Introduction: This scene is set in Iacon, where some real, world-wide plot stuff is happening. I'm not sure exactly where it fits chronologically but it's some time between chapters 28 and 40 of Many Voices.
Maccadam looked up when the door slammed open and one of the last mechs he'd expected to see rushed in.
The noise in the room died down a bit, and mecha stared as the well-known senator charged across the room looking very excited and undignified.
Of course, if he was going to show up, he'd make a scene of it.
"Alchemist!" Alpha Trion slammed his hands down on the counter. "I need to talk to you!" He had an exuberant light in his optics—good news, hopefully. There hadn't been much of that in the past little while.
Half the room was staring now. Maccadam leaned forward. "Who?" he said. "Are you feeling all right, your honor?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Alpha Trion said.
"Why don't you come in the back and sit down for a while?" Maccadam said, gesturing for him to go past the counter to the back. "And then I'll call a transport to take you to the Hall of Records or the Council Hall or wherever you need to go."
Alpha Trion walked past him and Maccadam pretended to send a comm, while he watched the mecha in his oilhouse. He waited until everyone seemed to go back to what they were doing before he left one of his employees in charge and made his way through the back hallway and to his office. Maccadam was certainly glad to see the mech, but he had told him to use the back door if he wanted to come in and talk…
Alpha Trion was sitting behind Maccadam's desk, now looking decidedly solemn and regal.
Maccadam quirked an optic ridge and sat down across from him. "All right," he said. "What is it? I haven't seen you for ages, Alph."
Alpha Trion's lip plates quirked up into a smile and he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Guess."
"What are we, sparklings?"
"Alchemist, I've found him!" Alpha Trion whispered.
"Also, I have said it many times. Do not call me that in public, in my oilhouse. Please, Alph. Found who?"
"I've found the next Prime."
"Oh," Maccadam leaned back and crossed his arms. "Again?"
"Really, this time," Alpha Trion said.
"But last time you talked to me, you said the council was refusing to appoint one. They haven't changed their minds, have they?"
"It doesn't matter this time," Alpha Trion said. "This time, nothing will stop him."
Maccadam frowned. He had known this mech for millennia and he could sense his anxiety. Something was different about this time, or Alpha wouldn't be acting like this about it. Pressure made him unpredictable. "Ok. Who is it?"
"He's one of my clerks."
"Favoritism, Alph? An archivist?"
"Yes. I've made him my assistant."
"I pity the poor spark."
"Nonsense," Alpha Trion said. "Well…" His excitement seemed to wane a little and he frowned. "I pity him too, I suppose."
"Yes. Anyone who you take on as an assistant is better off throwing themselves off of…"
"Alchemist, would you take this seriously?"
"Would I take this seriously? You were practically bouncing off the walls out there. They're going to be talking about that for decaorns. What is going on?"
Alpha Trion went solemn again for a moment, then relaxed a little. "I believe…" he said cautiously. "He is the last one."
Maccadam frowned. "What?"
"The Last Prime. From the great war prophesies in the Covenant."
Silence stretched for a moment. Maccadam met his brother's brilliant white optics, then looked away and shook his helm.
"No," he said. "I don't think we're quite there yet, Alpha. And you don't even know if this mech's even going to end up as a Prime in the first place. It seems like every few vorns you show up here shouting about how you've found one, and then what? The council refuses to appoint them and everything goes back to the way it was."
"I am certain about this one," Alpha Trion said, still solemn. "Everything matches; all the signs are there. He's not just worthy, Alchemist, he is different. And I felt it, when I spoke to him—Primus confirmed it."
Maccadam froze. "You felt Primus?"
"Yes," Alpha Trion said. "For the first time in almost a decavorn."
Silence again.
"Well, I guess I can't argue with that," Maccadam said. "If you're sure it was really Primus." Their creator hadn't been very talkative lately.
Alpha Trion nodded. "And things are going to fall apart before too long. Can't you feel it? The council are keeping secrets from me. Even what I do know isn't good. Halogen's been in power too long—it's corrupted him. I didn't think it would, and I don't understand it, but…"
"But the end of the world? Surely we can find a way to calm things down and get the right mecha on the council again, like we did back when…"
"No," Alpha Trion said. "No, we have to stay out of it. The great war is in the Covenant, and that means it's Primus's will."
Maccadam sighed. "You know… never mind, I don't want to start that argument again. So, this new Prime of yours—this archivist—have you told him who you think he is? How does he feel about that?"
"He's too young, I haven't said anything to him yet."
"Too young?"
"Nine vorns."
Maccadam raised an optic ridge. "Nine vorns. He hasn't even been an adult for half of his life."
Alpha Trion nodded.
"And you think he's the Last Prime?"
"Yes. And hopefully things won't fall apart for another decavorn, and he'll have some time to mature before he's appointed."
"Nineteen vorns isn't very old either."
"I know. And things are moving more rapidly than I want them to." Alpha Trion sighed. "And... I should go. I am very busy." He stood.
Maccadam stood as well and stepped in front of the doorway. "Wait," he said. "You are not going to show up here, tell me you've found the Last Prime, and then run off again. We live in the same city, and I haven't seen you for more than a vorn, brother. Stay and talk a while."
"I…" Alpha Trion looked down. "…I do have things I need to do."
"Like read the Covenant for the eight millionth time?"
"Yes," Alpha Trion crossed his arms. "I need to check all of the signs of the great war again. There could still be something I'm missing. And besides that, I have to babysit the council as often as possible. Regrettable decisions are made when I'm not there."
"You can take a twenty breem break," Maccadam said.
Alpha Trion hesitated for a few more astroseconds, then sighed again and sat down. "All right." He looked tired and ancient for an astrosecond, but then perked up again. "How has business been?"
"Good, as usual," Maccadam said. "Tell me more about this mechling Prime. What makes him so different?"
"Well…" Alpha Trion said. "Even when we hired him a vorn ago…"
Alpha Trion talked, and Maccadam listened, glad he'd managed to talk the mech into staying for a while, and hoping this would help. His brother's behavior—solemn one astrosecond, and energetic the next—was a bad sign. It meant he was troubled and anxious on the inside.
Maccadam was nervous too. He could feel it—the pressure in the atmosphere, heralding a storm. He could hear it in whispered conversations between his patrons, see it in the filthy streets and the number of starving sparklings running around without homes. He could sense it when he listened to the news, and mark it in the discrepancies between what the media said, and what the mecha he spoke to personally reported.
Things could not continue the way they were—not for much longer. There was too much complacency in high places, and too much unrest among the masses.
But he still clung to the hope that Alpha Trion was wrong. He didn't want to believe the great war was coming. Those prophecies made up the last section of the Covenant of Primus, and they got even more vague and difficult to understand at the end, as if Primus himself was unsure what the outcome would be—as if Primus himself didn't know what would happen afterward. It was the end of history, the end of this final age of peace, maybe even the end of Cybertron itself.
Maccadam wasn't ready for that. No one was ready for that.
Notes:
1. The end of the world is coming. Dun dun duuuuuun!
2. Poor Maccadam. He tries so hard to keep his true identity secret and discredit the rumors. And then his siblings randomly show up and ruin everything :) They probably do it on purpose, to annoy him.