The Reason
Trap rested against a large outcrop thrown up from the surface after the recent battle and looked out over the remnants of his home city. His usually sharp red optics could pick out a few staggering figures moving through the wreckage. Static that periodically filled his vision clouded and obscured what these figures were doing, but Trap could imagine well enough. They could be fellow Decepticons searching for vanished friends, holding out all hope that someone may be found alive. Trap knew that the search would ultimately prove fruitless. His tracking and surveying equipment, so useful as the lead constable in Tarn, were miraculously active and intact. There were life signs down there, of course, but nothing buried in the debris of shattered buildings and fallen bridges. Trap shook his head. He did not blame those Decepticons their mission. It was noble enough, and Trap knew that he would be right there with them if he was capable of walking such a distance.
It was possible, however, that there no Dececpticons down there at all. It could just as likely be the so-called Neutrals scouring the destruction for anything of use. Scrap metal, fuel rods, weapons or ammunition. In his years enforcing the laws in Tarn’s Edicts, he certainly saw enough of this sort of black market trading of materials in back alleys and along the outskirts of the city. Trap was harsh on the scavengers whenever they were stupid enough to get caught peddling their stolen wares. It wasn’t just that they were a blight on a strong Decepticon stronghold’s reputation. Cybertron’s soul knew that even in the best of times, true Decepticon cities were rare. Even during the Golden Age cities across Cybertron were more like refugee camps than hearts of civilization.
No, Trap was harsh to the Neutrals because he saw them in a way that they themselves did not, and in ways that the city managers did not. The Neutrals were a hole in the defenses. They were a way for the Autobots to infiltrate the city should they ever come knocking. The Neutrals’ leadership, such as they were, scoffed at the idea whenever Trap brought it up in the vain hope that they might see sense in the matter. But they thought of themselves as invincible. They thought they could walk the line between the warring factions and never fall to one side or another. They were wrong. And to his immense regret, Trap was right. He closed his optics. He so wished he had not been so incredibly, brutally right.
The figures rambling through the streets, crowded with dead bodies and jagged remnants of once-majestic buildings, were not Autobots. Beside the fact that Trap would have been able to detect them as such from three times his current distance from what was left of Tarn, Autobots were never so careful as these beings.
Trap turned away from the destruction for a moment and looked up at the sky. When the city still rose in the perpetual night sky, the lights from the factories, from roadways, and from skyways often blotted out the stars. Trap would have to strain to see anything more than a black fabric overhead. Freighters and carriers were common enough outside of curfew, but in those quiet times, when everything moved just a little more slowly, there was nothing overhead. Maybe the occasional nova. Sometimes a rogue satellite. It had a claustrophobic feel to it, like some angry god was dropping a curtain over the city. Now with the factories reduced to ash, the stars were timidly showing themselves. Now the sky seemed infinite. Trap felt so small that he needed to look away out of fear of being consumed by these foreign stars.
Instead, he looked to the north. The glow from Vilnacron reflected up off a layer of haze that always seemed to float over the city, though only the tallest buildings were visible along the horizon. Vilnacron was a conventionally beautiful city. Towering spires reached high into the night sky, built during the Golden Age on the backs of the rustic factories in Tarn. Roadways, brittle in appearance but solidly constructed arced through the air and coursed around the buildings. It was an graceful city constructed during a more civilized time. It almost seemed out of place is this new world, where the Autobots seemed bent on destroying their home planet rather than allowing the Decepticons to inhabit it as well. It was a jewel that the Autobots in the past had hoped that Iacon would be. The new Autobot leadership didn’t seem to care so much about pleasing aesthetics or the delicate lines of architecture. They were worried more about power.
In some perverse way, Trap understood the Autobots. They had a sort of logic about them, granted one that he would never and could never condone. It was truly strange to observe. Collectively, they wanted something. So they reached for it. Sometimes—rarely, mercifully—they overreached and tumbled into the abyss. All too often, they grasped it with both hands and pulled it close into a suffocating embrace. Then it started over again. This pattern was almost expected by jaded Decepticons like Trap. Perhaps there were even Autobots that felt this way as well, but he doubted it. Autobots were nothing in not forward thinking. Each phase of each operation was going to advance their cause. If there was a setback, it was forgotten as soon as it was over. But the cycle was always there, for millions of years until the Golden Age, the only time of extended peace Cybertron had seen in its many years. Now it was like the Autobots were making up for lost time. Instead of a natural swing back to Decepticon power, the Autobots used their animalistic logic to methodically take control of three-quarters of Cybertron during the short reign of their latest Prime. Optimus Prime. Such an exalted name for such a brutal creature.
All this understanding seemed to do was steel Trap’s resolve. He spent the last few years moving through the political world that he abhorred. He would rather deal with the black-and-white world of law enforcement that the meandering path of politics. He worked rooms filled with pompous drones more enamored of their own voices than with the well-being of all Decepticons, all to try to awaken them to the realities of this new world. This was why he would follow Megatron into the Pit itself. Megatron knew how to speak to all Decepticons, knew how to explain the same basic principle in the language used by the audience he happened to be standing before at the time.
But even after all that Megatron brought to the cause, the Decepticons were still falling behind. It chilled him at times to think of where they would be without Megatron leading the way. The sustained and successful Autobot offensive was still hard to imagine, even for a jaded robot like him. But Trap was sitting before the evidence of that unwanted retreat from this aggression right now. Tarn was gone because the Autobots wanted to flex their pistons. For all of Trap’s understanding of Autobots, he still could not believe that they would destroy an entire city on a whim. It seemed needless. At the very least, it was a colossal waste of resources that the Autobots could use in their war. More than that, it lacked compassion. It lacked decency. It was monsters that acted this way, and how was it that monsters could rule a world without tearing each other apart?
The best of them were murderous thugs who mindlessly trod through life without a worry or a care about themselves, their allies, and of course, their enemies. Trap looked down at the prone form of Windcharger lying some feet away. The worst were the ones that allowed it to happen, that allowed the monsters to roam free.
Windcharger stirred slowly. Trap instinctively reached pulled his weapon to the ready. He tried to learn something new with each passing day. This past day, he learned never to trust his former fellow Tarnish citizen. Windcharger showed he truly was an Autobot.
“What?” Windcharger groaned as he tried to pull himself up. “What happened?”
“If you mean Tarn, you know what happened,” Trap said quietly. “If you mean the state that you’re in, then I guess I happened.”
Trap received the reaction that he expected. Windcharger clawed his arms out, desperately searching for a weapon. Trap was careful enough to leave not as much as a dull slab within reach of the Autobot. Trap cautioned a glance in his direction, just to be certain, before looking again at Tarn. It was called the City of Light during the Golden Age, not because it glowed like a diamond as Vilnacron did, but because all Decepticons knew from where the power that lighted their skies and powered their world was created. Trap slowly shook his head again, unable to fathom what would cause the Autobots to turn the city of ash when they could have harnessed the power. Was it merely because it was a symbol of a Decepticon world? Could they possibly let spite rule over sense? Maybe Trap did not understand the Autobots so well after all.
“I’m surprised that you were a part of this,” Trap said, still looking at the city. Off in the distance, a fresh explosion lit fire to a fallen building. Very likely a spark from some reactor found its way to a still-armed missile. The figures wandering the rubble-strewn streets scrambled for safety. Not Decepticons then. Definitely the Neutrals. The trigger that lead to Tarn’s destruction. Still, Trap was not angry with them. He knew what would happen. He may not understand why the Autobots destroyed Tarn, but he did understand the path they followed. Trap was more to blame then a handful of ignorant Neutrals.
He turned to look again on Windcharger. The Autobot certainly looked as though he had seen better days. One hand dug into Cybertron’s surface as he was trying to gain purchase to keep from falling. The other lay limply to one side. It wasn’t severed, but it might as well be. It was a weapon of Windchager’s that few knew of. Trap knew, and took quick actions to assure that he wasn’t pulled to shreds by the Autobot’s magnetic powers. Still, Windcharger was an able warrior. Trap might have been injured and drained by the time he confronted Windcharger, but he should have been more than a match for the small Autobot. Windcharger caught him off guard, thus the state that he was in. His shattered wings meant a long walk was ahead of him. Laser burns and crushed pistons meant his internal repair systems needed time before he could even start that walk. Mainly thanks to Windcharger.
Things are never as they seem, it appears, Trap thought idly. He glanced at the Autobot, who in turn was glaring at Trap with fire in his optics.
“You’re surprised?” he asked mockingly. “Surprised? Well, that surprises me. You know what happens to Autobots in this town. The snide remarks, the calls for dismantling. The fights.”
“You wouldn’t be much of a Decepticon, let alone much of an Autobot, if you couldn’t put up with a few strangled angry sentences from drunken fools. Don’t start overstating things.”
“I was nearly killed here,” Windcharger shouted. Or rather tried to shout as his voice cracked and gave out at the last word. He coughed violently. Trap cast his optics back to the Autobot, wondering if his useless arm was going to fall off anyway as the spasms racked his frame. After he was through, Windcharger continued, only now his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “I was nearly killed for being nothing more than an Autobot.”
Trap shrugged. “You weren’t killed and your assailants were severely punished. In fact, I believe they were killed while still in their cells for their crimes. They were wrong to do it and punished for it. I don’t make excuses for another’s wrongdoing. That’s not really my place.”
Windcharger laughed. It was a sickly and weak sound. Trap wondered if he was losing energy from some unseen wound.
“You kind of made it your place, though. Didn’t you, constable?”
Trap shook his head, ignoring what undoubtedly was supposed to some biting commentary of his position with the city. “You’re problem, Windcharger, is that you don’t understand. Look at this,” he waved his hand over the shattered city. “It’s gone, and for no reason.”
“It’s gone,” Windcharger confirmed. “And good riddance.”
Trap would have smiled if he thought himself capable. He wondered if Windcharger knew how obvious he was being, trying to bring out a monster in Trap that everybody seemed to think was waiting impatiently to show itself. Trap was not modest about his skills as a warrior and not shy about putting them on display when it was necessary. Others might whisper about some instability deep in his core conscience, but Trap was self-aware. He knew his actions and he knew the consequences. He wanted to teach, but his commanders were worried what his students would learn. But Trap would not change his ways. It was a necessary counterbalance to the maniacal strategies the Autobots deployed. What everybody seemed to forget sometimes, whether it was Decepticons or Windcharger, was that Trap was a Decepticon first or foremost. At least the Decepticons came to see this eventually, no matter the amount of wariness and caution they unwillingly displayed.
“For such a smart ‘bot, you really are an idiot, Windcharger. So short-sighted.” He glanced down at Windcharger, his red optics a sea of calm. “This has more to do with you than me. You were slighted in the past by some drunken fools and your natural reaction is that the city should be laid waste.”
“It was more than slighted.” The anger in Windcharger’s voice nearly reached a boil.
“Perhaps, but can you tell me one Autobot that went missing or was killed within Tarn’s city walls?” He paused for courtesy’s sake, as he already knew the answer. Of course, so did Windcharger. “Of course you can’t. You weren’t going to be killed and those Decepticons paid for their crimes. More than paid, as it turns out,” Trap added softly. “You probably can tell me, however, the number of Decepticons that wind up piles of slag between Tarn and Vilnacron. You’ve seen it. You know that it happens.”
Windcharger said nothing for a long time. He laid his head back again and sighed. A couple of times, Trap watched as he turned his head toward Tarn, his optics narrowing in thought as he watched the smoke rise from the destruction. Trap wondered if he was trying to conjure up some reason for what occurred after all.
“It doesn’t matter why it’s gone,” Windcharger said finally.
“Of course it matters. It delves to the heart of the problem. It’s the root of all things decaying and rotting at the core of this so-called Empire. You’re not the only Autobot who’s short-sighted.” Trap stood gingerly, testing the stability of his legs. His self-repair protocols managed to mend as many circuits as they were going to. The rest of his repairs were going to need steadier hands and greater skill than he had. It was ironic that Windcharger, being a superb field technician, would be able to fix him up almost like new. Not that he ever would, ever the Autobot that he was.
Trap ignored Windcharger pulling away, as if the Autobot expected some killing blow to rain down on him. He should know by now that killing someone in cold fuel was not Trap’s way. Instead, he looked over Tarn one last time. He doubted he would be back. There was no reason for it. He knew that the city would be left a ruin by the Autobots. It would be left as a symbol of what they were capable of and of what happened to those who stood in their way. It would be an unhealed scar until the Decepticons returned to power. Trap’s concern was not if it would happen, but rather what would be left when that day arrived.
“This is the Autobot legacy,” Trap said.
He then turned to leave. He heard scrambling from behind. Maybe Windcharger was looking for a weapon after all. Trap wasn’t in any danger. Windcharger barely had the strength to raise his arm, let alone barrel forward in attack mode.
“No wait,” Windcharger said.
Surprised, Trap turned and looked down at him. Windcharger had managed to twist himself around so that he was lying on his side. His head was turned up to look at him. He was grimacing; the pain he was feeling must be immense. Trap wondered if any of that was internal pain, guilt for his part in the destruction of the city.
“Why should I feel anything for this smelting pit?” Windcharger asked wildly. “I’m an Autobot before I’m Tarnish.”
“But you’re still a citizen of Tarn,” Trap said as if here were stating the most obvious thing in the world. “This was the city of your creation. Autobot, Decepticon… that doesn’t matter. This was your home.”
“I had no home.” Windcharger sounded pained, like he was trying to convince himself of this fact more than he was trying to convince Trap. “Not until I finally left it behind. Left in scrap,” he spat.
Trap sighed. “Maybe it’s not that you won’t understand. Maybe it’s that you can’t. Goodbye, Windcharger. I hope that you find your peace somewhere.”
“Peace?” He crawled forward a few inches before hanging his head heavily against the cold metal surface. “That’s deluded Decepticon philosophy at its worst,” he continued. He was speaking into the ground. After a few moments he lifted his head once more, ice seemingly forming in his blue optics. “What is peace but complacency? Complacency has no place in this universe, Trap. You’ll see.”
“No, Windcharger. It’s you who’ll see. I’m not complacent. I will work until the stars have faded before standing aside to your cruel philosophy.”
Windcharger laughed bitterly. “Right. That’s why you’re willing to walk away and leave me to live. If the situation were reversed, you would be dead already.”
“Well, I don’t really think the situation would be reversed. Do you?”
Windcharger ignored the slight after the merest growl of anger and then said, “Look at Tarn! That is what is reaped when compassion is sown. How many Decepticons were dead before you even knew what was happening? How many more will die because of the Autobots that you will leave to fight and destroy again? Compassion is the reason that you are going to lose this war.
This time, an incredulous smile did form on Trap’s faceplate. He slowly shook his head and looked down at Windcharger with a real sense of pity. Maybe it was the nature of an Autobot to not understand the balance that is struck in the universe. Maybe they were incapable of seeing the push and pull of everything that lived and died. Trap had hoped that Windcharger was different, that his interactions with Decepticons would force him to see what so many Autobots chose to ignore. But maybe he was no more capable of seeing this than any other Autobot. Pity was not a strong enough word for how saddened Trap felt for Windcharger.
He dropped down, sitting on his heels so that Windcharger did not have to strain to look up at Trap’s large form. He took in the confusion Windcharger was expressing and hoped that he might one day see the light.
“No, Windcharger. No. Compassion is the reason that we are going win.”
Trap stood, and without looking down at Tarn again, walked in the direction of Vilnacron, content in the knowledge that he was right. In the end, compassion would win out and evil would fall again.
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