I wanted to be a Decepticon.

Most people now don’t even remember Decepticons. They were from my Grandma’s time, back in the late 20th, early 21st centuries. For some reason, transforming robots fell out of vogue after that.

But I watched all my Grandma’s old discs of the G1 show—the last one that was any good, she said. I wasn’t sure I completely agreed, but at least it was a way to connect with her. I didn’t much care for the snakes and reptiles that were the other big part of her life.

I did agree with her that the Decepticons tended to be the cooler faction—at least when they weren’t written as morons. They had no compunctions about taking what they wanted, and the leaders were tested by survival of the fittest. And they cared about each other. Except for Starscream, of course.

It must have been my posts on the Decepticon fan bulletin board that led the Marauders to me. A chance to be a “real” Decepticon? It sounded too good to be true.

By the time I learned that it actually was, it was too late.