Hello, my lovelies!
I bet you all thought I abandoned Penumbra, hmm?
Nah. I love this story and the pairing too much to just let it go. At the least, I would've put the story up for adoption for some kindly author to continue it.
College, as well as my job and my family life have taken quite a toll on my health. With the summer, I have unfortunately lost my job due to circumstances outside my control.
I go back to college around the end of August, and I have been hard at work finding a job before then.
And to top things off, I would've uploaded this chapter sooner, but my family lost our Internet connection a few days ago, and I cannot leave the house due to my mother being busy. Thank God I have time to write!
I am now legal, though in no rush to drink, have sex, or marry. Though I am in quite the hurry to learn driving and get my license.
Enough about me, though.
Hopefully, by now, you are all acquainted with the Cybertronian terminology I use in this fic. If not….
Body Parts (all approximate, and the anatomical chart I use for my stories):
Hands = Servos
Arms = Support Servos
Legs = Stabilizing Servos
Tongue = Glossa
Teeth = Denta
Feet = Landing Pads
Shoulders and Knees = Shoulderplates and kneeplates, respectively
Eyes = Optics
Fingers = Digits
Hips = Pistons
Lips = Vocal Labi
Mouth = Vocal Receptor
Ears = Audio Receptor
Neck = Chassis Pillar
Torso/Chest = Chassis
Body = Frame/Shell
Skin = Protoplasm
Brain = Processor
Sections of brain = Lobes
Units of Time (all approximate, and the chronological chart I use for my stories):
Any time less than a second = Microklik
Second = Nanoklik
Minute = Klik
8.3 Minutes = Breem
Hour = Cycle
6 Hours = Joor
Day (both day and night) = Solar Cycle
Week = Decacycle
Month = Orbital Cycle
6 Months/Half a Stellar Cycle = Orn
Year = Stellar Cycle
83 Years = Vorn
Approx. 100 years = Megacycle
Cybertronian Units of Length (all approximate, and the metrical chart I use for my stories)
Scint – 1 Centimeter (0.100 m)
Klep – 1 Decimeter (0.10 m)
Kil – 1 Fathom (6 ft.)
Mechanometer – 1 Meter (m)
Megamile – 1 Decameter (10 m)
Kix – 1 Hectometer (100 m)
Microquad – 2 ½ Hectometers (250 m)
Hic – 1 Kilometer (1,000 m, or 4 microquads)
Vun – 1 knot (6086 ft.)
Solar Rek – 1 League (3 knots)
Hope this helps.
I figured, a little after I put up the new chapter on DeviantArt, I should explain what the fudge my weird chapter titles mean.
I say "HA! Figure it out for yourselves!"
No really. I can only give you definitions of words and whatnot. What the titles mean to you, what you get from every chapter, only you will know first what it means. But, just for fun:
Imperatrix Mundi is from Latin. It is the title of the first piece of the Carmina Burana, a famous (or infamous, depending) piece of dramatic music. 'Imperatrix Mundi' is better known by some as 'O Fortuna' because of the first two lines.
Oh fortuna Oh fortune
velut luna Like the moon
Imperatrix Mundi roughly translates into English as 'Empress of the World'. Fortune, or Fate as many called her, was considered the world's queen because she controlled everyone and everything, from the destiny of all living beings to the seasons and the weather.
I have so many reasons for titling the chapter after a piece of music as old as the handheld Bible, but that's not the most important. Leave me a comment if you can. Maybe tell me what your thoughts are on this chapter, why you think I titled this chapter with such an archaic phrase. Stuff like that. Reviews and criticisms are welcome. :)
Let's get on with the next installment of 'Penumbra'!
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers: Animated. We'd have a very depressing cartoon if I did.
You open your optics.
At first, it's just a blaze of light, harsh and white. Then your vision clears, and you see the bots hovering over you. Medics. All of them.
"Ah, you're coming to", a masculine, kind voice murmurs.
You're in a hospital, that much you can tell.
"Where am I?", you ask, the light still glaringly bright until a servo moves it out of your sight.
Red Alert? No, not Red Alert. This one's a mech, and in addition to a light-blue visor, he doesn't have her medic helm.
"Hey there, sir. The largest of your injuries is a severe injury in your chassis. Decepticons attempted to shoot your spark out. Please don't strain yourself, or leave the berth. Your body needs time to recover completely."
You immediately recognize the voice; First Aid, a nurse and emergency medic, apprenticed by Ratchet.
"I know of the Decepticons that attempted to kill me. I want to be told what exactly happened, why they attacked us, if there were any casualties."
There is the feeling of being moved, and you see that First Aid is following and talking with you as two other bots wheel you away somewhere. Bots are running to and fro, and the commotion and loud orders to 'get her some placidium', and 'take him to ER', and the like dwindle away.
"None that I remember off the top of my head, I'm sorry to say, sir. Anyone at the Guild Scientius, I mean. I can say that the Decepticons that raided the Guild stole stuff like blueprints and confidential files. I think they wanted to kidnap you as well, and they did destroy the West Corridors of the Guild. I am sorry to report this.
However, no one from there has been reported as offline, thank Primus. I know that Mainframe and Councilfemme Botanica have been administered a few solar cycles cycles ago, and Ironfist has sustained some head trauma. Skyfall and Moonracer have been reported missing, though-whoa!"
You shoot up in the medical berth at the mention of the sharpshooter's name. A stab of pain registers in your chassis, but you ignore it as you struggle against First Aid.
"Easy, sir!"
"What?! How long?!"
Your medical berth stops moving, and the two bots pushing it leave. The nurse remains behind, a confused expression his only reply.
"How long-?"
"How long have I been in prolonged stasis?"
There is a nervous pause, and you notice First Aid press in his vocal labi before replying, "Honestly, Perceptor? A decacycle, five solar cycles, fourteen cycles, and two breems at present."
A decacycle. You've been unconscious for longer than a decacycle, and the frustration at yourself for missing so much settles in. Unconsciously, your right servo runs over your head, to the back, down your chassis pillar, and over a gap where there's usually the giant periscope on your shoulderplate.
Wait.
"First Aid, where is my periscope?"
"Oh, that's back in another ward, awaiting repairs, Perceptor sir. I will get it back to you the moment it's back in working order, sir."
"Please refrain from referring to me as 'sir'. It feels displaced. Now, when was it reported that Moonracer went missing?"
No response.
"First Aid. Answer me."
"….She was reported missing a solar cycle after the assault on the Guild. She wasn't at the Guild, but rather at Kaon, with the forces battling Trypticon. If she had offlined, we'd know. But since there are no remains, we will assume she's still alive and look for her, as well as other bots reported missing."
He places a comforting servo on your right shoulderplate, on the gap where your scope used to rest. You feel exposed without the scope there, as if you are incomplete. Mere politeness is the only thing keeping you from shaking him off.
"She'll…..turn up. I'm sure. And the Guild will definitely be rebuilt. You need to rest and take care of yourself, so that you'll be around when everything is back to normal. Things are going to be alright. You'll see. Now, I have to get back to ER, because Ratchet is pinging me important orders."
The red-and-white nurse begins to stride out, but your last question abruptly stops him.
"And what of Wheeljack?"
His hesitation and the weary drop of his shoulderplates doesn't go unnoticed. "I will have to report back with more details after. Or I will send someone to. I need to go now, but you will get a full explanation later."
With that, the mech leaves and doesn't look back.
That didn't answer the question at all.
You know exactly what happened to everyone else: Ironfist, Moonracer, even the Guild Scientius and your periscope. None of your colleagues are offline, and you'll learn of anybot that did later, but there is no updated knowledge of the engineer's whereabouts.
Something doesn't feel right.
You find this odd, that you are relying on feelings, something you haven't really done, until Moonracer became your assistant and Wheeljack started concentrating on mentoring Ironfist more. Before and after the thousand stellar cycles. Emotions are not part of you, but you found yourself comparing instances where instinct would've yielded better results.
No instance has yielded a stronger conclusion than now: something really doesn't feel right.
You try to apply logic, and only two things that come to processor is that First Aid intentionally lied to you, or gave you information he gleaned from someone who had incomplete knowledge.
Something really, REALLY doesn't feel right.
You are known for, besides your vast intellect and scientific skills, being persistent. And this was something worth getting to the bottom of, if only to keep it out of your processor later.
So you attempt to sit up, and another stab of pain, deeper than the last, erupts in your nervous wiring. Your left servo reaches for your chassis, and you find a spark-support cube latched there. Looking down, you find your entire chassis, your servos, and your left stabilizing servo down to the landing pad, tightly wrapped with steelbelt bindings.
What you find strange is that there are no more medical instruments, such as IV drips or energon tubing. Surely you've been injured more seriously, considering Decepticons attempted to shoot your spark out and managed to deliver some damage.
There are only twelve cubes of low-grade on a side table, so you hurriedly consume three. Ignoring the slight waves of pain flaring in your chassis, you move off the medical berth and stagger out of the room.
Looking left and right, this hallway is fairly empty. Your objective is finding Wheeljack. The ER is leeward, and in that direction is First Aid and possibly other medics that will demand you stay put. You turn to the right and begin walking, hoping to stumble across anyone or anything that could help you.
You're barely half a klep away from your room before you come across a medic. This one is one that seems familiar to you. A femme with a Level 3 nurse's medic helm, she has antennae on her audio receptors and white kibble with lifeline emblems. Orange faceplates, red and white everywhere in her design.
"Oh, hello. Can I help you with somezing?"
"Greetings. Yes, can you please disclose the location of Wheeljack? Or if he has been administered to this hospital?"
"Of courze! I will check my datapad and see what comes up. I am Minerva, in case you needed to know."
Minerva. Red Alert's apprentice. Of course.
4.1 kilks later, and she reads the datapad and smiles. "You're lucky you von't have to walk far. Just go down zis hall headed towards the ER, but take your first left. Zhen your fourth right. Zhen the second left. Zis is Ground Level, so look for Room E42, yes?"
"That was helpful. Thank you." Nodding your gratitude to her, you follow her directions, restraining every wince that results from pressure being applied on your left landing pad. You don't need her coming after you with hospital orderlies and a wheeled berth.
Keep walking. Keep walking. They would do the same for you. Wheeljack would do the same for you. Moonracer would do the same for you. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going despite the miniscule pain that is slowly increasing.
You take the first left, but passing the first left you hear familiar voices from the right and quicken your pace to the second left, where there is an alcove that doubles as a custodian closet. They come into the hallway just as you tuck your lean frame behind the door. You hide and listen.
"….It is not wise to inform him just yet. Considering everything we've just discovered, his mental state is something we must take great care..."
"...he deserves to know. After all that's happened. ..."
"He is too valuable to be hampered in any way..."
"Oh, so now everything he's discovered, everything he's gone through, is just an obstacle? An inconvenience? You all have hidden the truth from him before, and look what good came out of that!"
"Red Alert, ma'am-"
"-Don't ma'am me! Don't think I'll forget why I'm angry at you. In fact, forget this. I'm finding him and telling him myself. First Aid!"
A clatter of landing pads. "Yes, Red Alert, ma'am? Hello to you, Alpha Trion, sir. And you as well, Mainframe."
"Give me the room number of Perceptor."
"Ma'am, with all due respect-"
"-Dammit, not you too, Aid."
"Ma'am, he is recovering. I don't think it's wise to speak with him just yet. Considering your history…."
"…..don't, First Aid. Don't. And don't start, Mainframe. You too, Alpha Trion sir. I know we all mean well, but First Aid, I need to talk to him."
"What will you tell him?"
"Everything. That Moonracer and her friends are reported as offline, that the Guild Scientius has been leveled, and that Wheeljack is in a fatal coma."
You know they are talking, but you hear nothing past Red Alert's last statement. Any energon in your wires suddenly runs cold, and the familiar sensation of an obstruction in your tanks; the want to purge, it's there in a nanosecond, and every sound and sight spirals into this….phenomenon…cutting off the energon going to your head.
You want to collapse. To close your optics and wake up.
The Guild Scientius is destroyed.
Moonracer is gone for good.
And Wheeljack could soon follow her.
Lies.
Misinformation.
No.
No.
NO.
This….is just a nightmare. It has to be.
But it doesn't feel like a cortisolium-drugged dream. This feels awfully real.
And the feeling is punctuated by a sharp pain. You look down and, in the dim light of the custodian's closet, see your right servo clenching your left elbow joint hard enough to draw energon. It flows through your digits, the glowing magenta color stark against the black of your finish.
No.
This is real.
But…
…Wheeljack. Wheeljack would know what to say. And if what they said was right, he wasn't offline either.
Ignoring the heaviness in your spark chamber that grows with every step, you clamber out into the hallway and attempt to find the room.
E42. E42. You repeat it over and over in your processor, until your vocal labi begin mumbling the room number like an overcharged bot.
You would find out what really happened to the Guild and Moonracer later, though your spark twists in pain upon the thought that Moonracer could be offline.
The Guild is practically indestructible, if your partner's exploits didn't give the fortress a total of 3,458 upgrades over the vorns.
And Moonracer is resilient and strong beneath her petite exterior, hardly a bot to offline after a mere battle. You've seen her fight servo-to-servo. And protect you from nineteen various and dangerous explosions since her tenure as your assistant. And hold off the Decepticon Oil Slick. She is probably recovering somewhere in the hospital, or waiting somewhere for a rescue team.
She and Wheeljack will be fine.
Yet you can't completely avoid the logic in your processor that says that medics, of all bots, wouldn't lie to you. To anyone, really.
Pushing away the negative thought processes once again, you walk out and down the hall as fast as you can, taking the fourth right as instructed. You near the first hallway on the right when you hear somebot calling out your designation.
"Perceptor! Hey, Perceptor!"
The accent is unique to Ironfist, who you see hobbling after you when you glance back. The younger metallurgist clutches his head with his left servo, the other servo holding up his frame on a crutch of sorts.
"Wait! Percy, please wait up!"
You stop your feeble walking long enough for him to catch up.
"Thanks. Hold on for a klik."
"Are you on your way to see your mentor, as am I?"
"About that-"
Any more he intends to say is cut off by other voices.
Unwelcome voices.
"You didn't tell me other medics were following you."
"I didn't know about them. Were you avoiding them?"
You turn and hurry towards the second right, amid Ironfist's pleas to slow down and the now excruciating pain centered in various areas of your body.
"Perceptor, you need to slow down!"
At this rate, you continue to stumble, leaning heavily against walls and clutching your bound spark chamber. Dizziness threatens to weigh you down, before you shake your head and trudge onwards.
"I will not slow down until I've at least seen Wheeljack!"
That quickly becomes the wrong response, as the landing pads of Red Alert, Ratchet, and Alpha Trion hasten behind you.
The second right leads into a smaller, brightly-lit hallway, where all doors are motion-sensor operated like many doors at the Guild Scientius. Lacking a handle, all doors are split with a line down the middle, and a red orb containing a sensor-scanner underneath a circular cover. All it takes is a scan of an Autobot Insignia and a wave of a servo.
A quick look-over of all doors, and you see it. At the far end, seven doors down.
E42.
With tremendous relief, you begin walking.
And find your path hindered by a firm servo on the gap where your periscope used to be. A 95-degree turn reveals Ratchet, and the aged doctor plants his other servo on you.
"Oh, no, you don't. With all due respect, sir, it would not be wise to allow you to see your old partner just yet."
You could handle Red Alert and the other hospital medics being restrictive. You could handle Mainframe and Ironfist being secretive. You could even handle Alpha Trion, being there for support.
But Ratchet. This doctor who's fought in a war past, lived in that time eleven megacycles ago, and has been trapped on another planet for a vorn. He knows nothing. Nothing that you know. He certainly doesn't know about what you've done, or what Wheeljack has sacrificed for you. And with this unusual sympathy, your famous self-control and restrain disappears.
"WHY NOT?!"
The older mech is rendered speechless, as are Alpha Trion, Mainframe, and Red Alert holding up Ironfist. And the silence becomes too much. You turn back to start walking.
"Wait, Percy."
Ironfist's murmurs halt you one more time. He was not a bot that was known for murmuring, much less pleading.
"Please, listen. If not to any of us here, to me. Trust me when I say it's best to wait and let 'Jack rest before you see him."
Despite how much you care about Ironfist, you care nothing for his pleas to stop. Why? Why is he preventing you from seeing your own partner? His own mentor? Who he's cared about as much as you, upholding the white mech like a mech creator.
Your processor is screaming at you to stop, but you are beyond reason now.
"Perceptor!"
You find, with equal parts thrill and terror, that you are running on pure instinct. And why not?
So you come to the door. With a defiant scan of the Autobot insignia on one of your dials and a wave of your servo, it opens. There is nothing keeping you back.
For the first time in a long while, you feel powerful enough to do anything.
"No. Stop. No more."
And the feeling goes as quickly as it came.
"Let him go. It's too late-"
A drop of nausea and shock replaces the momentary spark of adrenaline.
"-What? Why-?"
Voices of any bot that followed you dissipate behind you.
"You don't want to be in there….."
The room is a cold, dark space, filled with nothing but wires and IV drips and little blinking lights. There is one singular light in the room, and it shines down upon…something. You don't recognize the 'something', almost concealed with wires and tubes and support systems.
Then you notice the frame and the lone doorwing where there used to be two. The large servos and the imposing stature. Optics, normally open and bright with optimism and excitement, are shut tight in an impassive faceplate. The signature mask is replaced with steelbelt bindings stained with energon. And support systems, weakly bleeping, with active-signal lights that almost hurt to look at. And injuries.
Everywhere.
On his helm. Along his limbs. He's missing his right support servo. His left stabilizing servo up to his kneecap. An open laceration on a piston. But none of these strike you in the spark like the injury in his chassis.
Where there isn't the finish of his chassis curled like energon-stained ribbons, there is a large hole indicating a blast. The blast ate through most of his chassis, leaving his protoplasm vulnerable. There is a spark-support cube keeping his blinking spark running. The spark is the size of a Cybertronian optic.
A once pristine, white finish is already grey in places.
Grey. Grey as death. Suddenly everything, even your vision, seems grey.
No.
You open your vocal receptor, and try to speak clearly and strongly, but what comes out sounds like a whimper.
"Wheeljack?"
No response.
"Wheeljack? Is that you?"
Of course it is. You berate yourself for being so stupid at a time like this.
Even when you were the smartest bot, you were the biggest fool.
"Why, Wheeljack? Why did you do it? Why did you protect me? You should've let me…..you shouldn't have…..Wheeljack…"
Every step towards him is heavy. Every step closer flares the guilt in your spark until you feel you will combust.
"You weren't supposed to, 'Jack. I was supposed to be the one that takes the hit. You've done nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing!"
You manage to place your servos at his berthside. Your servo accidentally brushes against him and you feel his protoplasm, cold and energon-stained beneath his plating.
"It was me! I am the one to blame! Don't you see? Every rumor about me, every suspicious glance, every reason Chromia Magnus hated me, every reason Moonracer fled from me; all of it was true! Why didn't you listen?! Why did you feel the need to see I wasn't nearly killed?!"
Clenched on a rail attached to the berth, your servos grip the metal until it begins to bend its shape into your digits.
"I deserved it. I deserved to be offline. To join the bots I caused the offlining of. To be damned to whatever Pit, with their screams and terrified looks burned into my processor forever. For someone else, far more intelligent and with much more integrity, to take my place. But you! You just had to be you. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve any of this."
It proves too much. You collapse. Megacycles worth of dirty secrets and dead bots and things lost bring you down to your kneecaps.
"It should've been me. It's should've been me. I should've died. Wheeljack, my friend and partner."
This could be a nightmare. This could be reality. But your processor appears to have lost the ability to differentiate. This….
"This is wrong. This is unfair. No…no…no….no…"
It haunts you even as you fall into stasis.
The sound of his slowly fading spark beating to the mantra of 'no' that keeps going and going and going.
Imperatrix Mundi
or
A story of preparations and primping, history in the making, the thunder before the lightning, a fall from grace and a rise to power, leaders and cowards, and the point of no return.
{Three orbital cycles after the return of Chromia Minor and her team to Cybertron}
[Cybertron, Streets of Iacon, near Fortress Maximus]
The solar cycle is finally upon us.
At the gates of the Fortress Maximus, between the line of giant holographs of past Magni and the settling crowd, there's a three tier platform that rises out of the ground.
It's not very high, as most bots can step up them with ease, but they are spread out wide and high enough so everybot can see the inauguration.
The requested guests stand on the bottom tier. Lancer, the other femmes of Team Quintessa, and I will be on one side, and Jazz, Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, and Ratchet on the other. Optimus stands next to an empty spot I'm presuming is for Ironhide. I am also going to stand next to Moonracer. Where's Firestar?
On the second tier are the Councilbots: Botanica, Cliffjumper, and Perceptor. And two of their bodyguards. It startles me; just how few bots remain on the Council now.
The topmost tier remains empty, for that is where Sentinel, Alpha Trion, and Chromia will appear and stand for the ceremony.
What ceremony?
I think almost every bot here on Cybertron has come to witness history in the making: the stripping of Magnus rank from one bot and the immediate transfer onto another bot.
And where am I?
"Moonie…..ugh, Moonie, stop!"
"But, 'Mia, the color and pattern suits you so well!"
"I'm Acting Magnus, not Queen. Why the frag am I wearing this?!"
"Because Tracks recommended it. And I kinda agree with him."
"I'd sooner whack myself in the head with the Magnus hammer."
"Oh, 'Mia, you're being melodramatic."
The sound of Chromia's servo hitting her faceplate resounds in the room.
Moonracer, Ironhide, Chromia, and I are in a covered-off area near the stage. Ironhide is her bodyguard.
Sentinel has his own area to the left of the Tier. Tracks had picked out a cape for 'Mia to wear for her inauguration. The dark blue surface and the glittering stars shine with every frustrated shake she gives it. I find it very beautiful.
Chromia, on the other servo…..
"I look like an Alpha Trion wannabe. Shoot me, someone."
She shoots a look at Ironhide. He smiles and shakes his head.
"Sorry, Chromia ma'am. No can do."
Aww, what a gentlemech.
"Please, 'Mia. Please please please. It looks beautiful on you."
"Only because she makes it real pretty. Ain't that right….Chromia Magnus?"
I see her swallow and force herself to look in the mirror.
And what she apparently sees causes her to suddenly smash the reflective surface with one fist.
Moonracer gasps and hurries to yank her servo out. Ironhide's optics widen and he hastens to the future Magnus' side. I wait for any further orders.
"Moonie, Moonie, STOP. I'm good. I've suffered worse than this. You know." She then glances over at Ironhide. "So do you, 'Hide. Now both of you stop worrying."
"Chromia, you punched a mirror. That's not normal, even for you."
"Sweetspark, relax."
"I can't relax! You punched a mirror for no good reason. A mirror! Why?"
"Because I look like Jerkaft Magnus. Cape, blue finish, shoulderpad kibble. Inject some steroids into my chin and just call me Sentinela Prime. Frag everything. I'm done with this." She rips the beautiful thing from her kibble and flings it out the opening in the tent.
No one speaks for a klik. I decide to fetch the cloak, shuffling out.
"You are nothing like Sentinel, 'Mia. Nothing."
Moonracer knows her better than the rest of the femmes, even Firestar, and Chromia doesn't speak a word.
I walk in to her pulling in her apprentice for a crushing hug, her damaged servo leaving glowing pink streaks on the younger femme's finish.
"And 'Mia, you're wounded. Can we get Green to extract the shards and wrap your servo with steelbelt bindings, at least?"
The blue femme looks over to me. "I suppose, to avoid further energon loss. I need every drop of it today. Just the shards, though, Green. I'll take care of my servo after."
I walk over and, gently taking it, inspect it. She did give the mirror a hard punch, but there is little damage to the circuitry in either her palm or digits, so I take a pair of needletip tweezers from a compartment on my frame and begin yanking the shards out.
I rerun a hologram of Moonracer exclaiming in her feminine, airy tone, 'MIA! Please be more careful!' I fully expect Fearless Leader's half-sparked roll of optics.
I do not expect Ironhide's expression of surprise and awe, his optics widening. "Whoa. Chromia. Chromia, ma'am! Ya didn't tell me ye had a Special in yer team!"
A Special. It was a positive term for Cybertronians that had unusual powers, such as being able to stop time, download abilities, or could fly without propulsion systems. 'Special' was a more encouraging designation for such bots; much more than 'freak' or 'half-formed' or some other degrading insult.
Chromia is confused for a klik, then presses her uninjured servo against her forehead.
"Frag, I can be forgetful sometimes. Ironhide, this is Greenlight. She's our official medic, archivist, and armor specialist. She doesn't speak much, so she uses her own memories and emits a hologram of anything she's seen via optics to communicate.
Green, this is Ironhide. We've been close since WAY before Academy times. He has the ability to manipulate his near-indestructible protoplasm to cover his finish, as a 'second armor' of sorts. I think he'd love explaining to you how it works."
I'm not too sure how I feel about him, but if he's a friend of Chromia's, he's acceptable. I extend a polite nod towards him. He quietly tilts his helm towards me in reply.
I think he'd treat me different if I were a mech. The accent is a giveaway that he was raised on Moonbase 1, the one with our energon farms and refineries. Mechs there are raised to respect femmes.
"Five kliks 'til ceremony commencement!"
The statement interrupts my thoughts, and I work faster to get the miniscule silvers of mirror out of 'Mia's servo before she has to walk out into the Tier.
"Got it!", Ironhide barks back. Then he turns his attention to me.
"Miss Greenlight, not to be rude, but are ya almost done? 'Mia's handled much worse than a few cuts from a little mirror, ain't that right, Chromia ma'am?"
"Don't 'ma'am' me, 'Hide. I ain't that old", she replies with a little drawl mimicking Ironhide's accent, a cheeky smirk gracing her vocal receptor.
No distractions, Green! I hurry to extract every shard as the nanokliks count down. At three kliks until commencement, I yank out the last little bugger. Hurriedly shoving the tweezers back into my compartment, I rub some ibuprofium I had leftover into her finish, having found a tube of it with the tweezers.
"Pain relief grease?"
"Better safe than sorry, 'Mia", Moonracer says, peeking outside the tent before retracting her head. "One-and-a-half kliks."
Chromia firmly nods and wrings her servo out of my grasp. Ironhide goes behind her and reassuringly rubs her shoulderplates.
"You will be a great Magnus, Chromia, Pro Temporare or not. No matter what they say. If any of 'em give you trouble when yer doin' the hardest job of any Autobot, you send 'em to me, got it? I'll straighten 'em out for ya."
I leave before they do, to secure my spot on the tier, but I manage to see Moonracer nod encouragingly at Chromia, and extend her servo gracefully towards her mentor. The pale green femme will be our Leader's escort, to her right, while Ironhide will flank Chromia to her left.
The crowds are a sight to behold, filling the shadowed ground level of Fortress Maximus. The tier, stark white against the shade of the immense building, has almost every bot present and accounted for, and I hurry to take my spot next to my cousin.
"Firestar's here", Lancer whispers to me. "I think she was having ankle-joint problems again. Oh, and nothing too bad happened with Fearless leader, I take it?"
A memory replays in my holograms. Chromia answers the ninjabot with, "I got a good pep talk with Moonracer. I'm good. Don't worry, 'kay?"
Anything more my cousin wishes to tell me is silenced by the loud fanfare, demanding a hush upon the crowd. The clamour of bots dies down to the booming voice of Alpha Trion.
"Greetings, my fellow Autobots. This solar cycle, while unexpected, is a necessary and welcome one. As you all know, Ultra Magnus, who is still on spark support but unharmed, thank Primus, needs our brightest and best on the frontline to protect Cybertron. He has officially stated that, in his condition, there be a Magnus pro temporare. So we elected such a bot and put them into power.
"However, after stellar cycles of observation, Ultra Magnus has decided the current Magnus Pro Temporare is needed in other areas of importance. He has decreed that the title and rank of Magnus Pro Temporare is given to someone with a longer duration of experience relevant to the position."
The aged mech extends his servos majestically, then drops one to his pulpit and extends the other to his left. The silence and awe of the crowd is deafening.
I wonder why, until I realize that the public is not yet aware of who the Council chose to replace Sentinel.
Won't they be surprised.
"Sentinel Magnus, come to the stand."
To the left of Alpha Trion is Sentinel, with a dark blue cape hanging from his shoulderpads. His cape is embossed with maps of Cybertron's surface. There are exaggerated armor plates on his shoulderpads, chassis, and on his back, orange and beige and attention-grabbing. His haughty smirk seems almost painted onto his faceplates.
He is being humbled, and he doesn't like it.
"Sentinel, while you claim vorns of experience to your designation, the Council's observations as well as recent actions and behaviors leave us wondering whether you are truly suited for the responsibility of Magnus, or if you simply relay your commitments to other bots, taking credit for hard work that isn't yours.
The Council's observations, combined with the choices of Ultra Magnus, have made our final decision clear: you are currently unfit for the role of Magnus Pro Temporare.
We hereby strip this position from you, demoting you to the rank of Prime. This will be until you can prove you are fit for the role of Magnus Pro Temporare."
Nothing happens, but everybot in the audience can practically taste his defeat. But the palpable discomfort goes away when we all see Alpha Trion extend his other servo to his right. I know who will stand there, but many are still surprised when they hear,
"Chromia Minor, come to the stand."
Like the majestic Beta Magnus, late sparkmate of Alpha Trion himself, the blue femme strides to the right of the pulpit.
Gasps scatter across the crowds as Chromia Minor stops.
The starry cloak is there, but instead of hanging from her shoulderpads like Sentinel, two corners of the thing wrap around her pistons, and the rest of the material trails behind.
Unlike the showy Sentinel, she has a polished gun strapped to her left piston, a smaller one concealed inside of her right thighplate, and Autobot insignias on each kibble.
She looks discontent, almost like she doesn't want to be there, but I can't deny the ends of her vocal labi perked upwards.
Dignified. That's the word I'm thinking. She looks dignified. If not for the scars in her finish, 'elegant' could be tacked on after 'dignified'.
I take advantage of the momentary shock to gauge reactions. Most of the crowd is taken aback, especially Rodimus Prime near the inner ring of bots.
I look at the tier, and a lot of the bots here are impassive. Optimus Prime shoots Chromia a stately smile and a respectful nod, and she catches it. She returns the nod coolly, but even from my position below, I notice one end of her smile quirk up.
Her gaze falls on Jazz, who gives her a warm smile and a friendly salute. Her smile is wide and open this time.
I glance over at my teammates. A sagelike press of palms and a bow from Lancer, a thumbs-up and salute from Firestar, and I lightly curtsy for her.
Moonracer appears the most proud of us. Her servos at her sides clench in excitement, and, looking up at the femme that protected and trained and practically raised her for the last few megacycles, happily waves at her when Chromia looks over. Our leader's usually tense faceplates soften, and she quickly blows a kiss to her apprentice.
A stark contrast to Perceptor's expression.
It occurs to me that he probably knew that she was going to be instated as Acting Magnus before the public did, so he remains impassive as ever.
His periscope obscures his faceplate most of the time, so I can't get a good look at him. I really want to know what is running through his processor, seeing Chromia now.
I still remember her angry outburst at him in the wreckage of the Guild Scientius, about two orbital cycles ago. I wonder if he still remembers.
If it has influenced his perception of the blue femme.
"Chromia, while you have not been on Cybertron for approximately one thousand stellar cycles, word of vocal receptor as well as past records have indicated exemplary leadership skills.
Further observations and testaments display a spark for bots under you, as well as strength and strategy on the battlefield, and courage to speak up for others, as well as courage to do what is right.
Your former rank and mentorship has also been taken into account, and all of these things have persuaded Ultra Magnus and the Autobot High Council to promote you to the rank and position of Magnus Pro Temporare."
This time, Alpha Trion lays a servo upon the Autobot Insignia on her chassis, and the lone, red aegis of the insignia is suddenly surrounded with white. The colors of her finish shift and morph, and white chevrons unfurl from the famous red faceplate.
While Cybertronians can change the colors of their finish at will, very few bots in history have the astounding ability to change the colors and designs of other bots.
When the elder removes his servo, the symbol of the Autobot Elite Guard, red mask and white wings rampant, blazes proudly against the cobalt blue of the gunslinger's plating.
"You are now a member of the Autobot Elite Guard, the lieutenant commander-in-chief of the Autobot High Council, and the second-in-command of the Autobots. I, Alpha Trion, ask you to come forward and speak…Chromia Magnus."
At first, there is silence. Do the Autobots reject her as their Acting Magnus?
Moonracer and her girls cheer. Then Ironhide and his new teammates, for Team Athenia has disbanded, and he has joined Optimus' squadron.
Then the crowd.
Metallic confetti flies upwards, falling on everyone. Servos wave and reach towards the top of the tier. The triumphant whooping and shouting of the Autobots, welcoming their new Acting Magnus, resounds for hics around.
"CHRO-MI-A! CHRO-MI-A! CHRO-MI-A!"
And I record every sight and sound with dizzy euphoria.
Until, in the midst of the chanting and cheering, I faintly hear Lancer's quip.
"Can't you believe it, Cous? Chromia as Acting Magnus. This will change everything."
And that is where my happiness for my leader and friend dwindles enough for me to ponder.
…This will change everything…..
Only time will tell whether the change is for better or for worse.
Author's Notes:
A note about those weird, 'unrelated' moments before you get to the title, setting, and timemark of the chapter you are reading. From here on out, I will start calling those moments before you get to the 'real' chapter the 'Preamble' of the chapter. It's not just for you, but for me, too. So I don't keep calling it 'that-artsy-writer's-bit-before-the-real-chapter-o f-every-chapter moment'.
Man, that italicized Preamble with Percy's nightmare…..that thing was a beast to write. Almost 17 pages. Sorry for dragging that out, guys.
Steelbelt bindings are Cybertronian versions of bandages. They come in a wide array of colors, lengths, and uses.
Ibuprofium, from ibuprofen, a type of medicine.
If you have any questions about what you've read, anything in it, etc., please, feel free to ask. Otherwise, leave a review and read the next chapter! And thank you for enduring this chapter. :)
~Ylysha