In the sky above the Haven, Unicron descends; mandibles spreading wide as he attempts to pull the planet toward him, vacuuming friend and foe alike toward his crushing maw. His massive, planetary form presses against the crackling rim of the Lambda in his eagerness to consume the world, trying to somehow physically force the rift to widen.

The sound space makes as it tears is beyond words or reason, a sound-sense-taste of crackling static, acrid, painful and lurid all at once.

-

In the Badlands, the enemy surges, the risen shadows responding to the call of their master as he blots out the light from the stars. Where one is downed, two- five- ten rise in their place.

Hold the line. It is all either group can do, and they do it well - but that goal is quickly turning impossible with every inch in Unmaker gains.

Time is running out.

-
( But in the darkest hour, there is still light )