eugenesis-text

Hundreds of faces stared back at him, analysing, scrutinising, worshipping.
‘The Quintessons have something that is not rightfully theirs: our world. You,’ (and he seemed to spit
the word into the face of every individual) ‘have wasted this world. You have squandered this world. You
have abused it, stripped it bare and hacked it to shreds, but it is still your world. Your home. And it’s time
you took it back.’
He gripped the lectern as the crowd cheered. He watched Autobots he knew – friends – cup their
mouths and bay with the rest of them. Bloodlust, or some warped patriotism What was he tapping into
What was he exploiting He stared back blankly until they settled down.
‘The Quintessons think we are broken and defeated. They shall pay the price for their arrogance.’ He
winced at what he was saying, but the crowd loved it.
‘I have despatched the “Aerial-Bots” to recover the Ark. In a few moments it will touch down
outside and ferry the ground force to Polyhex. Everyone with airborne modes will follow its lead. In six
hours we attack the Quintesson fortress; in seven the tide of battle turns in our favour; in eight we breach
their defences. By daybreak we are victorious, and the Quintessons… the Quintessons are…’ It was no use.
The crowd were shouting too loudly.
This is what they wanted to hear, he thought. This is what so many of them really thought and felt.
He cranked his vocal unit to its maximum setting to give them what they wanted.
‘The Quintessons have greater numbers, firepower and hardware. They will do everything they can
to destroy us, and they will fail. Why Because ultimately – tragically – we are Transformers. We have
lived, breathed, wept and bled warfare for four million years. It is obvious, though the very realisation
shames me to the core, that when it comes to killing – we have no equal.’
The crowd was on its feet, and the adulation drove him into the shadows.
Autobot and Decepticon were no more, and All truly were One. He wished he could share in their
unity, but instead felt a despair that was as bitter and dry as death itself. He now knew, with unbearable
certainty, that the civil war would not end until each and every last one of them was dead.
For a fleeting, half-realised moment – so brief as to dodge the borders of his self-perception – he
wondered whether it would be best if tonight the Quintessons won.