into the pile of alien scrap that is still being taken out of the destroyed city.

He would probably laugh if he knew how the victory turned out for Prime....

I rubbed my forehead tiredly. Trell should be back soon: he left three days ago in search of water and something useful like an old dusty pickup truck. In our area, a beautiful new car is of natural interest. Unhealthy. And we don't need it at all.

I hope he finds water. At least some of it. Things weren't going well with her in Nevada. And with food too... And so for three months now I have to eat toast and all kinds of desert animals, which are actively caught by small disepticons.

Oh well. There's no Trell yet, shall we continue... After examining the military tractor, familiar to the last dent, she sighed once more.

"Okay, attempt number seven hundred forty-three. Let's try a constant feed..." I stumbled. "Damn, I could have revived an entire city!"

This time, I climbed into the cockpit, put one hand on the mangled dashboard, and the other on the steering wheel, and slowly began to apply energy to the dead metal.

The minutes passed one after the other, the strange energy obediently spread through the car, but there was still no result. The tractor remained just a car.

"Come on... come on." I whispered. "Come alive! I know you can...."

The tractor naturally glowed from the energy covering it, spreading through the hull in powerful flashes. But... nothing. Again. Failure again.

"What's wrong with you?" I growled angrily. "What are you MISSING? I know you can come alive! No, you HAVE TO come alive!"

In my heart, I banged my fist on the crumpled metal, my hand burned with a sharp sting, and a luminous white liquid flowed over my skin, which had long replaced my blood... after the final transition to the state of `fuck you, what's in alien Khokhloma.'

"Here it is..."

Automatically, she wiped the "blood" from her hand on the warped dashboard. Droplets of sparkling, brightly glowing liquid flowed inside, and I cursed.

That's what I was thinking at that moment?

I wonder if I can get infected with, um, "blood" now?

"Noki, give me a handkerchief! I cut my hand."

The last clarification immediately led to a flurry of activity: the cunning bastard immediately unbuttoned the flap and gave me a relatively clean handkerchief. I wiped my hand without interrupting the power supply, and returned the glowing piece of cloth to the satisfied smartphone. The rag was rolled up, pressed against his belly, and he put the change in his pocket and closed the flap.

Somewhere in the courtyard, a returning Trell roared a greeting. I started up, and was about to cut off the power supply, when, suddenly, the glowing spots disappeared without a trace into the metal and plastic.

Oh well? Has there really been a reaction?

I increased the power supply without taking my hand off the steering wheel, and was already deliberately dripping blood onto the angular emblem.

"Come on, come on..."

The drops were absorbed almost instantly, and I put my luminous palm to the steering wheel, right on the angular face, feeling my skin begin to tingle, as if the thinnest needles had pierced it.

"Come alive!" I whispered, watching the snow-white shining liquid being absorbed. "Come on! You can!"

A second, two... the heavy footsteps of the approaching Trell rumbled, and the first, still weak wave of primary transformation began under my hand: the steering wheel broke into segments and slowly began to fold, the floor began to wave, the tractor seemed to shudder with its entire body, dumping rust and dirt.

"Just a little more!" I whispered, dripping glowing blood somewhere into the internal mechanisms of the mech coming to life before my eyes. "Come on! Live!"

The transformation gained momentum, the floor jumped sharply, and I suddenly realized that I was sitting INSIDE a car that was slowly but surely crumpling in a convulsive, painful transformation....

I jumped out of the cab just moments before the tractor finally creaked and clanked into a complete transformation and turned into a humanoid form. Trell immediately picked me up and wisely jumped out from under the canopy. The terrified little ones ran away, Cassi hid behind a rickety house that had once been a store, and the stove on a pile of legs quickly flowed into a ditch and hid in the dry land.

The transformed mech was in no hurry to come out: a massive figure in the shadow of the canopy was struggling to get up from the floor, somehow jerkily, stumbling and falling, with convulsive movements getting out into the light of the sun.

Is it really that bad?

The giant crawled out from under an awning too low for him and painfully straightened up, holding on to his torn side. The mutilated, split almost in half head slowly rose, and I was met with a heavy, tangible, literally physically, gaze of a red eye. One. The second one, along with part of the head, was turned into a rusty mess by some kind of blow, which pinched the face to the chin and split the neck along with the shoulder.

There was something familiar about the contours of that face. Something very, very familiar! I've seen him somewhere before. But where? I sat on Trell's arm and stared intently at the mutilated face until, suddenly, two images came together in my head: a whole face I had seen a long time ago and this one, mutilated, almost cut in half.

"Silver?!!" I gasped in shock. He said nothing, continuing to stare at me with a hard stare. The Cybertronian stood straight, not moving, only something sparkled and sparkled in the split sternum and side, some internal mechanisms were visible, and occasionally a dirty purple liquid dripped, replacing blood for these creatures.

But... how come?

It can't be that I found the leader of the disepticons who died in Chicago in some scrap metal dump! The news showed how his head was blown off! It's supposed to be just a mountain of high-tech alien scrap, but not an old tractor!

Although... what do I know about transformers? Who knows, maybe it was the last cramp. Last attempt to escape... But how? He was DEFINITELY dead! Prime ripped his head out of his body!

But... maybe or not, here he is - Lord Megatron, the head of the disepticons in his own sinister persona. In a terrible state of rusty junk, barely able to stand up straight. And he barely had enough strength to maintain such a sudden burst of life.

"Megatron? That's your name, I think." I decided to clarify my guesses.

The defeated lord twitched his faceplates and croaked something indistinctly.

Great... he can't even talk! Either he's just not in the mood... or he doesn't know what to say to such a sacramental question. He just stood there, silently looking at Trell and at me sitting on his arm.

No, well, it's necessary...

Chapter 2.2 a conversation with Megatron.

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Аннотация: Megatron pours his blood on Nana before he dies in Mission City. And by the will of the Allspark, she acquires the ability to create decipticons. Then he moves with his change away from people.

Nytare Mine! My Spark!

Nytare
Mine! My Spark!