Chapter Twelve
Plenoptic
First and foremost, like I always do, I have to thank all of you for all of the fantastic reviews you all sent in! The conclusion to the Ellipses Program Arc seemed to have been received rather well--all of you were rather panicky, and I quote (but not really) "What are you going to do to Elita?" The real question should have been "What would Prime have let me get away with besides NOTHING?"
So Elita is safe, and a new story arc begins…hopefully we'll have room for some more Ironhide and Chromia, because you're all begging. And back to Cybertron we go…
Please enjoy, please review, in that order.
NOTE: I use human terminology such as "minutes" and "hours," but that's only because I'm unfamiliar with the ratios of "joors" and "breems" and whatnot. If anyone would like to drop a note, how long in human time is each of them? Please include orns and vorns and whatnot. Anyway, it's only because I'm unfamiliar with the terminology, it's not that I think Optimus counts "minutes" until his shift ends. (He counts breems, right?)
. B E G I N . T R A N S M I S S I O N .
The morning light had a way of spilling in through the window the same way as it had the morning before. Whenever she made note of this, the newly christened Elita One couldn't help but wonder if that was her obscure idea of normalcy kicking in. In all reality, the sunrise was the only stable thing in her life; no matter how much energon was spilled, the slagging sun would rise the same way every morning. Without fail, it would rise.
It was strange. When one becomes accustomed to a world in which everything could be gone in an instant, the little things in life became drastically more important, drastically more significant. Everything had a new meaning. Every little detail was symbolic of something bigger. She could see these little informalities all over base nowadays, as clearly as she had used to see the big picture, which strangely had become blurred. In her younger days she'd lived for tomorrow, always waiting for something bigger; now, she was thankful to have made it through the night. And more details arose.
Optimus is breathing, she noted, turning her lustrous gaze to the dozing mech as whose side she was curled. If he's breathing, he's alive. If he's alive, then this war is not yet lost…
Taking a moment to plant a gentle kiss upon his lips, she slid off of his recharge berth and made her way through the abnormal clutter of his quarters to his even more abnormally cluttered desk. It was usually something she scolded him for, but today she was willing to take pity on the commander. They'd been busy. With a slightly irksome air she noticed that someone had been in overnight; there was a fresh pile of data chips upon the desk top, accompanied by notes that had been quickly punched on the keyboard for his viewing upon his awakening. Leaning forward to peer at the monitor (the dumb aft had forgotten to turn it off again, she thought irritably,) Elita made a quick note of anything important (she carefully ignored Sunstreaker's notice that he and his twin had found a new porn site they'd thought would be to Optimus's liking) (idiots) and deleted everything from the message screen. Pulling a good half the data chips into her subspace compartment, she spared her still sleeping lover a last glance before exiting his quarters somewhat reluctantly. She'd have thrown everything she owned through the nearest air lock to be able to cuddle into his warm chassis for a few more minutes, but her renewed sense of duty forced her to do otherwise.
Her mood was not improved when she walked into the command center to see Chromia falling asleep at the command module. With a sigh she approached her, and with a non-too-gentle poke forced her awake.
"Long night?" she inquired of her friend, raising an optic ridge to make exactly clear the true meaning of her seemingly innocent question.
Chromia scowled slightly, rubbing a hand over her optics. "Yes, actually, but not for the reason you're implying, Lita. Ironhide's in Demicon, just for the record."
A small smile twitched upon the femme commander's graceful lips. "What are you talking about? I wasn't implying anything of the sort."
"Uh huh…" Chromia snorted, rolling her optics. "Anyway, you're not looking too fresh yourself. I don't suppose the head honcho is gonna wake up exhausted?"
"You should have seen the stack of data chips on his desk, Chromia, it was slagging huge," Elita said in defense of her mate (also because the last thing she needed was a rumor that the reason Optimus was only partially functional this morning was because he and Elita had been having fun all night). "He was up all night trying to clear things up with some court case against--Jazz, I think? The stupid little fragger went and mowed over some femme on one of his little joy rides, she's trying to sue him for every cred he's got."
"Poor thing," Chromia said unsympathetically. "Okay, so Optimus is beat. You're beat. Ironhide's out, Jazz is facing potential poverty and will probably be in downtown Iacon playing the lottery or something. This leaves us with…?"
"Prowl," Elita replied, trying her best to smile in a reassuring way; it came out as more of a grimace that more portrayed the words "Just shoot me now."
"And Ratchet," Chromia added unhelpfully.
"No, he's busy. Bumblebee got into Jetfire's research materials. The poor thing spilled acid all over himself, Ratch has to practically re-grow his armor."
"Ouch," Chromia said, her voice honestly sympathetic this time.
Bumblebee. Most of the resident soldiers had been resistant to the idea of having a sparkling on a military base; but after the unforeseen destruction of the Youth Sector, there truly wasn't much that could be done. Most of the other young ones had been rehabilitated into stable families and other such environments, but that one yellow sparkling--now christened Bumblebee--had promptly refused to leave. Refused. He had hidden beneath, behind, on top of (ineffective though this was) anything in the immediate vicinity and cried very loudly (though this rather offset his latter strategies) every time Optimus tried to talk him into meeting some of the possible parents. Maybe it was the fact that Optimus and Ironhide had cooperatively saved the little one's life the day the Youth Sector was attacked, or maybe he was simply terrified of approaching anyone unfamiliar. Whatever the reason, Bumblebee was there to stay.
Not that anyone truly had a problem with it.
"Morning," Prowl greeted them with a sigh as he walked through the automated doors. "Prime's not up yet?"
"Stack of data chips, Prowl," Elita said, holding her hands out to imitate the approximate size. "This tall, I swear to Primacon."
"Oh yeah, sorry. Half of those were probably from me."
"Well, I've got half, so thanks for nothing. And just what the Pit were you doing in our room last night?"
"Uh…delivering the data chips?" he replied uncertainly, feeling that they'd just covered this ground seconds ago.
"No, I mean without permission. It's the commander's quarters, Prowl, you can't just walk in and out like it's no big deal."
"I always listen first."
"Huh?"
"I listen through the door," Prowl repeated patiently. "I always listen to make sure you two aren't…you know…doing anything before I enter."
Elita's faceplates reddened slightly as Chromia laughed. "Hey, you. Quit your giggling, Primus only knows how many more hours you spend in Ironhide's quarters than I do in Optimus's," she said sourly, and her second in command fell silent quickly, just in case Primus was feeling talkative today.
"You know, I was just thinking," Prowl began, but was interrupted as both of the femmes gasped.
"No slagging way."
"You're kidding me."
"Gotta be record."
"Someone make note of this."
"Aw, shut up," Prowl said irritably, knowing full well that they were only joking; Optimus's loyal second in command was by far the most logical, thoughtful mech on base. But as the term "nerd" rather lost its luster, the femmes had been forced into verbal attacks based on reverse psychology. Or whatever Optimus called that slag. "I was seriously thinking. Doesn't everything feel a little…routine? Well, I mean, nothing's routine, it's Pit left and right no matter where you go, but it feels like the same Pit day after day after day…and I'm just wondering if war's supposed to make you feel that way or if I'm standing alone on this one."
"You're not alone. I was thinking the same thing when I woke up this morning," Elita said, managing an actual smile this time. "I guess we're so used to that Pit, we don't know what normal even is anymore."
"Normal is weird," Chromia agreed, and it was a mark of just how chaotic their lives had become that this contradictory comment made total and complete sense to them.
Once again the doors slid open with a faint hiss, this time heralding the entrance of Optimus Prime himself. Looking up, Chromia immediately justified Elita's earlier comments; the typically noble looking mech was quite plainly completely wiped out. His shoulders hunched forward slightly, his optics were unusually dim, and there was a small shuffle in his normally long, proud stride.
"You're a wreck," Chromia commented, and Optimus grimaced as though the mere sound grated hard on his audio receptors.
"Thank you, Chromia. I feel much better now. My self esteem has never been higher. Elita, why not come over here and pop my ego bubble before it consumes me?"
Smiling, Elita strode easily over to her mate and embraced him tightly, tilting her head to press her lips gently upon his. "No mask today," she commented softly, snuggling into his chest as his warm arms enveloped her.
"It's gone," he grunted irritably. "Probably the twins…"
"I knew I liked those two," she replied with a smile, and wiped away his responding smirk with a second kiss.
"Ironhide's not back yet?" Prime inquired, his voice somewhat more cheerful as he released his mate and took his place in the command chair.
"Not yet," Elita replied, leaning against the back and resting her head upon her balled fists. "When did he say he'd come home, Chromia?"
"He didn't say when exactly," Chromia said reluctantly. "But then, uh, we weren't exactly in a situation that called for much talking…"
Optimus smirked, and Prowl released a low appreciative whistle. Chromia's faceplates darkened, and with a muttered "Shut up" she turned back to the monitor.
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Alpha Trion's arrivals were never predetermined. He never had any particular reason for showing up, nor did he have any particular reason for leaving. He had plenty of excuses for both circumstances, but he knew his creations had both grown to such levels of maturity that all such alibis were now virtually transparent. All the same, it came as a great surprise to both Optimus when his creator unexpectedly popped into his office.
"What do you want?" Prime asked tiredly, lifting weary optics from his desk to glare at the cheerful old mech before him.
"Nothing in particular," Alpha Trion replied, his grin broadening beneath his metallic beard and accompanying moustache.
"What a surprise," Optimus grumped, before placing his forehead back upon his palms to observe the data chip's contents and promptly proceeding to ignore his mentor.
"I do have something to say, actually," Trion amended politely, kneeling down in an attempt to reach his protégé's current eye level.
"Then say it."
"It's important."
"Then say it."
"I want Elita to be here too."
"Then go find her," Optimus snapped, lifting his head to lock the old mech in a cold, reproachful gaze. "Go slagging find her yourself, because I'm in no mood to be playing your fragging guessing games!"
He turned his gaze back to his work, and Trion blinked. "You seem to be in a bad mood."
"No slag, Quintesson," Optimus grumbled, his short burst of anger ebbing. He couldn't stay mad at Alpha Trion; when the old mech really wanted something, he took on an almost puppy like appearance. Prime couldn't help but feel that it would be much more fair if he, the creation, would be able to exercise such a skill on Trion, the creator. Sadly, the pleading look in Trion's optics made it quite clear that their positions would not be reversed.
"I would like to speak with you."
"Okay," Optimus replied wearily.
"You and Elita."
"Okay."
"You will want to hear this, Optimus."
"Okay."
"This will change everything."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
"Optimus, there is something you need to understand. Something that is imperative to the success of the Autobot cause, do you hear me? There is something you must know that will truly shape you into the leader you already think you are."
"So I take it what you are about to tell me is important," Optimus Prime replied coolly from his lax position upon the couch. The rec room was currently unoccupied save for Trion, Elita, and himself, as most troops were either on shift, recharging, or on the front getting their afts blown to tiny, some-assembly-required bits.
"Incredibly important," Alpha Trion replied, pausing in his almost frantic pacing to lock his protégé in his suddenly serious gaze. "And although this does not truly involve Elita, I do believe that it is a mission during which you will want her at your side."
The lovers glanced at each other somewhat uncertainly and with some amusement; the last time Trion had begun a speech such as this, he had truly been begging them to run a few trivial errands. It was a situation after which Trion felt that fate had cheated him sorely, for although his errands had gotten done in record time, his 'children' had somewhat missed the true intention of their assignment--all Trion had wanted was to give them a little alone time in an era where every moment lived together was precious. Ah well, the old mech amended, such was life.
And young ones were a bit stupid nowadays.
This time, however, was different. There was absolute resolve in Trion's war-torn optics, as well as in his equally torn spark. He wondered in the back of his processor if his beloved young protégé was truly ready for the task he was about to be assigned; Primus alone knew how the experience would change Optimus, for better or for worse. But looking into the warm, calm blue optics, Trion felt a surge of confidence; Prime could do it.
"You have been made commander at a very unfortunate time, young one," Alpha Trion began, settling himself slowly into the seat across from his skeptical audience. "Sentinel Prime--your predecessor-- was not. His reign was one filled with peace, with quiet. And it is of no fault of yours that such catastrophic events have come to pass on our planet--even Sentinel could not have stopped it. But his problems were mainly consisting of political ones. He did not need to fight. He did not need to gather an army. He did not need to have strong, loving support at his side." Trion nodded in Elita's direction, who smiled slightly when Optimus glanced appreciatively at her, but both looked back when their old mentor continued.
"Sentinel had no need, nor desire, for power. But at that time, he had something that was powerful. Very powerful indeed. Surely you've heard of Cybertron's numerous relics?"
"A few," Optimus replied, painfully aware of his lack of historic knowledge. "The Allspark, of course…the Minicons who make up the Star Saber…and the Sky Boom Shield…the Eternity Matrix…"
"As would any typical Cybertronian citizen," Trion said, waving a hand dismissively. "However, there is one relic. One that has been kept secret from all but the respective leader of our planet and his closest comrades. In years and years past, it has been used to defend Cybertron from alien attack…I have, however, decided, with some assistance from parties that shall hitherto be unnamed, that you now have need of it to defend your people against those that once were."
"I'm not sure I follow," Optimus replied slowly, his processor whirring as he tried to comprehend the sudden outpour of information. "What was it that Sentinel had? And if he had it then, why don't I have it now?"
"Because he hid it, young one," Trion replied grimly, locking his protégé in his solemn gaze. "He believed Cybertron would be safe; he believed we could make do without it. I warned him against his plan, and that was the one time he did not listen to me. He told me that the item had been used to kill so many. He told me it did not belong in a world of renewed peace. So he disposed of it. He took it to the one place only he could reach, and cast it into the bowels of secrecy.
"It has not been retrieved. This is the mission I christen to you, Optimus Prime. Cybertron is no longer at peace. We can no longer ignore the need for power. I realize you do not want such a burden; though helpful at times, in the lasting history of things power can only corrupt. But this is why I wish to leave it in your hands, my little one. This is why I wish to trust you with it. You, like Sentinel, understand how dangerous power can be. You have seen it corrupt and overtake your brother--and do not look away! I know it hurts to speak of him, but this is why you must do as I say now! Now, if at any time at all! Unlike Sentinel, you, Optimus, understand that power is a weapon--and war is fought with weapons, not with words, as much as we wish, with all our sparks, that it was."
"What am I supposed to do?" Optimus asked quietly. "What do you want? What am I to retrieve? From where?"
"The center of the planet," Alpha Trion answered softly, "is the spark of Primus. It is the Corespark. It is to there that you must go."
"And what am I looking for?" Prime demanded.
Alpha Trion stood and approached the couch, leaning close to his creations. "It is yours, my little one. It is yours, and you must go to the Corespark to retrieve it."
"What is in the Corespark that I have to get?" Optimus asked desperately, aching for an answer.
With a slight smile, Alpha Trion leaned forward and whispered the words meant for Optimus Prime's audio receptors alone:
"The Matrix of Leadership."
. E N D . T R A N S M I S S I O N .