Twenty million years ago, warriors from opposing sides of a bitter civil war put aside their rivalries to embark on a quest to save their species from extinction, pursued by zealous fanatics and racing against time to thwart impending doom.
“Planet Omega”, twenty-million years ago…
An orange sun rises above the jagged, rocky peaks, its rays poking through the blanket of fog between them and the white clouds up above. The morning light spills upon dark stone, sparse patches of tropical plantlife, roaming packs of strange mechanimals… and something else.
A vast starship of unbelievable scale glides over the wide valleys and rivers running between the mountains, her skilled navigator gently guiding her safely through the expanse. The sunlight gleams off her tan hull- all twenty miles of it- and glistens off the barrels of her mighty weapons. Immense, curving viewports reveal train cars running across her length, ferrying her crew towards many destinations within. Beneath the spire elevating the ship’s bridge, a massive decal adorns the hull, displaying the ship’s name:
Before the ship, a comparatively tiny transport shuttle suddenly breaks through the clouds in a headlong dive toward the ground far below. Within the cockpit was Salvation’s pilot, the Decepticon Flyby, and the Autobot captain, Topside.
“Uh, Flyby?” Topside says, “Shouldn’t we be pulling up now? I really think we should be pulling up now.”
“Well, uh, yes, captain, you’re right,” Flyby stammers, “but, you see… um… we, uh, can’t.”
“Can’t?” Topside repeats, worry creeping into his voice. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean can’t, as in: system failure-can’t, captain,” Flyby explains, gesturing to the control panel, which was overwhelmed with error messages. The shuttle shakes and trembles as it plummets down toward the fog with no sign of stopping,
“…Well… slag,” Topside manages to sputter.
“Yeah, this landing’s gonna be interesting,” Flyby says, pulling frantically at the unresponsive controls. “…Y’know, in the 'please, Primus, don’t let me die’ sort of way.”
From Topside’s right, the first officer, Motherboard, chimes in:
“Calculating percent-chance of survival, captain,” she drones in her usual monotone.
“Please don’t,” Topside quickly requests.
“Affirmative, captain,” Motherboard complies.
Topside opens the door to the cramped bay behind the cockpit, poking his head inside to address the rest of the craft’s occupants.
“Alright everybody, grab onto something! The next minute’s gonna be pretty… intense. …And also possibly our last, but… yeah, try not to think about that. Happy thoughts, guys.”