Note: This is going to get pretty dark and violent for a bit.

Within the Temple of the Primal Utility, light did not reach the ceiling. Faint track lights ran the length of the long aisle, dim and hard to see. Along the walls and at the corners of each set of benches, tiny orange and electric gold bulbs flickered at the end of long white cylinders now yellowed with age—lit at the dawn of the functionist religion, now old and brittle.

There were no pictures on the walls, no murals, no patterns or calligraphy, not even strokes of color. The walls were black and polished to a mirror's sheen, reflecting the points of light in a lurid glow.

The floor swallowed the sound of their pedes. Thick vinyl and foam pressed down under their weight so that the temple did not fill with the clatter of steel on steel. Driving was not allowed—they would walk for almost a hundred meters to reach the first pews.

Jazz stayed close at Orion's left hand, helm tilted down in a show of respect. Orion was taller and broader, and Jazz could hide in his shadow, avoiding the gaze of any of the temple authorities. A humble, subservient attitude, served as the best defense around mechs with power.

At the far end of the temple, several meters up on the raised dais, a lone bot appeared in a soft halo of growing white light, dazzling Jazz's sight so that he dimmed his visor. The temple bot raised his arms in welcome, and the gleam of his frame and pearlescent radiance of his cloak set the light flashing along the walls.

"Enter, you who are part of the great planet. There is much work to do, but first, take your seat and hear the word of Primus, to steel yourselves to the holy endeavor."

Jazz came to a halt. Something in him froze, refusing to go on. His pedes would not move. The light and the bot's frame glitched together so that Jazz couldn't see him clearly. Warning klaxxons went off in Jazz's helm, a subroutine initiating and growing in strength, screaming to run, to run, danger, run—

The hand on his shoulder had never left. At feeling Jazz stop, Orion turned and gave him a nod.

It's okay, Orion said. I'm here.

Jazz swallowed once, about to whirl and peel rubber and flee, damn the consequences. But the hand on his shoulder was large enough to hold him steady, and strong enough to hold him upright. And when Jazz looked up, the light played on Orion, catching his optics.

Fear subsided. The templebot was just a templebot. And Orion was there, reassuring against all logic.

Jazz let out a vent.

That optimism of yours is something else, he said. Hope it ain't gonna get us all killed.

I'll haul all of us out if I have to, Orion promised. But I don't think it'll come to that. Trust me. We'll get paid, get out of here, and we'll laugh about it over a cube.

Jazz didn't believe that, and he thought that Orion didn't believe it, either. Getting paid and laughing about it, anyway. But getting out together? How could Orion feel so calm when Jazz was one raw, sparking cable?

It was amazing how Orion could make him start moving again until they came to the next empty pew and moved down to the middle, taking their seats.

Tell me you're feeling it too, Jazz said. I ain't just going crazy.

I don't know what I'm feeling, Orion said. But I know something doesn't feel right.

Like we're about to crash, Ariel said, and her voice somehow shook across the signal. Like when you're sliding and you're about to hit, but you haven't yet.

Yet, Orion agreed. We haven't crashed yet.

The last of the workers were taking their seats. The doors rumbled heavily shut, locking out the light from outside. The temple bot tapped the dais, calling their attention to the front.

"You have been summoned to the holy work of the planet," the temple bot began. "To restore that which is missing. To correct that which is out of tune. The gears of the planet have been put out of order, and we must work to realign."

Jazz clasped his hands on his lap, the picture of worshipful devotion. His joints tightened so that his hands shook. He had avoided the temple ever since becoming Jazz, and now he had to somehow get through a whole sermon.

"These are strange times," the temple bot said. "New times requiring new solutions. For the whole of Cybertron is one machine, one mechanism, and now parts of the machine work against itself, breaking time, breaking rhythm, breaking from their own functions."

A pulse began to develop in Jazz's cortex—slow, slow.

"These parts must be removed. To protest our function is to protest Cybertron itself."

The pressure built—a low bass oscillation growing with every word as the sermon echoed against the mirrored walls. Jazz felt like he was staggering at the lip of the pit, at the cusp of losing his balance. And his memories echoed back.

—Tone, you stand at the edge of blasphemy—

"It is the deepest heresy," said the temple bot, his voice beginning to rise in volume. "For are we not our function?"

The seated mechs responded in practiced unison.

"We are our function."

"And are we not Cybertron?"

"We are Cybertron."

Jazz's lips parted, but the words wouldn't come, locked somewhere in his cables. He pressed his clasped hands to his mouth, shoving back his cry.

—Tone, you seek out your own corruption.—

"We are Cybertron," the temple bot said, and the light behind him intensified, growing brighter and hotter. "We have a duty to the great machine. For these are new times, and the will of Primus is more eternal than the stars. The will of Primus be done."

"The will of Primus be done."

"Let the broken be repaired. Let the rusted be cleaned. Let the incompatible be destroyed, 'till we all rest in the well of sparks in Primus."

—Tone, may the darkness we give you lead you back to Primus.—

"In Primus."

The light grew so bright that Jazz shut his visor down to its lowest setting. The combined voices covered his moan, and his memory skipped and reset. The voices in his memory clicked off. He didn't need to remember any of that. He wasn't that mech anymore. He was Jazz.

Distance brought back a sense of calm. He unclasped his hands, wincing at how he'd strained his joints.

The sermon over, the lights began to come on to a gentle glow again, and the temple bot stood on the dais, reveling in his effect on the crowd.

Jazz's jaw dropped as data on the temple bot updated.

TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY
Registrum Bullarum
Privileged Frame Class
Reparare α - Ω
Motor Pool: Iacon
Sparked to Iacon Temple
TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY

Loading data…

Whatever database Jazz was connected to, his master knew exactly where he was, who he was looking at, and what Jazz should do if he had the chance.

The glow rose slightly. The doors near the dais opened, sending in streetlight, and the other temple bots appeared, standing in neat rank and file to usher the mechs to the work.

Every single temple bot had a TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY identifier tag.

It was with a dazed countenance that Jazz finally stood, at Orion's prompting, and followed the line of mechs. He kept his helm down, all too aware of each red tag floating at his visor's edge.

Then they were out of the temple, transforming onto the street, and Jazz stayed close at Orion's side, just beside his left tire.

They didn't drive alone. The temple bots drove with them, spaced unevenly along the farthest lanes on either side, and around them—warbuilds.

Don't look now, Jazz said. But it looks like we've got an escort.

I see them, Orion said.

Primus, they're huge, Dion said. And there's more behind us.

Orion cleared his intakes. Just don't do anything to provoke them and it'll be fine.

Two tanks, a jeep, an armored carrier…each of them could have stomped the entire convoy flat. Jazz had never seen grounder warbuilds this close before, and he studied the ones he could see. Larger, with thicker plating and heavier cables, they kept pace with their temple masters and they kept the ports of their mounted blasters clear. To his relief, all of their blasters were pointed at the sky, and all of them wore the very obvious restraining bolt locked to their hoods, keeping them fixed in altmode.

Now where the slag you think they're taking us? Jazz asked. That we need warbuilds, and this many of 'em to boot?

Orion vented ruefully.

If I had to make a guess, I'd say that their not for us. They're for the temple's protection, and since we're doing temple work, they'll keep our afts safe, too.

Hopefully, Ariel added without much optimism, and Orion didn't argue.

As to where we're going, Orion said. I know this route. We're headed down into the I-98.2 road.

Where's that go? Jazz said. I don't think I've ever heard of a .2 on the highway.

Before Orion could answer, the convoy took a sharp right turn, heading not toward the main thoroughfare but toward the underpass, driving along a rough, older road pitted and repaired over eons.

It's connected to the old freightways, Orion said, whispering in thought as if they might hear them. They're uploading the route and cargo types to me, and…I think we're heading outside the city limits.

No wonder we got the sermon before we left, Jazz said. Pray to Primus before we risk heading out to jet territory.

…I don't think that was the reason, Orion said slowly. I think I know what they're up to. Whatever happens, stay close to me. And don't panic.

What's happening? Ariel asked. Did they say what we're carrying?

Energon, oil, and coolant, Orion said and didn't elaborate. Just don't panic, repeat, don't panic. We can't get out of this now, and I want us all of us coming back safe and in one piece.

"In one piece" told Jazz that Orion understood how dangerous this was. Only the great city highway was protected. When they reached the city limits and the armed city security that bowed to the passing temple bots, it was "in one piece" that struck Jazz.

Because, ages ago, he'd walked into Iacon along the same road, barely in one piece, and now he saw all the bots who hadn't survived.

After a mile, beyond the protection of Iacon security, the road was strewn with parts—engine components, blown wheel rubber, armor plating, sheared limbs and severed helms. Broken faceplates lay in shattered pieces. Smoke poured from the burned out wrecks, illuminated by the lurid flames on oil slicks. Splashes of energon glowed on the pavement.

The warbuilds around them aimed their turrets and barrels at the atmosphere, on watch for rogue jets, but there were none this close to the city. After a few miles, they reached the killing field in time to see the last executions.

Mechs knelt, hands cuffed behind their backs, as a handful of warbuilds shot a round through their spark chamber. The line of prisoners stretched back almost a hundred deep, and there were more rows of mechs in front of them, already grayed out.

He didn't want to look—he couldn't help but look at the next mech to be shot—

ThreeRing
Praxian Frame Class
Informational—5th class
Compiles at Depot ≆3 - District
Sparked to Depot 12
Civil Incidents: protester, aided and abetted escape of protesters, suspected presence at murder of Senator Decimus
Loading data…

Then the mech was dead, and the data hovered over empty air.

The warbuild went to the next mech.

Jazz didn't hear the instructions. He couldn't move. He was vaguely aware of Ariel beside him, frozen. Several seconds passed. He knew the temple bot was saying something, but the air had turned into a thin, high pitched whine.

Follow me, Orion said. Don't be afraid. Stay with me.

Orion's voice held Jazz's attention so that he could drive beside him, rolling along the edge of the carnage. They kept to the far side, away from where the warbuilds continued killing the last ones. The temple bots had transformed back to root mode, all business as they cataloged the dead.

Then Orion transformed onto his pedes, knelt, and put his hand on the back of the nearest dead mech. He uncoupled the energon tanks and handed them off to Dion, who began to stack them. After a nudge, Ariel transformed and did the finer work of reaching into the frame for the smaller oil tank and coolant reservoir, bringing them out of the long strands of cables and wires.

They're just oil tanks, she said over and over. They're just tanks. They're just tanks.

And Jazz took them from her shaking hands, bringing them back to line up with Dion. None of them looked at any other convoy mechs, working their own parts of the field. Oil and energon dripped from their hands. They fell into a ghastly rhythm as Orion pulled steel apart, as Ariel plucked out cases, as Dion and Jazz stacked.

Meister, Orion said. They're looking at you.

Startled, Jazz glanced up at the temple bots, who were indeed murmuring to each other while watching him. A moment passed before he realized why.

He was an entertainer. And he needed to perform his function.

There were dozens of songs approved for work. All of them were peppy, upbeat, mindless things. The mindless he would have welcomed, but if he tried to play something lively, he thought he might start purging.

But there were temple songs, too. A dirge—

The long, slow strains of Primus Dei began to play. He realized his mistake even before he saw their frowns of displeasure. Primus Dei was a temple dirge of mercy for the honored dead. Heretics deserved neither mercy nor honor.

The warbuilds—a bulky tank, a heavily armored cruiser—looked at him curiously, listening to commands from their temple masters. In a moment, Jazz could just as easily join the grayed out frames at his pedes.

Meister—

Relax. I got this. Just keep up that rhythm, bot.

The temple bots were pointing at him now, and one began to come closer. Jazz had to steel himself, even turn his back as he loaded another handful of dripping oil onto the pile. The low moan of the song, a call to Primus to show mercy, rose up in pitch and intensity…

…and then Jazz used the note to transition to an instrumental version of Process Mech. Its steady beat matched the rhythm of Orion's work and the smaller beats of the bots of his crew, masking the clank of dead components under the percussion and strings of the temple song. After a moment, all of the crews began to match the rhythm, working through the fields of the dead. The pace of the work picked up.

From a prayer to Primus to a working song to push them along…he'd somehow elevated robbing the dead into holy service to the planet.

The danger passed. As they moved past a temple bot, Jazz had the honor of a priestly smile bestowed upon his work. He didn't smile back but simply nodded silently, visor cast down.

They cleaned up murder for long hours. Until the corpses stopped being corpses and were just steel and slag. Until their pedes dragged and they spoke only to coordinate the work.

The worst part was the slow roll back into the city. No one in Iacon knew what lay packed in Orion's trailer. No one else in the city knew what had happened. And when they unloaded the long haulers' cargo into the temple, Jazz let slip that he was afraid the temple bots might order the warbuilds to gun them down so they wouldn't talk.

I don't think you have to worry about that, Orion said.

To Jazz's surprise, they received their pay, were led through a short reminder on obedience, and then they left the temple as if nothing had happened.

I don't get it, Ariel said on their shared frequency. Why are they just letting us go like this? Don't they think we'll talk?

And tell who? Dion asked. Who'll believe us? And even if they did…what could anyone do?

Jazz didn't answer. He did quietly join them for a cube at their usual depot, a busy little truck stop where they could huddle at a back table and ignore the rest of the planet for awhile. Ariel nestled against Orion, shielded under his arm. Dion took out his last alcohol rag and continued to wipe his hands, cleaning imagined oil over and over again.

Can't believe they didn't say something about you starting the Primus Dei, Dion said. Gutsy move, there.

I'm so glad you did, Ariel said, putting her hand on Jazz's. Felt like I was going crazy. It helped ground me.

S'why I picked it, Jazz said. But damned if it didn't almost get me shot.

I'm surprised they didn't shoot you for the Process Mech, Orion said with a rueful smile. You're lucky they liked how it sped up the work.

Why would they shoot him for that? Dion asked. It's a standard temple beat.

The beat, yes, Orion agreed. But you should listen to the lyrics some time.

Pfft, they never play any lyrics. Dion waved his hand dismissively. Not everyone's a nerd.

Jazz looked up at Orion. Since when do you know the lyrics? I only ever seen them in music sheets, and that's usually for entertainer functions only.

Orion vented out, taking a long draft of his cube. His optics gazed at something in the distance even as he stared down at the table.

My function is long hauling cargo, he said. But…a long time ago, before the new legislation, they used to let anyone in the archives.

Jazz sat straight. The archives…? You've been in there?

Orion nodded once. I used to spend most of my off time there. …I still wish I could have been an archivist.

A moment passed. Orion shook off his wistfulness and finished his cube.

So I know when someone's trying to say something without saying something. He gave Jazz a look. Just be careful, okay?

Jazz's smile was small but unrepentant. After bidding them farewell, he drove back to the Neon Eclipse, went up to his chambers, and sat down with his back against the wall. Outside the window, Iacon glowed in lurid neons and muddy golds.

He needed to talk to Red Alert. He needed to mind his club, to pay his mechs, to see if everyone was all right. To warn Blaster and Mirage and everyone else in his underground cell. He had responsibilities. He had his orders targeting the temple.

He also had the oil of dead protesters on his hands and time enough to overenergize and dull his senses. The screaming in his helm was low, but he needed to drown it out completely. Finishing another cube, laying on his back, he stared at the ceiling and hummed and sang to himself.

I swear I've seen the glory of the workings of his spark
Where it sets our lights aglow against the universal dark
Let his lightning be our guide as we all strive to reach his mark
'Till all are one, we'll see this done and join the well of sparks.

And it's go, mechs, go,
The will of Primus done,
In Primus name we're all the same
'Till all are one.
All are one.

I have seen the foe a'gathering and in truth the threat is near
As the danger presses inward leaving us no room to steer.
Although their host is mighty, Primus, I shall know no fear
'Till all are one, we'll see this done-our road ahead is clear.

And it's go, mechs, go,
We're driving toward our death,
In Primus name we're all the same
until our final vent.
All are one.

Jazz took a long, shuddery vent.

—Tone, if thy optics offend the will of Primus—

He removed his visor and set it aside. He knew from long experience that he needed another cube and a couple more songs before the memories would finally fall silent. For now, he rubbed his knuckles against the phantom pain, the torn wires and bent casing of his faceplate sockets, empty ever since the temple mech had ripped out his optics and crushed them in one fist.

Note:

1. song based on The Chemical Worker's Song (Process Man) by The Chemical Sea