A Causal-Loop Christmas

T’wazz the night before Christmas,
and all through the Axalon;
Not a creature was stirring,
not even a... rat?!

Rattrap sat, with slumped shoulders and chin in cupped hands, watching the snow fall. Thick frost had crawled across the outermost layer of glass on the port-side window that separated the Axalon’s control room from the white, barren world outside. The snow fell slowly, like a dusting of icing sugar. Peering down, he could see that the tracks left by Airazor and Tigatron had already been covered over.

He was almost jealous of Tigatron and Airazor. They were somehow immune to Optimus’s inept leadership, allowed to traipse off into the wilderness whenever they felt like it. Even after near-annihilation at the claws of the latest protoform-turned-Predacon, Tigatron was keen to leave as soon as he’d been repaired. Cheetor, poor childish, eager Cheetor joked that Tigatron should reformat into a snow plough if going out into the unforgiving high-contrast winter weather. Rattrap snapped back (but out of earshot of Airazor, of course) that he was sure Tigatron had an altogether different kind of ploughing in mind. Well, it raised a smile from Rhinox.

Rattrap’s eyes were heavy with boredom, but every few minutes he’d lift an eyebrow and glance across at the Axalon’s defence network controls. A small screen maintained the helpful message that Sentinel and the “autoguns” were, indeed, online. Rattrap scoffed. Autoguns. How like Rhinox to dumb everything down for the crew. In his own way he was helpful, but woefully patronising. He probably figured that this mismatched band of explorers-not-warriors had enough to think about without filling their naive minds with jargon. No, maybe not patronising, maybe considerate. And that’s what separated Rattrap from the other Maximals, a positively total lack of consideration.

But how could that be true when he had silenced Sentinel’s alerts to video-only? The Maximal’s beast modes had taken their toll and now all of a sudden they needed sleep cycles and rest. Long gone were the days of turbo-pass charge-ups in the regeneration chambers. One look at the bags under Optimus’s beast mode eyes was enough to make Rattrap want to keep things quiet while on night shift.

Rattrap checked the time. It was nearing midnight, which meant only another six hours left of his shift. He thought about a snack. Maybe a pizza for a change from all those limburger sandwiches. Yeah, he thought, looking again at the frigid landscape outside.

Rattrap’s dry voice croaked out loud: “Computer,” he said, “get a pizza on the go, eh? And I want it like the snow outside: Deep pan, crisp and even.”

“Acknowledged.”

Checking the time again, Rattrap reckoned he could make a sweep of the Axalon’s main level corridors and back again in time for his snack. If he could be bothered.

He couldn’t be bothered.

Sentinel’s viewscreen flashed but failed to attract the rat’s attention. Two words blinked repeatedly: “Intruder alert!”

Within the Axalon’s main engine bay a most curious occurrence began to unfold. Behind a pile of storage containers and neatly stacked fuel rods a lone figure busied himself arranging seven knitted red stockings along the rim of the primary engine core. Each stocking had stitched upon it the names of the seven Maximals (including an ex-Predacon) that resided on board the Axalon.

The figure, dressed in a rich red hooded robe with snow white cuffs and polished black boots, turned to a huge brown hessian sack and bent down to reach for its contents. The figure, seemingly of a jolly disposition, sang quietly to himself as he rummaged around inside the sack.

A high-pitched voice echoed out around the cavernous engine bay and startled the figure. He stopped singing and turned around.

“Well, well,” Rattrap squealed, cocking his rifle.

The figure stared at Rattrap though his thick white beard and raised his hands into a position of surrender. Rattrap frowned in disbelief for a moment before jabbing at a large red button on the wall. To hell with Primal’s bags, he thought to himself as he activated a red alert.

The room flashed crimson and an almighty siren wailed out. The figure maintained his pose. Rattrap peered through the beard to see if he could see a pair of eyes, anything that might betray the identity of the infiltrator who had managed to bypass both the Axalon’s autoguns and Sentinel’s defence systems.

And then Rattrap realised exactly what was going on. “Oh,” he said. “You have got to be kidding me!”

Optimus Primal stood, sword in hand, alongside his troops as the five Maximals closed in on the mystery figure. Cheetor held his quasar cannon up to chest level, Rattrap kept his rifle locked on the target using both hands to steady his aim, Rhinox warmed up his gattling gun and Dinobot began spinning his tail weapon.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Cheetor called out to the stranger.

“Take off that hood and ridiculous white beard,” ordered Optimus Primal.

Moving slowly, the figure did as told and pulled the beard from his face and the hood from his head.

“I don’t believe this!” Dinobot spat in disgust.

The figure, who, let’s remind ourselves, had mere moments before been hanging stockings, each with the names of those now pointing vicious weapons at him embroidered on, loosened the shiny black belt from around his waist and allowed the generous deep red robe fall to the ground, revealing his true form... wings and all.

“Alright Waspinator,” Optimus said disinterestedly, “I don’t know what your plan is, nor do I want to know, but you can pack up your things and--”

“No!” protested Dinobot. “We must find out what he’s up to! Is he planting a bomb? Spy equipment for the Predacons?”

“Take him to the brig and interrogate him!” shouted Cheetor.

“Crack open his ugly little face and hack his brain,” suggested Rattrap, bloodthirstily.

Rhinox, unlike the other Maximals, remained calm and quiet, keeping his focus on the large brown sack that lay by Waspinator’s side.

“C-can explain!” said Waspinator.

“We don’t want to hear any explanation!” shouted Cheetor.

“Yes, we do!” protested Dinobot. “Pry the information from his prattling mandibles!”

Rattrap marched a step closer to the Predacon intruder. “Pull off all his arms and legs and wings and shove his dismembered body into the waste-disposal compactor.”

The other Maximals, apart from Rhinox, turned to Rattrap.

“Well, my pizza’s burnt now, thanks to him.”

Optimus turned to Waspinator. “You have thirty seconds to explain yourself before we open fire.”

“Maximals not ever heard of Christmas?” asked Waspinator.

“Vaguely,” said Cheetor.

“It’s an Earthen festival,” said Dinobot. “Popular among humans, especially at the height of their first capitalist empire before it was banned in the mid 21st Century in the face of strengthened religious and cultural diversity.”

“Wow,” Rattrap whispered.

Dinobot continued: “Prior to its cessation, its primary rituals included feasting, celebrating and gift-giving.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Waspinator. “Gift-giving! Waspinator here to leave gifts for you all.” He knelt down and opened up the sack to reveal a pile of neatly and beautifully wrapped gifts.

“Lies!” cried Rattrap, his irrational bloodlust for all Predacons overwhelming him. “Slice up his abdomen and serve the yellow bits to the lions and the black bits to the vultures!”

“Rattrap, please,” said Optimus. He turned to his trusted advisor for a more reasoned opinion. “Rhinox, you’ve been pretty quiet. Thoughts?”

Rhinox, still fascinated with the contents of the sack did not respond to his commanding officer but instead asked Waspinator: “The large square package, with the shiny green wrapping paper, and the red bow and golden ribbons... is that for me?”

Waspinator smiled. “Waspinator checked his list, and noticed that Rhinox been very good this year.”

“Alright,” said Optimus. “That is enough! The fact remains that you are a sworn enemy who has snuck into our base, planning to do who-knows-what. You have to be dealt with.”

“But Optimus,” said Cheetor. “He’s acting... well, nice. Strange, but nice.”

“Foolish child,” snarled Dinobot. “This is war. And he is now a prisoner of war. We should execute him.”

“Yeah,” agreed Rattrap. “Set the infra-red warmers to full output and barbecue his--”

“Shut up, Rattrap!”

“One more question,” Optimus asked Waspinator. “Why the disguise?”

“No, not disguise,” Waspinator explained. “Costume. This is my costume for Christmas. Waspinator wears it every year while he travels the world delivering presents to children.”

“Wait, what?” said Dinobot. “This is preposterous!”

“All true,” continued Waspinator. “Every 24th of December, every year since the human’s 3rd Century!”

Dinobot turned his back as if to storm out of the engine room in abject disgust. “I am not listening to another word. Someone let me know when we’ve all agreed to eviscerate the intruder.”

Optimus Primal let his shoulders slide down. “I am sorry Waspinator, but this all sounds too... fantastic. Unless you can somehow prove your claims, which I highly doubt, then you will be confined to the brig until your fate is determined.”

“Why else would Waspinator go to all this trouble?” questioned Cheetor.

“Oh!” said Rattrap sarcastically. “It must be true. Look at the efforts he’s gone to, look at the fine stitching on his coat! The Predacons must be so bored with the ‘Beast Wars’ now that they’ve resorted to twisting human lore to mask a clumsy infiltration.”

Cheetor laughed. “Well he got past both you and Sentinel.”

Rattrap shook his fist at the young cat. “Why I ought to--”

“Shut up, Rattrap,” said Optimus. “Waspinator, do you have any evidence at all. Anything?”

Waspinator pointed to Dinobot. “Lizardbot got good files on Earth history, search his datatracks and you’ll see.”

Optimus Primal sheathed his sword and put a hand on Dinobot’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “The rest of you keep a close eye on Waspinator.”

Dinobot activated his personal computer terminal housed in the corner of his personal quarters. His commander stood behind him, hands on hips.

“So how come Predacons have such detailed datatracks on Earth history?” Optimus asked.

“For occasions such as this,” Dinobot sneered. “Obviously.” The ex-Predacon waited for the system to boot up before ordering a search string. “Datatracks Joulupukki, cross-reference ‘Christmas’, cross-reference ‘Sightings’.”

“Acknowledged. Processing. Search returns 113 results. Command?”

“This could take a while,” Optimus whispered to Dinobot.

“Play all,” Dinobot commanded.

The viewscreen flickered into life with listings of various eye-witness accounts, video footage, transcripts and other commentaries of night-sky sightings of a mysterious flying figure, dressed in red, sighted in all eras, in all parts of the world, seemingly delivering gifts.

“This is too vague,” said Optimus.

“Agreed,” said Dinobot. “How can we ascertain if any of these are Waspinator? It’s possible he’s spent his entire past on Earth, but to do this?”

“What sets him apart from these ‘Father Christmas’ sightings? Is he really that person? Or has he just been doing his homework and is pretending to be him?”

“There’s no way to tell.”

Optimus Primal moved towards the console, asking Dinobot: “Do you mind if I narrow down the search?”

“Why not? This is entirely an exercise in futility anyway!”

Optimus tapped the keyboard with a few choice keywords and narrowed down the search. “Tell me Dinobot, when Waspinator is flying about, going about his own business, what usually happens to him?”

“What’s your point?”

Optimus pointed to the screen, at his narrowed-down search, showing Dinobot what had happened during almost every single Christmas sortie.

“Oh!” said Dinobot.

“Oh, indeed,” said Optimus. “And if Waspinator/Santa Claus in there can corroborate with this evidence, then I for one believe he’s telling the truth.”

Dinobot laughed. “That for hundreds and hundreds of years an Earthen myth of a fly-by-night perennial gift-giver dressed in red, has always been, in fact, a compound-eyed dull-witted Predacon called Waspinator?”

“Yup.”

Optimus Primal marched into the Axalon’s engine room with Dinobot in tow. The other Maximals were as they were left: pointing weapons at Waspinator and his brown sack of Christmas presents. The situation broke all existing records for absurdity.

Optimus walked up to Waspinator and asked him a question. “Sometime in the 11th Century, while flying over Finland delivering presents to the children there, what happened to you?”

Waspinator replied: “Shot down by Vikings using spears.”

Rattrap laughed.

Optimus shook his head and asked another question. “At the turn of the first Century, while flying over the Mediterranean Sea, delivering presents to children living on the Greek Islands, what happened?”

Waspinator sighed. “Shot down by Roman Imperials using javelins.”

Rattrap laughed again.

Another question. “300 BC. Flying over Athens. Delivering presents. What happened?”

“Shot down by catapult.”

“1960s. Flying over the USSR. Y’know. Outcome?”

“2S31 Vena self-propelled 120mm mortar fire.”

“Shall I carry on?” Optimus asked.

“No!” said Waspinator.

“Yes!” laughed Rattrap.

“Okay, one last one. Mid-eighties, flying over Oregon on Christmas Eve...”

“Shot down by Starscream. He’d been annoyed at himself for saving a busload of pensioners and wanted to vent.”

“Wait, wait. Wait!” cried Rattrap. “You’re telling me that this sad Pred spent every Christmas trying to deliver presents to humans and every year he was shot down?”

“Shot down, blown up, sucked into jet intakes, struck by lightning sort of thing,” Waspinator admitted.

“You sir,” Rattrap announced. “..are an idiot! That is the thanks you get, nearly killed. And every year you go back for more? HA!”

Optimus Primal, suddenly feeling very sorry for the Predacon about to be executed in front him, asked Waspinator: “Why?”

“Waspinator gets sick of being evil all the time and Waspinator loves Christmas. Waspinator wanted to go to Earth, back in time, to dress up in red and make gifts for everyone. Waspinator want to mirror highest ideals dreamt up by humans. Waspinator want people to retain wonderful childlike purity, keep innocence shining in a dark and dysmal world. That why Waspinator pick the middle of winter, when world is cold and dark. Waspinator want to become example of selfless giving, showing mercy and unfaltering love, to friends and enemies. That why Waspinator came here tonight, wanted to show Maximals what Christmas can bring, even in the middle of a war.”

Optimus Primal shook his head solemnly. The other Maximals remained silent, incredulous. “Lower your weapons,” he said.

Without taking their eyes from him, they lowered their weapons, pointed them to the floor instead of their enemy.

Optimus turned to his followers. “Waspinator has, at great risk to himself, shown us the meaning of Christmas, fellow Maximals. We were too quick to judge, to point our weapons and bay for blood. We were too quick to act without thinking. This Predacon’s actions tonight shame both us as Maximals and our Autobot heritage. We are supposed to be a peaceful race; merciful, forgiving and generous. How many times have we shot at Waspinator? How many times have we attacked him? And yet here he stands, tonight, bearing gifts and offering peace. We are shamed.”

Optimus turned to Waspinator. “And I am shamed most of all. I am supposed to be the captain of an exploration vessel, and look what has become of me. I even named our conflict the ‘Beast Wars’ with hand held high like an insane warlord.”

“Well I wanted to tone it down a bit and call it ‘Beasties’,” Rattrap whispered.

“Waspinator,” Optimus continued: “You are free to go without repercussion. This is one Christmas where you won’t be shot down, I promise.”

“Waspinator thank you,” said the Predacon. “Waspinator leave gifts. Not to be opened until the morning.”

Waspinator gathered his things and left the engine room, heading towards the control centre where he would leave the Axalon via the lifts. As he left he said: “Happy Christmas, Maximals.”

“Happy Christmas Waspinator.”

The room fell silent. The events of the night had given the Maximals plenty to think about. They turned to each other and smiled. A warm, contented feeling rose inside each of them.

“Poor soul,” said Cheetor. “Imagine every Christmas getting shot down, year after year.”

“Well not this year,” said Optimus, smiling.

“Shall we open our presents now?” asked Rhinox.

“Sure.”

As the Maximals excitedly rushed to open their gifts, laughing and cheering as they did so, Rattrap realised something. He realised, in the excitement, that he had forgotten something very important. There was something he had forgotten to disable before Waspinator left the Axalon. He raced over to the nearest console screen and once he’d read the blinking words that shone across it, he closed his eyes tight and thought, bugger.

Those words read: “Autoguns online. Target acquired.”

The end.