Ganbareh

War is like friendship, and friendship is like death; and all three are like fire. Fire can be left to slowly burn out, to smoulder quietly and fade to darkness with a whimper. Or it can be quenched in an instant and extinguished as quickly as a killshot.

War:

He thought he could end the war with the push of a button, but it was the biggest mistake he had ever made. A mistake that cost the lives of billions.

Cybertron itself was at peace and Optimus Prime sat at his new desk in his new office in the Gravitas Wing of the Council Citadel. An incoming message from Grimlock flashed up on his data terminal, but Optimus cancelled the call. He’d given the Dinobot Commander full control of the Autobot Army so that he could, just for a moment, be King of a peaceful world. He’d heard what Grimlock had to say. And Prowl, and Jazz. But surely after all these million years of war he deserved some respite? The three of them and the Autobots’ Elite Guard could surely handle Galvatron’s forces that massed at the Barricade.

All Optimus wanted was a rest. He just wanted to remove himself from the war.

“Enter,” he said sternly, without lifting his gaze from his desk, and the doors to his office slid open.

Pitstop entered the room, pushing a med-pad into a personal storage compartment. “Optimus,” he said.

Optimus rose from his desk, offering his hand. Pitstop stepped forward and squeezed it. “Earth custom, I know,” Pitstop said with a smile. “Good to see you up and about again, sir.”

“Thank you, Pitstop. I trust all is well with your new assignment.”

“Um, yeah,” the Autobot said, a little distracted. “Everyone’s made me feel right at home and—”

“So what did you want to see me about?” Optimus interrupted.

Pitstop stepped cautiously to the window and looked out onto Praxus Square. “There are a few of us who… well, those of us that served under Fire Convoy. We think—”

“You’re not happy with the choice of statue?”

Pitstop lifted his hands up, palms towards Optimus. “Oh, no! Not at all. We just thought—”

“That Fire Convoy should have one too?”

“Well, yeah.”

Optimus sat back down at his desk, blocking another call from Grimlock. “Sit with me, Pitstop.”

Optimus knitted his fingers together and rested his hands on the desk between Pitstop and himself. “It’s simple economics, really.”

“Economics,” Pitstop echoed.

Optimus shifted position and tapped at the monitor screen of his console. “Maybe I’m not used to a world at peace, or juggling numbers, but my job now is to make sure the Autobots don’t squander their resources.”

“You make it sound like you’re in retirement, sir.”

Optimus narrowed his optics. “Cybertron is so well guarded by the Barricade that, for the time being, we have to make everything last.”

“That’s such a weak argument!”

“What is it with you medics?” Optimus joked. “I used to get the same attitude from Ratchet.”

“Optimus, listen,” Pitstop leaned forwards slightly. “I just want Fire Convoy to be recognised as the hero he was. Especially in light of the way he was treated by Star Saber.”

“I understand that, Pitstop.”

“I don’t think you do! Fire Convoy held the fate of an entire planet in his hands.”

“As did I once.”

“And look what you did. You condemned the planet Earth to death by bringing the war to it.”

Optimus folded his arms tightly in front of his chest. “You cannot add to my guilt, Pitstop.” Optimus suddenly reached for his console and began tapping at the keyboard. “Tell me, Pitstop. When did you come online?”

“Just after the end of the Software Wars.”

“I see. So then you have only a very tiny fraction of my millions of years of experience of war. In fact, wasn’t your time on Earth the first time you’ve ever been in a hostile situation?”

If he had teeth, Pitstop would have bitten his lip. “Yes, sir.”

“You have no idea, then, of the machinations of a galaxy- and time-spanning war.”

“No, sir.”

“The Autobot ranks are full of heroes that deserve a statue as much as, if not more than, Fire—”

“How can you say that? Fire Convoy was your son!”

Optimus laughed. “And I thought I was far too influenced by human culture. Fire Convoy is not my son.”

“Then what is he?”

Optimus glanced down at his abdomen and lightly ran his finger over the nearly healed birthing scar. “My offspring, yes. But not my son. We’re robots, Pitstop, we have no concept of family.”

“In other words you don’t care.”

“Oh, I care, Pitstop. I care about every single Autobot under my command, don’t ever doubt that.”

Pitstop slouched his shoulders. “I don’t doubt that at all, sir. I’m just trying to figure out why you seem to have little regard for your own… offspring.”

“Guanxi.”

“Guanxi?”

“It’s a little used term to describe a relationship between two Autobots. As close as you would get to what the humans call family,” Optimus said, looking intently at Pitstop.

“It takes hundreds of years for true guanxi to develop,” he continued.

Pitstop frowned for a moment, considering his leader’s words. Then he smiled sadly at Optimus. “Like you and Ultra Magnus.”

“Yes. Exactly like that.”

It was then that Pitstop realised what Star Saber was hoping to achieve: to fight a war with Optimus at the most personal level. Optimus had lost so much recently and it was no wonder he no longer wanted to fight.

“This isn’t good for you.”

“What isn’t?”

“Sitting in this office. You’ve severed all military ties, and ties with Prowl and the others. They’ve all been with you since the beginning, and now you’re ignoring them.”

Optimus looked at the list of blocked messages from the likes of Grimlock and Prowl on his console screen. “I’m not. I’m…”

Pitstop tapped the bridge of his nose, somewhat cynically.

“I’m dealing with this in my own way.”

“You don’t have to,” Pitstop smiled. “There are hundreds of Autobots out there who admire you and want the best for you, whether they’re enjoying the peace on Cybertron or keeping things safe at the Barricade.”

“I know, Pitstop. I know,” said Optimus, standing up. “And that fact is a great comfort to me. After millions of years of war, it’s the one thing that comforts a leader.”

Pitstop stood up as well. “I don’t think enough of us truly realise what effects the toll of war has had on you.”

“I just need some space, Pitstop.”

Pitstop shook Optimus’ hand a second time and walked towards the door. “I’ll be in touch again about that statue,” he laughed.

His feelings towards the war had reached ganbareh, and he didn’t know what to do for the best. Optimus waited for the door to close and he sank back down at his desk and continued to hide behind his monitor screen.

Friendship:

“Hey, space ranger!” Bumblebee said with a smile as he entered Sideburn’s personal quarters.

Sideburn casually glanced up from the pile of datapads that had been strewn across the table. “Hey.” And then he realised who it was. “Oh, hey!” Sideburn smiled. “Bumblebee.”

“Not long till graduation, eh?”

“Still too long if you ask me,” sighed the cadet. “I just wish all this was over.”

“It’ll fly by, trust me,” Bumblebee reassured.

“You mean you were a cadet once?”

“Before the war. In fact, I was part of the last groups of classes before it was shut down.”

“So no academy for four million years?”

“Nope,” Bumblebee said with regret, “by that time the resistance had moved underground, so everyone was pretty much thrown into the war.”

“Wow,” said Sideburn.

“What?”

“You really know your stuff.”

“I guess,” Bumblebee said, realising that perhaps for the first time, someone was actually looking up to him and not the other way around.

“So what brings the Autobots’ espionage director to the quarters of a cadet?”

“Optimus was worried.”

“Optimus?” Sideburn tried not to sneer, but his upper-lip got the better of him. “I’m surprised he even knows I exist.” The blue Autobot thumbed one of the datapads. “I mean, does he even care?”

Bumblebee snatched the datapad from Sideburn’s hand. “He cares about every single Autobot under his command, don’t ever doubt that.”

Bumblebee quickly checked himself and returned the datapad. “He was worried about the effects of the Globequake on you.”

“You mean Speedbreaker’s death?”

Bumblebee, only slightly taller than Sideburn, rested a hand on his shoulder. “I know what it means to lose a friend.”

“So we have something in common. We could meet for an energon shooter after I finish classes to talk about it,” Sideburn said, smiling.

“A wise-bot, eh?” Bumblebee said, shaking his head. “I used to have the same attitude.”

“And what changed it?”

“Oh, about four million years of war.”

Sideburn let slip a quiet chuckle. “I was always told to keep smiling and never to let things get to me.”

“Wise words, my friend,” Bumblebee said as he absently glanced around the quarters. “But seriously, Optimus was worried, and if you ever need to talk—"

“Thanks,” replied Sideburn. “But I’m doing okay, I feel safe.”

“Ah yes,” said Bumblebee. “The illusion of safety.”

“How do you mean?”

Bumblebee walked towards the window of Sideburn’s quarters. “Iacon exists within a bubble. It always has done.”

“A bubble?”

“Yeah, even before the war started the Council of Elders set Iacon apart from the rest of Cybertron. It was the best guarded and protected, with the biggest of barricades of all the city-states.

“We all felt safe inside, and even when war broke out between Vos and Tarn the illusion was maintained.” Bumblebee shifted position, noticing that Sideburn had sat down and was giving him his full attention. “Up until Arklaunch that is, and then the war reached ganbareh and Trannis just went all-out against Iacon.”

“And now you’re saying I feel safe because a bubble has been created again?”

“Exactly,” Bumblebee smiled. “We are a world at peace. Each of us free to choose what we want: To stay here and attend the academy or to patrol the Barricade, or anything else in between.”

“So you’re saying we’re not really safe?”

“Yes. Even now the Decepticons are amassing at the Barricade,” Bumblebee frowned. “Despite what Optimus says.”

“Gee,” Sideburn said sarcastically, “thanks for ruining my day.”

Bumblebee laughed at himself. “I don’t mean to scare you. I guess it felt nice to be able to talk to someone who hasn’t been spoiled by all these years of war.”

Sideburn’s chronometer bleeped loudly. “I have to go. Classes start in two breems,” he said, gathering up the rest of the datapads and jumping towards the door. “But we can meet up later if you like.”

“Sure.”

And there ended the first conversation of a newly formed guanxi.

Death:

With every step, it was there. With every flex of his thigh and with every bend of his knee, it was there. It wasn’t so much as a mouse-squeak coming from the joint, but maybe more of a high-pitched grating noise, like the grinding of metal teeth.

With every step a sharp jab lanced through his circuits. He was tough enough to block it, and tough enough to hide it from his fellow Autobots. Except maybe Emirate Xaaron, of course. It was a wound that he refused to let heal because it was a reminder of why he did the things he did. It reminded him of the pain each and every Cybertronian felt during the war.

With every step around Praxus Square (a memorial plaza built outside the Council Citadel), the memories came flooding back. The gates of his memory circuits flapped at their hinges as a million bits of data engulfed his brain.

Alpha Centauri kissed the horizon of the Transformers homeworld and silhouetted the statue before him. The noise bounced into his audio receptors as he walked towards the statue. More reminders of the past, more memories, more—

It was 2387. Impactor turned suddenly, reacting to a noise behind him. A golden robot with a vented mouth greeted him with open arms. Impactor turned back to the statue and then back to his old leader.

Praxus Square was deserted, but old friends surrounded him.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Xaaron said. “He’s dead to those that are alive, but alive to those that are dead.”

“Trapped forever,” Impactor said dryly. “Lucky him for reaching ganbareh.”

“The price of defeating monsters and saving worlds.”

“Heroic nonsense, Xaaron.”

“Well I seem to remember you doing something similar,” Xaaron said, tapping his nose. “Twice.”

Impactor opened his left palm and angrily slammed his right fist into it. “Star Saber will pay for what he’s done, I swear.”

“But how? Not even the Vok could kill him.”

“It just shows ineffective they are. They go around like some kind of ‘space mafia’ but only follow their own agenda.”

“There’s little we can do in our present condition.”

“You mean dead.”

Xaaron glanced up at the statue. “It’s a better fate than what’s planned for him.”

“Give it a rest, Fizzle,” Guzzle said, putting a finger against his mouth.

Sizzle concurred. “I really doubt that it was some grand scheme of Primus’s to give us rhyming names.”

“I’d just like to think that there was more to it than just our creator having a sense of humour.”

The three Sparkabots made their way across Praxus Square towards the statue of Ultra Magnus.

“I feel kinda dumb talking to a statue. What am I supposed to say?”

“Just say good-bye, Guzzle, and thank him,” Fizzle replied.

Guzzle shuffled his feet uncomfortably, looking at the stoic expression on Ultra Magnus’ face. “Thanks, big guy. We were hoping to say good-bye in person when you joined us but, well, you had to go and merge with Fire Convoy didn’t you?”

“Beautiful, just beautiful,” said Fizzle, before composing himself. “Magnus. You know I’m not really one for sentiment, and I had always hoped you were the one who killed Galvatron. You know, because of my own death.”

Sizzle coughed, distracting Fizzle. “Sorry,” Fizzle said. “Getting carried away again. Thanks for everything Magnus.”

“Good-bye,” Sizzle said quietly.

The three Autobots faded, and Praxus Square was once again deserted—by the living or otherwise. In death, Transformers were free to visit any place, time, or dimension to simply observe or say good-bye. The Sparkabots had chosen this time and place because Ultra Magnus had reached ganbareh and was destined never to die.

Fire:

The clock said it was the middle of the night, but for the lone occupant of the Aktirak, it was always the middle of the night. The Warrior sat motionless, quiet as a stolen kiss. But inside his mind, his thoughts raged like immutable fire.

The opposing viewpoints and personalities of Ultra Magnus and Fire Convoy had been depolarised and merged. They were at ganbareh. It was a mindcircus, and their self-imposed solitary exile wasn’t helping.

They were no closer to the future than they were from the past. They were trapped: unable to truly die, yet unable to truly live.

Still, only four hundred and ninety-nine years to go.

Optimus Prime dashed out of his office and down the corridor towards the recreation centre of the citadel. His circuits were charged with urgency, finally realising that his life would reach ganbareh if he didn’t act now.

“Tow-Line,” he snapped at the relaxing Autobot, “dust down that Apex Armour you insisted on building for me and get it to the Brave Maximus as soon as you can.

“Pitstop, we need urgent medical response at the Barricade. Grimlock’s troops are dropping like meteors.

“Bumblebee, we’re going to require some stealth.

“Wildride, we need strategy. Mach Alert, your tracking skills are needed.

“Full briefings when we’re spaceborne, for now just get yourselves to the Ibex Spaceport.”

The Autobots immediately snapped to attention, charged by their leader’s words, little realising how close Optimus Prime was to ganbareh—the point of no return.