eugenesis-text

Soundwave pulled Sixshot to his feet and addressed the crowd. ‘Your commander lied to you all. The
Quintessons have taken over Cybertron and your comrades are dead because you did not go to their aid.
And why did you not go Because of Sixshot. I ask for your verdict - anyone that wants to see him spared,
speak now. Anyone Anyone care to save this robot’s life
‘Thought not.’
Soundwave plunged his fingers into Sixshot’s forehead, squeezed the brain module to a wafer and
turned to his army.
‘Tool up. We’re leaving.’
‘They’ve probably been given their own lab complex now,’ Pincher mumbled.
‘You’re not still harping on about Wheeljack and Sygnet, are you’ said Swerve, racking up test tubes.
‘It’s the cheek of it all. Wheeljack swans in, commandeers this lab and brings a Decepticon into our
midst. We’re relegated to background detail while they grab all the glory.’
‘I sense envy in your voice. Where’s your scientific detachment’
‘I detached it. They’ve forgotten about us, Pincher.’
‘Nonsense. It’s called being left alone to get on with our work. Wheeljack has the Inhibitor Chip, we
have—’
‘Glasses of water. Come on, Swerve, look at this sample! It’s tap water, isn’t it They’ve given us a
bottle-opening exercise.’
Fastlane walked in. ‘Well, that was quite a presentation. Four hours. Now I know why Prime’s
speeches are so… infamous. I think that Terran robot, Centurion, slipped off-line with boredom. Shame
you two couldn’t make it.’
‘We were busy,’ muttered Pincher, ‘…with pointless tasks.’
‘There’s no-one better suited,’ said Fastlane, looking up from the data-board he was scanning. ‘Siren’s
handed command to Optimus Prime, by the way. A temporary arrangement, of course.’
Pincher crouched behind a tripod-mounted laser pistol and fired at the bracelet lock sealing an aqua
fortis sample.
‘Good shot,’ said Swerve, holding up the uncapped vial as if proposing a toast. ‘We’ll run the
necessary tests, Fastlane, but I think Pincher’s right – it’s water.’ He poured a droplet onto his hand. The
liquid burrowed through his palm and twisted smoke into the air. He screamed, dropped the test tube, and
stared at his hole-punched hand.
‘Patch him up,’ snapped Fastlane, ‘and get me a toxicological – quick.’
The quarantine pod was locked away in a disused room, where it simmered under ultraviolet light.
This was out-of-bounds, this was no-go – this was where the dying came to die.
Prowl had been left to soak in a cocktail of antiviral nutrients. Corrodia Gravis had not been kind;
Corrodia Gravis had not been pretty; Corrodia Gravis had devoured him with a ravenous hunger, with a
boundless lust for techno-flesh that only anti-metallic bacteria could harbour. His arms shielded his torso
parenthetically, cradling the damage within. His face was red with rust-sores and bacterial slump, as if he
was embarrassed of his condition.
‘He looks so peaceful,’ said Chromedome. ‘As if he’s asleep.’
‘There’s far more peace in death than life.’
‘Don’t say that, Red Alert. He’s not dead.’
‘No, not yet. But soon. If Perceptor hadn’t found him when he did…’
‘He was face-down in a basement chamber,’ said Perceptor. ‘He’d broken into a specimen tube
containing a CG victim.’
Chromedome rolled the words over his head as if he’d misheard. ‘Prowl exposed himself to this
disease This was a suicide attempt’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Perceptor snapped. ‘There must be a more plausible explanation.’
‘We have to keep this secret,’ said Red Alert gravely. ‘The others are preoccupied with Kup.’
‘I’m not surprised. He’s acting very strangely. Have you seen him, shacked up in his quarters with
Hot Rod’s body People say he talks to it.’