THE SUN IN THE STREAM
A more cerebral look into the lives of our favorite Lamborghinis.
HAPPY 50 CHAPTERS! Gosh, I never thought it would go THIS far! I'm just in awe of the response and wonderful feedback that y'all have provided. And the awesome, prolific, and downright inspiring reviews and requests that just keep me going!
Here's hoping I can keep up! It would be spectacular if I could get to 100 chapters. I shall endeavor to continue as long as I get such wonderful feedback. *hint hint*
THANK Y'ALL SO MUCH!
00-OOO-IIII-0-O-IO-0-00-OOOIII-OOOO-I—O-OOOOOOO
Primus looked upon his children with a sad expression. Like all children they had to grow and learn, and though the journey may be difficult and fraught with peril, there was always the reward of peaceful slumber in eternity. Many had to be sparked, and though it pained the deity to think on it, many had to perish. There were lessons that his children needed to learn, and though he had gifted them with a spiritual knowledge of seeking his wisdom, very few exercised the gift. As fewer and fewer turned to their creator for strength and guidance, their ignorance caused them to stray from their chosen path. War ravaged their world, their people suffering at the hands of corrupt and insatiable. Wishing to give his children another chance, Primus took a piece of his own spark, willingly given from its powerful wielder, and encased in a holy relic that only the honorable would be allowed to successfully carry.
Many had tried to take the Matrix of leadership, either by force or misunderstanding, and as the ancient artifact passed from frame to frame, it sought the true essence of its wielder. If they were found unworthy, the Matrix would refuse to bestow its grace upon their frames. Most of the rejected would pass the Matrix to the next possible candidate, their own sparks heavy with the weight of guilt and selfish disgust. But there were the spare few who refused to accept the artifacts judgment upon their sparks and tried to carry its burden by the sheer voracity of their will.
Every one of them had met with a tormented and painful end.
The Matrix chose its bearer. Those who were unworthy were not given a second consideration, and if they reared against the Will of Primus, they suffered his wrath accordingly.
Primus paused, watching the beings of his creation enjoy their lives. Their joy and adoration were contagious. The look upon their faces and the overwhelming sense of love spoke to the very soul of the heavenly deity. He never felt more proud of his creations than when they sought inner peace, and in essence, found the spiritual link residing in every one of their sparks. All they had to do was seek their Creator, and they would find him. His line of communication was always open, their sparks a direct link to his own.
But with the good also came the terrible.
War.
Poverty.
Slavery.
All of his creations put through the fires of the Pit. There were the few periods of peace and prosperity, but compared to the time stream of eternity, they were but blinks. Hatred filled their sparks. Those who were bore of lower caste were considered the dregs of society, giving the upper class citizens the cultivated masses needed to attend to their needs. Some of those needs were so perverse, Primus adverted his sight in shame.
A governing body was established during one of the rare moments of peace time, and though the intention was just, the sparks of those assigned to such lofty positions was never for the betterment of the suffering people. Personal agendas took priority, allowing a larger rift to form amongst the populace.
Primus extended his hand and sent his messages, every spark beating within his own spark. All their voices joined together. Peace was fragile and broken on many occasions, those who were answering Primus' call were lost without proper direction. Their attempts at uniting a fractured world was weak and easily overlooked, the governing body firmly entrenched into the footholds of society. So Primus decided to send out one last call. If his children did not correct their ways, he would allow them to fail. They had fallen deaf for too long. If they did not answer his last summons, then he would allow them to decay, wither away with time.
And so his call went forth.
Those in power could not hear his words, nor sense his presence in their sparks. Their sparks had grown cold and harsh, keeping them wrapped in the steeliness of their resolve and righteous superiority. Those who heard his call stood up and took notice, and unlike most documented figures of renown, it was not the Lords and Princes and Senators that graced the pages of history.
Primus' call was heard in the dark, underground rings of Kaon. And it was heard along the fast, bustling warehouse district.
A gladiator, fed up with the inequity, his hands stained with the lifeblood of his fellow Cybertronians. Spark pounding, he raged through the arena, terminating the glorified owners and with voice raised high, he freed the enslaved, and rallied their sparks into following his lead. One of many such campaigns to his credit.
And in answer to the gladiator, there was a timid, yet friendly dock worker. He had been carrying crates off a merchants transport when the call was heard. He dropped the crate, his head canting, and something telling him to redirect his path into Iacon. Without knowledge of the upper districts, and unknown of his destination, he marched into the heart of the city, bypassed security measures that conveniently missed his presence, and ventured into the housing complex of the current Prime. With strong, confident steps, the mech sought the unthinkable. And as soon as his optics fell upon the regal Prime, he felt his chest swell. Unbidden his chest plates parted, and as the Prime and his delegates gaped at the stranger, the Prime jerked rigid, his own chest plates parting. And like a lost child finding its parent, the Matrix removed itself from its corrupted carrier to fly into the willing body of a pure, innocent, incorruptible young dock worker.
The old Prime fell lifeless on the floor. His job was done. He had bore the burden until his own spark was corrupted with the very thing that plagued his people and caused such strife. Every mech in the room followed their esteemed leader in death. Without a word, the ghostly dock worker exited the building and returned to work, the Matrix finding refuge in the purity of the spark that pulsed against its casing. It's time was near.
Now, even the most famous and noteworthy have their place in history, and though time would record them as the important ones, Primus knew otherwise. To protect the honored soul that carried the fractured piece of his spark, he had to make sure his symbol, and its bearer, would be well guarded. Primus smiled, granting sparks across the universe, creating them in their appointed time.
Being the all knowing God of the Cybertronian race, Primus realized that this uprising would be the last of its kind. For if his chosen champions failed, then his children would be lost. Their lives would be forfeit, because they refused to listen and forgot their heritage. The worst of times had to come to fruition, or else the blind would never see the fault in their existence. Primus felt saddened, knowing his children would have to suffer horrible atrocities, their very sparks singed by the fiery Pits, purifying and cleansing their dark spirits and allowing them to realize the distance they had with their creator. They would suffer, and not all would survive the trial. But it was one last desperate hope to show his children how far they have gone, and how far they must come to regain their place of honor.
It would take strength of spirit to endure the tortures of the world. Pain and suffering would be a constant companion, reminding those who had fallen, how far they had to go in order to reach the end of their journey. For when they were cast from the tempest of strife and damnation, they could stand strong, defending those who were too weak to rise from the ashes.
They must endure the horrors of war. And though they may fail, at least they would know in their sparks that they did their best. They had stood for what was right. They defended the weak, even at the cost of their own life. They protected the righteous and just, and though they may not understand their role in the forging of great leaders, they knew deep in their souls that their place was by the appointed mechs side.
That strength of character would not only define an individual, but it would allow them to carve their own place in history. They stood by their leader's side, upholding his judgments and following his command, even if it meant their termination. And though they would never rule a nation, their names would become legend.
Primus smiled, watching his newly appointed leader stumble about his life, not realizing the burden he now possessed within his worn frame. The time was soon approaching. This mech would rise beyond the others who bore the Matrix, and with his humble beginnings, he would forge the way to an everlasting peace.
But for him to do such great and honorable things, he must come to power, and though he may be surrounded by friends and loyal soldiers, Primus would trust no other than his own appointed guardians to protect his most precious bearer.
With a wave of his hand, Primus plucked a spark from the awaiting Well. At his command the spark split, and with his mighty hand, he placed the twin sparks in the time stream, sending them into a world that would not only ridicule and torment them, but would also grant them a most sacred place. The twin sparks took their frames, endured their trials, suffered through great agony, and when their time came to take their rightful place, they stood up without hesitation, ready to be of the service they were sent to provide.
They remained in the background, ensuring the chosen bearer of Primus' spark would be safe. Exhausted, beaten, battered and raw, the two sparks continued their struggle, remaining true to their duty and to their Prime. And though they were of lowly positions, both in life and in rank, they served dutifully, until Primus called for their return to the Well.
When they heard the blessed call, they both smiled, and faded from the physical plane, returning to the place from whence they came.
00-OOO-IIII-0-O-IO-0-00-OOOIII-OOOO-I—O-OOOOOOO
All mistakes belong to Jazz, who offered to beta but I have a feeling he procrastinated, then downright lied about getting this edited.
Reviews are welcomed… and inspire the muse on SOOOOOOooooooOOOOO many levels!
