#downpipe

Bricks, plenty of them.

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Dear Mystic Master,

I have, in the past, touched upon my species’ strange relationship with magic. We are no strangers to the world of the supernatural—we have worshipped and battled gods, venerated holy talismans, and dispatched otherworldly horrors all over the multiverse—but there are vanishingly few Cybertronians who can be said to have truly mastered the mystic arts. Indeed, in many universes, magic is fatal to our kind; its mere touch causes Cybertronian matter to crumble and die. 

Such was the case in the universe I now relate to you. In this reality, a careless Decepticon research team had discovered the corrosive powers of Angolmois during the height of the Great War. Their first experiments with Angolmois merely sowed hatred and disharmony among soldiers and civilian prisoners alike; as they synthesized more and more, however, a terrible transformation took place. Mere arguments escalated into fights, fights became riots, and those riots became something far worse. Across the length and breadth of the city-state, the rioters froze where they stood and then collapsed on the floor, dead... but not for long. Slowly, each Cybertronian rose to its feet, their sparks snuffed out and replaced by a terrible half-spark, a parody of a living Cybertronian. The shambling hordes of the Creeping Sparks began their dread advance, transforming more of their kind into gruesome undead monsters. It was a terrible war, a war that the miraculous super-science of Cybertron could not fight. The Creeping Sparks shrugged off advanced energy weapons and ignored scalding acid concoctions; antimatter bombs could reduce them to their component molecules, but not fast enough to stem the infectious tide, their numberless hordes clawed through energy shields and overloaded generators, and no nano-chemical concoction in the galaxy could counteract the forces of raw disharmony and hatred that had birthed them.

It was, perhaps, fortunate that the Autobot commander Perihelion and a team of archeologists happened to be off-world at the time. Perihelion had long been an open-minded student of alien religions and alternate belief systems, and when the first reports of the “living dead” trickled out to those remote Autobot command posts, Perihelion and her team—impulsive Convex, ingenious Lathe, wise Downpipe—quickly realized that this was a threat that atheistic, materialistic Cybertronian philosophy could not defeat. Thinking quickly, Perihelion and her team set course for a distant region in the galactic rim, where rumors swirled that science had fallen out of favor and magic reigned supreme. If anyone could help, she reasoned, perhaps it would be them.

As Perihelion and her comrades studied ancient disciplines and harnessed magic artifacts sourced from many worlds—Prysmos, Tri-Ceti, even the forbidden texts of the Dire Wraiths—it became clear that the transition from regular Autobots into the newly-dubbed “Mystibots” would not be an easy one. Raw magic was just as virulent against Cybertronian life as ever, and early experiments with basic spells proved that they would not be able to simply cast spells by waving their hands. Instead, Lathe was able to devise a sophisticated armor upgrade that safely dispelled magic energy while “earthing” any residual energy to the ground. In place of standard cybertanium alloys, they adopted heavy stone armor etched with protective runes; in place of blasters, they wielded enchanted swords and mystic hammers, consecrated by a dozen priests on a dozen worlds.

Window and downpipe.