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Devcon had thought that he would never go back to Cybertron. Even now, as he gently slid into the atmosphere, he kept silent, reluctant to hail the planet although he was probably setting off all kinds of security alerts. Cybertron looked very different from when he had last seen it, over a million years earlier, yet in many ways it was no different: a destitute planet, ravaged by violence and all but drained of its resources. Old feelings of frustration bubbled up within him and he suppressed a ridiculous urge to turn and flee. Incoming ship, you have entered Cybertronian airspace. Please identify yourself and state your business. The words

In so many ways, they were such children. "For Cybertron's sake, lower your fuming ramp!" Brainwave screamed. He was in full panic, clinging to the top of Cruise Control in her armoured car mode, and shooting ineffectually at what Solar Flare could only assume were the combined security forces of Monacus' casinos. Amused more than concerned, Solar Flare complied, although her crew were still long minutes away from entry. The golden ship's engines stayed cool, although she primed one of her wing-cannons, just in case. Being an asteroid, Monacus had no governing laws, however the independent casinos that exploited this were apparently allied

The Short Fuse was one of the more peaceful bars in the mixed bag of societies and planets that made up the Orgenon Cluster.  It had the same amount of brawls as any other drinking establishment, but the patrons generally observed the courtesy of using their fists rather than guns or knives.  Consequently, it enjoyed a fair degree of popularity among those truly looking for a break from the daily struggle of living in the Cluster and also among those who were passing through and looking for a rest-stop. Devcon had not been through the Cluster for a good century, so he was pleased to find that the Fuse was still thriving.  A bounty hunter by

"I think the answer may be in the Matrix—in the memories of the ancient Autobot leaders." Rodimus Prime's tone was heavy, and Arcee frowned, her euphoria draining away.  Since their arrival on Junk, the stress of the past several hours had seemed to be over.  Springer had been miraculously rebuilt, they were back among friends, and the path home to Cybertron was clear.  Even the implications of Galvatron's return were diminished by the knowledge that today, at least, everybody was safe.  Yet their leader was still worried, not only by Galvatron, but by the Quintessons and their mysterious interest in the Autobots. Springer, on the othe

"I have to say," Ratchet was heard to observe.  "Organic bodies never cease to amaze me with the things they're programmed to do—without programming, as it were." A handful of Autobots had gathered in the Ark's medical bay as much for the purpose of socialising as anything else.  The med-bay was one of the few rooms in the Ark that had been initially designed for its current use.  True, half the Ark's original med-bay had collapsed and the rest had since been merged with the crawlspace that had formerly housed coolant ducts, but a med-bay it had always been.  Although there were four Autobots in the current ranks who were capable of per

The war came one morning, not in the explosion of violence that Ironhide had expected, but in a stream of injuries.  Robots from across the city came flowing into Alpha Trion’s workshop sporting damage from laserfire or explosions, or carrying the worse injured.  Alarmed, the workshop inhabitants protested that they were not trained medical personnel, that they did not have the necessary resources.  The answer came that all of the hospitals were already overflowing and two on the far side of Iacon had been bombed.  The reason?  The Decepticons had declared war on all Autobots. Much daunted, they got to work.  There was a hangar behind t