I have been warning about this fic for a while now. That monster mega large mother of all Transformers stories that will seriously take every bit of mental thinky power that my brain meat can muster I had been talking about in my profile? This is it.
I warn. In the future there will be minor crossovering with other transformer verses (but not till later). You have been warned.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the deranged and crazy plot. And, before you ask, Maccadam is a canon character.
On with the fic.
A few million years in the past…
The city located on Cybertron's lower east quadrant was possibly the most idiotically designed city on Cybertron.
Some figured, and rightly so did they deduce this, that it was darkest, dimmest and dreariest place on the planet. While it went by some rather unpleasant terms like the 'Pit gate' or the 'Hellhole', its actual name was Acerbinox. It was the city of bitter night.
It was a terrible place. Not for the reason that it was war torn because it wasn't surprisingly enough. Even though it was located on the cusp of both Decepticon and Autobot territory, it actually fell under the warring armies' radar since it had no strategic merit. It was a neutral zone.
No, it was a disagreeable and despised location because of the way it was built.
The whole place was designed like a Chinese jigsaw puzzle. There was no rhyme or reason to it. It was easy to get lost, almost as if the city itself actually wanted to get you lost. It was nearly impossible to get anywhere and much to its occupants' frustration, a simple walk could easily lead to one having to wander pointlessly and without direction for Orns before finding their way back.
The crooked streets were placed erratically, twisting and turning every which way. You would be tempted down a potentially straight path only to find yourself face to face with an impossibly tall iron wall that there was no way past. You would backtrack and continue down the crooks and nannies of the horrible city. At least until you would come across a split in the rode. With two ways back you would undoubtedly take the wrong path and lose yourself further into the bowels of the stinking city.
Yet ironically enough, this horrid place was one of the most visited places on Cybertron by both Decepticons and Autobots alike.
But why would anyone subject themselves to coming to such a heinous and confusing place?
For one reason.
To get overcharged, and plastered out of their minds.
Somehow, after wandering for who knows how long through cold, empty streets, after searching through labyrinth like corridors and tangles of buildings, the puzzle like city would grow tired of you and let you free of it's maze like structure. And you would, inevitably, end up in the place you were, without a doubt, looking for.
It was a small little shoddy structure tucked neatly and discreetly into one of the city's corners.
The building was circular and four levels high. The roof and fourth story was crowned with grimy, yellow tinted windows. The dark cobalt metal of the structure was old and rusting at the seams where the metal plates were locked together.
Above the door, bright red lights flickered dully spelling the name of the shady structure.
Maccadam's Old Oil House
It was a place one could relax and reflect or forget one's life. It was a place of no judgment. It was a place of no questions asked. A place where one could unwind. It alone was the only reason anyone would wander into the mind-boggling nightmare that was Acerbinox.
It was also the single biggest source of black market fuel on Cybertron.
Not that anyone cared about that little tidbit of trivia knowledge. Who cared where the goods came from as longs as they were there, right?
Inside was dimly lit, obscuring the faces of the bar's occupants with shadows. In the corner a harpsichord, an old neutral transformer who came and preformed every so often, was playing soft tunes. No one knew his name, and no one really cared. He simply faded into the background as did his music. So calling him 'That piano guy' sufficed.
Business was slow at the moment so the room was scarcely occupied save for a few regulars and a small group of younger mechs that were hunched over their various grades of energon. They were quietly chatting away with some nonsensical verbiage that only youngsters could spew out. All of them were overseen by the watchful optics of a burly old mech located behind the counter. He was polishing a tall octagonal shaped glass with an old rag with a sort of rough care.
Of course it wasn't really glass. Giving something so fragile to an inebriated mech with the grip force of over 3,000 lbs would not be the brightest of things to do. No, each glass was a substance created from carved crystal reinforced with translucent metal shavings. If you asked the old mech, he would tell you that he created the durable substance after getting irritated with losing several of his mugs in brawl fights.
He was the bartender, Old man Maccadam: a mech known for his sharp tongue and short fuse. He was the building's owner. He was the master of the small realm.
If you wanted to have a happy stay in said realm you would follow his rules. It wasn't really asking much since he only had two policies.
One: "If you can pay, you can stay." He never questioned his patrons regarding their allegiance and in return expected them to keep it under wraps. It was a place that Autobots, Decepticons and Neutralists alike could simply drink and forget without the risk of losing life or limb-- unless a bar brawl broke out, but generally whatever the drunks started Maccadam finished. For an elderly man he had a mean punch and could easily lift two grown mechs and toss them several Vuns away. He would not hesitate to do so either.
That led to the second policy: "You break it, I break you." Maccadam understood that energon loosened the glossa, but if your overzealous, drunken emotions took control and you started picking a fight with another mech, if the confrontation looked like it was going to be mech fluidly and violent, you sure as hell better take it outside. If one bolt was damaged inside the building you would get chucked out the nearest window faster then you could say, Sentinel Prime.
But no, there were no drunken fights at the moment. Besides the slightly off key harpsichord playing in the corner and the clinks of glass against metal, all was mostly quiet.
Maccadam set down a now spotless glass and picked up another one. He gave it a quick wipe with the cloth and discovered that there was a stubborn speck of encrusted something that was not willing to give way to the rag. Mildly irritated, he applied more pressure and virtually scraped the offending fleck off until the glass sparkled in soft, yellow lights of the tavern.
Maccadam was an average looking old timer with a pissy temper. His armor was of a much, much older design then most had, and he was colored with primarily earthen colors like soft greens and pale browns. Besides his tender, ripe age, which in such a warlike time was a rarity, there was nothing particularly spectacular or noticeable about him. He was normal.
Yup. That was what he was, completely normal.
Except for his optics. Those were not normal at all.
The fact that his optics were always narrowed because of the perpetual sneer engraved on his face didn't help all that much either. Regardless, it was generally assumed that it was simply an error in one's sight induced by the overcharged haze of energon.
Because all odds were against them being the green they appeared to be.
Many figured that it was the poor lighting of the bar that made them look the way they did. It would be easy for the dull, yellowy-orange light to reflect on blue optics giving them the appearance of a different color.
Yet they were so dark, and vibrant. Almost like glowing emeralds that held a sort of wise clarity that only age can bring.
Unless you angered him. In that case said clarity would become clouded with rage.
Speaking of which, his green optics shot up when he heard the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. A burgundy armored mech was sprawled out on the ground with and empty mug rolling back and forth next to his head. He made a noise that sounded like the spawn child of both a giggle and a pained moan. The sound was leaning more toward a moan though, Maccadam guessed, as the mech rolled over onto his side so he wasn't leaning uncomfortably on the curved fins protruding from his back.
And on those fins stood the proudly dark, violet sigil of the Decepticon alliance.
Apparently, the mech's drinking buddy, while not being in a much better state, did not get entirely floored like his friend. He did, however, drunkenly slide out of his chair onto all fours, laughing madly about nothing. Weakened by his bouts of laughter he was able to crawl to his friend and help him up. Miraculously the two were able to get on their feet again, and using each other as living crutches, were able to stagger out the door in hysterics.
Maccadam walked around the counter to the table in order to collect the energon coins left behind for their drinks. They left twice the actual cost of their drinks.
That's why Maccadam loved happy drunks. They were great tippers.
And who said Decepticons couldn't be generous?
He pocketed the money into one of his smaller subspace compartments. Then he gathered several empty glasses, some with droplets of glowing liquid lining the bottom, and held them in one of his large arms securely before going over the table roughly with a rag to remove any spilt liquid.
As he worked, he couldn't help but overhear the conversation held between a small group of young mechs a few tables down.
"You know…they say he's one of the original thirteen," One of the youngsters, a tiny fellow with a blue visor covering his optics, spoke with hushed tones.
"Who? Old man Maccadam?" another asked.
In hearing his name Maccadam sent a sideways glance in their direction, but continued to work on cleaning the table.
The proud red insignias on their bodies indicated the little brats to be Autobots.
Ah. Autobots. Maccadam was torn. Part of him thought that they were a good group of mechs with their sparks in the right place. On the other hand he also thought that they were irritating idiots and figured that there would be no greater joy then booting them out the door of his bar and off the nearest cliff.
But then that would be bad for business. Money was money after all.
"That old, crotchety bastard as one of the original thirteen? How much energon have you had so far? You know that's just a stupid rumor made by those drunken hobos." A light sea green mech leaned back in his chair and gulped the last droplets of his hot pink drink. He wiped his lips with his arm and refilled his empty glass with the pitcher.
The mech was blissfully unaware about how close the "old, crotchety bastard" was too shoving his foot up his exhaust pipe. Maccadam did not take kindly to being insulted in his territory. Yet he restrained, if only because he was curious to hear the tale being woven about him.
"It's true! They say he's was one of the first thirteen created by Primus. Also, his bar's supposed to be like… a place that exists outside of space and time, linking all realties or something," the visored 'Bot said whimsically.
"I did hear something like that," the third mech at the table, a rugged looking calico, added softly. He held on to his glass with both hands and swirled the liquid in the cup with lazy circular motions.
"Oh, Surgebreaker, not you too," the irritating green one moaned.
"Hey, I'm not sayin' any of it's true or nothin, but it's sort of a local myth of sorts that his bar is like, I don't know, a nexus of sorts." The Calico set his glass down and looked into his comrade's optics.
"Yeah!" The smallest mech nodded fiercely enough that Maccadam thought his head would shake off his neck and drop onto the floor. "Like, if you walk into his bar, you might run into your counterpart from another plane of existence. How would that be for weird?"
"Now that's just stupid, Ziptango."
"Maybe you're stupid."
"And that was really lame," the bluish green one added curtly. The small, disheartened mech's visor dimmed slightly. He slumped back into his seat and fingered his drink, staring at his reflection in the glowing, pink liquid.
Maccadam snorted and went back to his place behind the counter where he began polishing glasses again.
Absurd rumors they were. Just like he thought, it was nonsensical nonsense.
Or maybe not really.
After a few more rounds of Yuss Platinum high grade and a half a dozen Trypticon oil shots, the small group of Autobots left in a drunken stupor. The poor, tiny one with the visor had a hard time holding his energon and could not for the life of him keep up with his older comrades. After a rather unpleasant purging he literally had to be dragged out since he didn't have the strength to walk. The green one Maccadam had taken a dislike to found the situation hilarious but the Calico, the soberest one out of the group, remained stoically reserved and carried the small youth out of the building in a sturdy fireman's carry.
Soon after they left, the remaining stragglers began to file out as well, one after another in their various plastered or tanked states, and exited into the chaotic grimy city out side. Eventually, even the old harpsichord neutral left. When, Maccadam wasn't sure. Nor did he really care.
He rather liked the silence.
Maccadam cleared the last glass from one of the tables and put it away. Finished, he pulled a key card out of subspace and quickly crossed the room to lock the door. It was closing time.
He halted as a strange foreboding chill wafted over him. Was there a draft or something? Shrugging it off his continued his journey.
He reached the entrance and was about to close it, but he noticed something.
Someone was standing outside of his bar.
Probably some beggar looking for spare change. 'Well, not here, buddy.'
Maccadam stomped through the entrance ready to shoo away whatever lowlife was trying to leach off of his tavern, was about to say something, then snapped his mouth shut at he observed the being standing there.
It surely didn't look like a hobo.
It was a young mech. Said mech was so busy staring up at the flickering red sign above the building's doorway that he didn't even notice Maccadam standing not twelve meters away.
He was a sleekly designed mech with a formidable height if compared to most others (not Maccadam though. Maccadam easily towered several heads over him). His red, white and black armor gleamed like mirrors in the dimly lit city lights making him seem out of place, like a tenderly cared for diamond in the rough. It wasn't often you met a mech of such mint condition in the grimy slums of Acerbinox after all.
His face was something else too. His black helmet, adorned with two impish looking horn-like protrusions, perfectly framed his soft angelic features, and he had a unique shade of violet-blue optics that held a bright, refreshing aura behind them. One could only describe him as…pretty.
Maccadam never cared for pretty things that much.
"Hey, Punk! What the hell are you doing just standing there?" Maccadam addressed the 'Bot rather sharply
The red mech nearly jumped out of his dermal plating, and was slightly shocked to see an irritable old mech standing directly in front of him. A very large, irritable old mech at that.
Maccadam crossed his arms, gave the smaller mech in front of him a once over and glowered.
He didn't see it at first since it blended so well against the red chest plate. Yet sure enough there it was: the scowling face of the Autobot symbol in all of its glory.
"Well, Brat?" Maccadam barked with annoyance.
The mech gave the old man a weak, unsure glare, but it quickly wilted and died leaving room for discomfort to shine brightly through his optics. Yet he said nothing.
Maccadam gave the smaller one a steely look of his own. Only his didn't fizzle and die as quickly. If anything, the lit fuse grew stronger from being fueled by impatient irritation.
"We're closing. If you're going to come in then come in. If you're going to just stand there and rust, do it somewhere else besides my property. Cleaning bills are high enough as they are," The barkeeper spat harshly at the wide-eyed mech.
The Red one shifted awkwardly but continued to stare at him with his large, blue optics.
Maccadam narrowed his own green pair and scrutinized the young mech. "If you're not coming in then slag off. This is private property."
The younger one's glare was reborn. Only unlike its predecessor this one held a fiery defiance. "No," his smooth voice growled with insolence.
Maccadam was rather surprised by the sheer ball bearings the cheeky brat must've had to openly defy him like he was.
It was pissing him off.
The throwing of Autobots off of a cliff seemed like a better idea the longer time went on. An irritating hard headed bunch they were anyways.
Maccadam's optics narrowed to dangerous, emerald slits, bristling with a silent anger.
The red one narrowed his own optics, seemingly taking the gesture as some sort of a challenge. However, his resolve seemed to have weakened slightly. His posture wasn't as steadfast as it had been, and the longer he was subjected to Maccadam's hard, dagger filled stare, the more his confidence was whittled away.
But it was at that moment after a careful examination of the young bot in front of him Maccadam realized something he hadn't noticed before.
With out warning, Maccadam released his intakes in a long dragged out hiss.
"What's your name?" Maccadam asked brusquely.
"Huh?" the smaller one replied intelligently.
"Don't make me repeat my self you little hoodlum! What. Is. Your. Name?"
The kid's optics widened in surprise. If he had expected anything from the awkward staring contest he had been engaged in it wasn't that. He shifted his weight to one leg and rubbed his arm, seemingly embarrassed. In a small voice he answered the green and brown Mech, "I don't really have one yet. My name's in the preliminary process still."
The detached stare. The blank confusion. The awkward posture and stance. It all added up to one thing. "Brat. How old are you?"
He flicked his gaze up to Maccadam, his violet blue optics brimming with hesitance. Nevertheless, despite obvious discomfort, he replied, "Fourteen orns."
Maccadam scoffed. The kid was only 14 lunar cycles old.
"You're a Fledgling." Maccadam said in an even tone.
"If you wanna call it that, sure." Said Fledgling shrugged casually.
"You," Maccadam pointed an accusing finger, "are underage. I don't care where we are, but I have some morals. You're not getting a single drop of high grade out of this place so you might as well hightail that scrawny aft of yours back in to whatever hole you crawled out of."
"High grade?" The Fledgling blinked in genuine confusion. "No! That's not why I'm -" He stopped, pursed his lip components together and thought for a few seconds on what he was going to say next. "This place," His stare trailed off toward the building again, "It feels like… I was searching for someone and it felt like they would be here."
"You got lost," Maccadam said with a flat tone.
"No I did not!" The red Fledgling huffed. Then his stance deflated in defeat, and he let his shoulders droop considerably. "Okay, yes I did. In my defense though this stupid city is a shapeless swamp," he grumbled. "I mean come on! Whose bright idea was it to make every single flippen road lead into a wall? It's like the fences and buildings move around behind you just to confuse you! And have you seen the size of the robo-rats? I've seen smaller space shuttles then those beasts. Trust me; they are not something you would want to meet in a dark alleyway at night. Then again, you probably wouldn't want to run into them in the day time either."
Maccadam cocked a gruff brow as he watched the youngster rant to himself. It was rare to see a Fledgling with such a defined personality. Most of their kind would act like airy bubble heads for at least half a stellar cycle before personality traits would arise as firmly.
Some mechs or femmes probably would probably find the rare independence charming.
Maccadam found it obnoxious.
"You said you were looking for someone?" Maccadam interrupted rudely.
"Seriously, they were this big." The Fledgling moved his hands wide apart to emphasize the monstrous size of the cyber rodents. He paused to process the fact that he had been spoken to and that the patience of the one who questioned him was dwindling considerably fast. Snatching the opportunity to explain his situation, he responded quickly, "Yeah. I lost someone."
"So why did you come here?" Maccadam demanded. "Do I look like a lost and found Mech? This is not a day care."
"I don't know. I was drawn here. There was an energy field I guess… It felt familiar. I thought I would find him." It was obvious that the Fledgling did not understand what had drawn him to the Old Oil House but he seemed content with not knowing.
Maccadam's green optics flickered in surprise. The brat had actually…sensed the barrier?
That was disturbing.
Maccadam sighed. "Come on." he began walking back inside the building. He tossed a look over his shoulder to see the young mech planted firmly where he stood. "WELL? Don't just stand there. Get in here. I warn you though; if you tell anyone your age I'll drop kick you out of here faster then your CPU will be able to process."
The red and black hesitated, but then quickly nodded his head in agreement before following Maccadam into the bar.
The closer the unnamed bot got to Maccadam, the more uneasy the old mech felt.
When they entered, the atmosphere of the empty tavern changed. It was a strange feeling but Maccadam chose to ignore it and instead slunk behind the counter of his bar.
"Here." Maccadam reached into one of the shelves under the counter and tossed a bottle to the Fledgling.
The red youngster had strangely good reflexes and caught it with a surprising grace. Most of his age bracket was still awkward and gangly with their new forms.
He opened his hand and eyed what he had caught with curiosity. "What's this?" The bottle was clear and smooth like liquid air. Inside of it there was a pale, dimly glowing, pink liquid. "Is this…?"
"Energon. Yes. If those churning fuel tanks of yours were any indication I'd say you need a refuel."
The mech gave a rather wicked grin that split across his face from audio to audio.
"Don't be coy with me, Brat. You'll get as much of a buzz out of that as you would with H2O. That's low grade right there." The bot in front of him may have looked like an adult but he was an adolescent nonetheless, and his systems were not completely developed yet. No high graded energon until the third upgrade. That was the rule.
The youth's dastardly grin morphed into a pout.
"Well Gee. Just stomp on my dreams and toss them into the garbage disposal why don't you." the young mech moped, cracked the lid off of the top of the bottle and took a swig. His face screwed up and he coughed the liquid down. After a brief moment of choking and hacking he slammed the bottle onto the counter and took a deep breath to clear his intakes. "This is disgusting. What, did you collect dew off of a Quintesson's ass and call it energon?"
"Like I would waste the good stuff on a brat like you. Be glad that our getting anything at all." Maccadam sneered.
Maccadam was becoming more and more disturbed by the Fledgling the longer he was by the youth. Something felt… off about him. It was as if there were two clashing auras surrounding him. One of the auras was cool, refreshing and light (Primus, that sounded so sappy). The other felt twisted and sinister, like a storm building.
But familiar as they were, he just couldn't pin point the feelings.
"Stop calling me Brat." The aforementioned bot pouted childishly.
"Well since you don't have a name I'll call you a brat all I want, Brat." Maccadam popped the lid off his own drink, a bottle of medium grade. "So, who are you looking for? You lose your creator or something in this mess of a city?"
The red one's face contorted with disgust. "Slag no. Why would try to find that totalitarian Hussy?"
"You better treat your elders with respect you little punk." Maccadam couldn't help but note on how old fashioned he sounded right then. Still, he was old. He was allowed to do that. Youngsters had no respect now of days.
"You apparently have never met my particular creator. Or creators… Or overseers. Whatever the hell they are." The youth took a drink from his bottle, and then once again gagged in disgust after the action.
"Language, boy," Maccadam growled.
The Fledgling ignored him, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. His brows were knitted and discomfort was plainly painted across his face. He might as well have had "Distress" in bright bold letters stamped across his forehead; it was that obvious something had him distraught.
Maccadam could feel the trepidation inside him grow. "What?" he asked regarding the child's expression.
"It's frustrating. Since we don't have names yet I don't even have a name to call him with. I can't call out to him and find him. But I…" He stopped. "I can't find my brother."
Well that was different. Siblings weren't the rarest thing on Cybertron but they weren't particularly common either.
"And how did you accomplish that?"
"Losing your brother."
The red one shrugged. "I don't really know. We were being transported to a different location, Iacon or something, but something happened and our leaders started getting all fritzy and they started yelling and shoving us around. We got separated in the confusion. I tried finding him but I ended up-"
"Yeah." The smaller one slumped forward, obviously depressed from being separated from his sibling. "This place just…felt like him… This might sound stupid but this building's energy field felt just like his. That's why I thought he'd be here… " he trailed off ambiguously.
Maccadam could have shared some words of comfort to assure the youngster that he'd find his brother soon.
But Maccadam did not coddle. Ever.
"Well shoot. You're probably never going to find him now. This damn city's like a living, breathing maze," he remarked rather bluntly. "It's like this place is a puzzle and the hand of Primus comes down to fiddle with the streets."
The violet-blue optics of the child mech flashed with utter horror at the thought. Then they narrowed with distaste. "Well aren't you a shining beacon of hope? Half empty much?"
"Nope. Just half a cup too much," the elder snapped. "I'm not here to baby idiotic, sparkling brats." He glared down at the kid to see that his attention span was already elsewhere.
Perhaps this fledgling still was as bubble headed as his peers in some aspects. The red mech was gazing at Maccadam quizzically and it was annoying the old mech. "And why they hell are you staring at me?"
"You don't have an insignia," The Fledgling noted with naïve innocence in his voice.
"Yeah, so?" Maccadam, indeed, did not have either the Decepticon or Autobot symbols on his person.
"I don't know. It's weird."
"You're pretty observant for a moronic Fledgling. You know that right?"
"Are you an Autobot or a Decepticon?"
"So you're a neutral?"
The red and black looked at him questioningly. "Wait, then you're not on anyone's side?"
"I never said that I wasn't."
"So what did you…?"
"Primus, damn it boy! What is this, 21 questions? The world's not black and white. There are more sides then just Autobots, Decepticons and Neutrals. The sooner everyone learns that the better," Maccadam huffed.
The red mech raised an elegant eye ridge, seemingly confused by the vagueness, but lost interest in it quickly.
He had a short attention span.
That and something else caught and held his undivided attention.
Suddenly his face brightened and he sat up a bit straighter, with an alert look on his face.
Maccadam noted the sudden difference in attitude the brat had. Almost instantaneously he went from moping to perky.
And the twisted aura inside the bar, Maccadam noted, only got worst despite the others better mood.
"What now, Brat?" Maccadam asked.
"I sense him!" The youth exclaimed jubilantly. He leaped from his chair in a sprightly manner and aimed his gaze to the door. "He found me! He's near here! My brother," he whispered the last words happily.
"That's quite a bond you and your brother have there," Maccadam said slowly as he tipped his drink back to his lips, not sure what to make of the situation. Siblings did have a link stronger then most, but to be able to pin point the exact location and presence of the other was virtually unheard of.
"I don't understand it much myself," the Fledgling said sheepishly. "The overseers say it's because we're twins."
Maccadam nearly choked on his energon.
The Fledgling was a twin.
They were twins.
It all made sense now.
The unease in his bar. The strange way the Fledgling had acted.
And he had led the worst possible thing into his bar. He let one in.
And the other was in its way. If both came to his bar at the same time…
'Oh slag! What have I done?'
Maccadam stood up roughly. "Get out," He demanded. The Fledgling's expression changed from joy to confusion.
"Wait, what? Why?"
"I said get out!" Maccadam grabbed the young bot by the arm and literally dragged him across the floor to the door.
The Fledgling objected the rough treatment and expressed his discomfort with cursing and flailing. Maccadam ignored him and tossed him out of the door.
The red mech caught himself with his forearms before landing face first on the grimy cold ground. His legs went up in the air as he skidded a few feet before they flopped behind him.
In a disoriented state, he slowly sat up and turned to face Maccadam who was standing in the Bar's doorway like a big intimidating giant (which he was). His daze evolved to irritation. "What was that for you cranky old..?" The word's died in his vocalizer as he caught the piercing, green gaze of the elder.
"You better never come here again! You hear me!" Maccadam raged. The poor youngster looked like a deer caught in the headlights obviously confused and frightened by what was happening. "A twin," he scoffed in disbelief. "Do you have any idea what you could do coming to this place?! Do have any idea what you could have possibly done to space and time if you both were here at the same time!?" His emerald colored optics flared with a frightening light.
The red mech was beginning to shake and his ventilators sped up to soft hiccups.
"What, what are you talking about?" he babbled unable to wrap his CPU around what was happening.
Maccadam realized that he probably sounded like a ranting old coot at this point, but he didn't really care. He had been careless and it almost cost him. He let his systems cool some and regarded the trembling kid at the tavern's steps.
Even though he acted like a cheeky brat, the red bot was still obviously a fledgling. A child. And his true colors, naivety and confusion, were clearly shining through at that moment. He was terrified.
And he had no idea on why.
But it was simple really.
Because he was a twin.
Twins were a complex topic on Cybertron. It seemed that a true pair of twins, two who shared part of the same spark, could only happen one set at a time, and you would never have more then one pair of twins existing on Cybertron at the same time. It just didn't happen. That alone was considered strange.
But there was another thing about twins that very few Cybertronians knew about them and it regarded the folk lore of old. In fact, only those who existed before Cybertron itself knew what twins alluded to and what they could do.
"Boy," Maccadam said with a strained calmness, "you'll thank me for this in the long run. You may not understand why, and it's better if you never do, but I want you to get your aft out of here and never come back. Do you hear me? I had better never see your face around these parts again. Go find your brother, and go far away from Acerbinox."
The young bot stood up on shaky legs, still in a haze about what was going on, but he complied with the order.
He staggered back.
Then he began to walk away.
Then he started to jog.
The jog became a full out run.
Maccadam watched as the youth disappeared into the darkness of the puzzle like city, hopefully never to return.
When he was gone Maccadam let out a sigh.
That had been close. Too close.
"Primus, what the hell is happening?" He asked the sky.
For the twins, the only ones that existed on the whole of Cybertron, to find the nexus was a bad sign, and he barely avoided what could have been a really bad catastrophe.
But that was his job after all. Avoiding said catastrophes.
It was his job as one of the original thirteen created by Primus.
"Vector Prime, you are going to have an absolute field day if what I think is happening is actually happening." He mumbled to himself before stalking back into his bar, locking the doors behind him.
Twins. He shook his head in disbelief.
Maccadam should've realized it. He should've sensed the connection.
Cybertronian twins were special in what they symbolized.
Because Primus and Unicron had been twins as well.
And so it begins: The first chapter. Are you all confused yet? Mwahahaha. All will be explained.
Dear lord, what was I thinking? This is going to be an interesting yet difficult story to tackle and will probably progress slowly.
Still, what did you think?
This was written because quite frankly, I was not happy with the animated transformers movie. I first watched it with my uncle when I was seven and at the time I knew diddly squat about transformers. Then I began to get into the series via video tapes and Youtube so I decided to re watch it.
What. The. Hell?
Not a happy camper was I.
Anyway, cookies to anyone who knows where any of the characters are from originally.
Beware for this story is character heavy.
Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Flames are used for Marshmallows.