One Last Dance

Copyright 1997, Robert A. Jung
Originally published June 1, 1997

All characters depicted or mentioned in this story are the trademarks and/or copyrights of their respective holders, except for those that aren't. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, is coincidental, etc., etc. Geez, it's just a story, guys. Don't get too uptight over it...

The planet Cybertron does not know of night. As an orphaned world hurling through the cosmos, it has no sun to call its own. Save for the rare occasions when it passes near a star, the world is shrouded in darkness. And because of that, morning, noon, and night are nothing but meaningless terms.

Still, there are days on Cybertron. Days, and hours, and minutes, and seconds -- or the local equivalents -- based on the division and redivision of the planet's rotations. In this way, even a nightless world has rhythms. Time for work, time for play, time for reflection, time for rest.

And time for stealth.

In an isolated valley on one of the planet's subterranean layers, a lone figure stood. He bore little resemblance to the humanoid robots that populated the rest of this world. Instead of the sleek, smooth hulls of his fellow mechanoids, the watcher was almost organic in appearance. Dressed in subdued brass Nepahn armor, he stood immobile, with muscular sinews and biceps peeking out from exposed areas. The war helm framed an unnatural face, a bone-white skull that smiled emotionlessly, and sunken black orbs that watched with equal dispassion.

Bludgeon stared at the horizon unconsciously, simultaneously aware of nothing and everything nearby. No eye or ear, mechanical or organic, could match his warrior's sense. The kensai was beyond conscious thought, and therefore unencumbered by it; all nearby activity was identified, evaluated, and dismissed, without disturbing his awareness.

He was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in his quarters, resting for the next day with his fellow Decepticons. He was not bothered by this; it was not a violation of orders, as his master had never forbidden him from leaving. And as long as Lord Thunderwing remained unaware of Bludgeon's absences, it would remain so.

This was neither deceit nor betrayal. It was, instead, merely the warrior's tending to his own affairs.

Bludgeon was also inside enemy territory. Not that he was concerned; he had crossed the borders a thousand times before, effortlessly eluding the Autobots' safeguards and patrols. If he chose, he could remain in their territory indefinitely, and the Autobots would be none the wiser.

But he chose not to. Instead, he remained still, waiting with the endless patience of the kensai.

Time -- now a meaningless concept -- passed.

A soft crunch whispered from the right. Though he was silent, the arrival made no attempt to hide his presence. Bludgeon smoothly turned to match, immediately slipping back to full awareness.

With a voice between a breeze and a whisper, the visitor spoke. "Bludgeon."

"Dragon."

Bludgeon surveyed Dragon with an immediate glance. The Autobot's appearance had changed, giving him a form that was simultaneously familiar and different. Subtly curving lines and four rubber wheels suggested a vehicle mode, though the lines of his hull hinted at an alien design. It was an efficient form, without any unnecessary trappings, and spoke of speed and agility. As in his past incarnation, Dragon was covered in a soft golden color, glittering like the dying embers of a slow-burning fire. Only the untouched silver of his face disturbed the pattern.

Without preamble, Bludgeon asked, "So. Your assignment's final?"

"Yes. I leave tomorrow."

The prosthetic skull subtlety frowned. "That is unfortunate."

Dragon shrugged, a barely-detectable movement in the shoulders. "Such is duty."

Bludgeon nodded. "True." A soft sigh. "That means we'll have to settle things tonight."

"If possible."

The Decepticon scowled silently. If Dragon noticed, he gave no sign. Instead, with a subtle flick of his wrist, the Autobot produced a double-barreled shotgun from his personal subspace storage. He then swung it open and twisted the ends, gracefully turning it into a long pike.

Bludgeon unsheathed his sword to match; the thin metal all but glowed in the darkness. With deceptive luxury, he began to swing it in a twirling, repetitive pattern. The blade danced as if alive, weaving through the air in a hypnotic swirl, humming softly through the darkness.

The warriors were as diverse as their weapons. Dragon was an expert in a thousand fighting styles, whose proficiency came from his ability to switch between them instantly. An unpredictable whirlwind of versatility, he taught that peace was achieved by disarming opponents and ending a fight as soon as possible.

In contrast, Bludgeon was a living weapon, the single-minded master of Metallikato. His entire being was focused on the Warrior's Art, and he felled all foes with the graceful precision provided by such focus. He was as specialized as his katana. Together, they became a force devoted to one single, unerring goal.

The gleaming steel stopped its dance. Bludgeon held it upright in both hands, an impossibly thin line of steel. Dragon made no move; he remained as before, waiting in apparent apathy.

Bludgeon pounced.

Dragon sidestepped to the right and dodged, then swung his pike at Bludgeon's back. But Bludgeon tucked forward as he raced by, avoiding the blow and rolling into a kneel.

Dragon twirled his staff and brought it down; Bludgeon brought up his sword and blocked it, then lunged forward with a sliding leg sweep.

Dragon hopped backwards and avoided a fall. As Bludgeon charged, Dragon lashed with his pole to intercept the attack. But Bludgeon was faster; spinning his blade in a sweeping arc, he deflected the lance, then slashed at his foe.

With impossible speed, Dragon somersaulted backwards and narrowly avoided the katana. As he tumbled in the air, he folded his weapon to its shotgun form and fired on the Decepticon below.

Bludgeon darted forward and raced beneath the blast. Boot-knives snapping open, Bludgeon leaped with a flying kick aimed at Dragon's landing point.

Dragon twisted as he landed, dropping to the ground in a supine kneel. The Decepticon flew harmlessly overhead, whereupon Dragon twisted upright and fired again.

Bludgeon landed with a curling roll, ignoring the rifle's roar and the near-miss explosion. He lunged at the Autobot with sword extended, but Dragon parried the attack with his gun.

Bounding upright, Bludgeon knocked his blade free and twirled in a roundhouse kick. Just as quickly, Dragon unsnapped his gun into a pair of linked rods and snared the leg.

Undaunted, Bludgeon snapped his leg free and sent the rods flying across the field. Before Dragon could react, Bludgeon abruptly reversed his spin, attacking with a horizontal counterslash.

Dragon dove to his right, barely avoiding the edge. As the Autobot rolled clear, Bludgeon leaped to the air, then dropped with both legs extended.

Dragon whirled as he rose, backhanding Bludgeon's legs aside and deflecting the stomp. Bludgeon arched backwards as he landed on his hands, rolling away in time to avoid Dragon's two-fisted hammerstrike.

Bludgeon climbed to his feet; Dragon was already halfway across the field, sprinting for his weapon. Bludgeon instantly reversed his grip with a flick of the wrist, then pitched the sword at the back of the Autobot's head.

With impossible perception, Dragon ducked and dove, avoiding the impromptu harpoon as he snatched his weapon. He rolled to a kneel an instant later, then raised the shotgun and aimed it at--

The timer buzzed.

Bludgeon stopped in mid-sprint. Dragon paused for a second, then lowered his gun and climbed to his feet.

"Another tie," Bludgeon said, clearly disappointed.

"Yes," Dragon concurred, getting to his feet. "Though I think you were better. I should not have lost my weapon."

"Feh," Bludgeon spat, refusing the charity. "I squandered the opportunity. How did you dodge the arashikanu?"

"I heard your grunt when you threw it. And I knew you would aim for my head."

"How?"

"It was the quickest way to kill me."

Bludgeon frowned as he picked up his blade and sheathed it. "Am I that predictable?"

"It is the nature of Metallikato," Dragon stated simply, "to use the most lethal attack whenever possible."

"True..." Bludgeon sighed. "But our dispute is still unsettled."

Dragon shrugged. "Let it remain so. The superior method does not matter. More important is the skill of the one who uses it."

Bludgeon nodded once. "You are right."

The two stood there, silent and motionless.

They remained that way for several minutes. Neither mechanoid dared to move; this was another contest now, one that transcended deeds and words and thoughts. A contest of unwritten rules and universal truths, with stakes which surpassed any victory on a battlefield.

Finally, after the moment had passed, Dragon spoke. "I shall miss our appointments."

"As will I," replied Bludgeon, quietly.

"Perhaps we will meet again."

"Perhaps."

Slowly, Dragon turned to leave. "Goodbye, my friend."

"I have no friends," Bludgeon coldly corrected.

Dragon stopped. He looked over his shoulder, confusion barely visible on his face. "No?"

"No," Bludgeon repeated. "Friends are for the weak."

Dragon turned towards him. After a moment, he asked, "Then what are we?"

Bludgeon paused.

Then smiled.

"Peers."

Dragon bowed. "I am honored."

Bludgeon grunted affirmation, and the Autobot left.

For several minutes, Bludgeon stood alone, lost in his kensai. Then, finally, when he was alone once more...

...he went home.