Hidden away within the depths of Polyhex and protected by two Seekers standing guard over the physical form, the ancient Prime watched the malcontents though the green optics of the newest 'toy', internally sneering as they fell for every word the drone spoke as it was led through tunnels towards the leader of the group. It was pitiful and disgusting yes, but it was an amusing enough pastime for the Prime. While the siblings that remained were content to watch, to do nothing, Logos took a more hands-on approach.
A seed of chaos here, a seed of soothing there. Sometimes it amounted to something; often it did not.
Yet, as time and generations of Primes and Protectors passed, the Council had grown corrupt. Drips and drabs to be certain, yet the seed of rot was there and it was blooming unto an ugly plant.
Consequences were for short-sighted fools who did not see the larger picture. Would not or could not, it did not matter.
Logos would bring them to heel and force them to acknowledge the pitiful at best and deplorable at worst state Cybertronian society had fallen to, acknowledge that they were stagnating. It was, as a Lord Protector would have once said, time to shake things up, and not for the first time, Logos wished Maximo were still alive so he'd lend his strength to this endeavour.
Too long had the Primes, Lord Protectors, and Council rested, safe and plush while under the veneer of a thriving society things festered and grew as the rot spread and functionism took more of a root. Too long had the Council controlled things. Primes and Protectors were gods.
They should answer to none bar each other.
A seed of chaos would do well. Perhaps it would wake the fools up if some of them died. If it did not, no matter. Time was theirs and Logos was the only one willing to act.
It was a pity, then, the chosen puppets were either unaware of the strings, or mere drones created from experiments on hatchlings, though they produced enough eggs that none missed a handful or twenty. The reactions to revelations would have been amusing anecdotes at the very least, but no matter. The current drone would have little use once its goal was obtained, and it was useless to try to retrofit the thing, even with the fledging spark - required, given the readings the rebels did to ensure their safety- that struggled to survive amongst a strangle hold of coding.
Some would call it murder. Logos called it practicality. What use was a spark that failed to thrive in the coding given? Worthless and useless. Never mind the coding had not been what it hatched with, but that hardly mattered.
The drone come to a stop, and Logos's attention shifted as a question came.
"Why are you here?"
"I'm dissatisfied with the government. I seek change."
They were standard answers, and the malcontent – not the leader in all likelihood- nodded then bade the drone to follow. The scheming Original directed the drone to do so with only half a thought, other thoughts busy computing data that streamed in from Soundwave.
Ah. Good. The thing had infiltrated into the ranks of Council-aids at last.
Get close to Momus. The Original sent -Monus would be an in to Ratbat's circle- then closed the connection and turned their attention back to the other drone.
Something approaching glee broke over the ancient face, but Logos was careful to keep it from affecting the drone as it was led deeper still, and Logos made no attempt at memorisation. It wouldn't matter as the drone would not be returning, and the plans packed along with the weapons would ensure this cell of malcontents were killed when they acted on them.
They might become martyrs of sorts. Assuming they followed the plans.
"I bring an offer of weapons." Logos intoned though the red and white drone once they'd reached the cell's leader, a powerful Praxian known as Switchblade, and even that was not her true name.
"An offer of weapons?" Switchblade looked at the newcomer her lieutenants had brought her then at the case the bright blue-sparked (and Logos had ensured it was, if only so no-one looked to closely at the neuter mechaniod out of respect for the rare spark-type) carried. Logos had the drone nod, and the cell leader raised an optic ridge, hands on hips. "Show us."
The case was flipped open, and the Praxian gasped. "Fusion canons, nukes, plans... You spoil me, stranger."
"Yes. We want the same things."
Switchblade smirked, and Logos, attuned in a hasty manner to the drone's technopathic input, easily gathered the female's thoughts.
How long had they - she been dreaming of a world without Primes and Protectors, how long had they longed to get rid of Zeta, Lio, and Galvatron and the corruption they'd wrought and allowed to continued to fester within the Council?
Switchblade laughed, optics gleaming with malice as the possibilities unfolded in her mind. Her grin was savage, red optics flashing with conviction as she studied the plans for Iacon – for The Hatchery where it was said Primes and Protectors were born from one of the eggs the Allspark sometimes produced, not the eggs their species laid in other hatcheries across the planet. A cold smirk crossed her face as the ideas unfolded before her, but her optic was firmly on the main prize. They would have to move carefully though and chose the best time to strike.
"My thanks, stranger. Fulcrum, Misfire, Targetpoint, see him out. I have much to think on."
She would see the government brought down or die trying.
Logos allowed the drone to be lead out. Its part was done, and the malcontent's mind indicated satisfaction and glee. Yet, Logos had only given over a fraction of the information. Enough to ensure the rebels did as desired, but no more than that. They would die, yet they would take out some of the more… troublesome of the Councillors in the process. There was no more to do now but sit back and watch the collapse of the corrupted system. The collateral damage was justifiable in the end: there was no hint of either Primes and Protector, or Protectors and Primes, and none had come forth laden with eggs.
Somewhere inside the drone's mind, deep away from the control of Logos, the fledgling personality forming could only watch in horror. To allow The Hatchery to be targeted in in strikes against the Council was disquieting even if there wasn't Primes or Protectors or their eggs. How could they be told apart? The fledgling personality didn't know.
All it knew was it was an accomplice to possibly the biggest mistake on Cybertron.
And it was powerless to stop it – or prevent the fate Logos had in mind for it.
/-
A dying, blue spark flickered in a battered, broken casing, sparkplates forced open with no way of shutting them. Fear, pain and panic was all the once-drone knew; everything else was a haze of corrupted memories and contradicting data. Several of his tentacles were missing and his back hurt. His left optic was shattered and he could barely see out of his right one. That wasn't taking into account the dangerously low levels of energon and the patchy motor controls to his legs.
The thud sounded distant to his audios. Oh. It was him. He must have had stumbled out into the light and fallen over.
Someone dropped down beside him soon after. "Get a medical ov'r here! Pit-. Mech, can y'hear me?"
"Y-Yes." His own voice sounded scratchy, wrong. Like something was broken.
"Good. Any ideas on who tried t'kill ya?"
Oh. Was that why his sparkchamber hurt? He thought it was supposed to be like that. The former drone whimpered as pain flashed his HUD. The mech was talking, but the sound wasn't there.
Something touched his casing -
The technopath screamed as the memory of a face and cold cruel optics lit up his HUD and pain lanced though him, something pressing on his spark but he didn't have the energy to defend himself and everything felt weak, sluggish, and his tentacles slow to his command -
He was dying.
His keen choked, spluttered and fell into a broken whimper as his grip on what was there and what wasn't slipped and everyone's thoughts entered his mind all at once. It was a maelstrom. Many wanted him to die all ready, several wanted to shoot him - but one of them took pity. It cut though the hate and he zero'd in on that thought, even as something touched his casing again and he wrapped his own mind around it clung to it as hard as he could.
He wanted to live. He would live.
Something washed over him. A connection. A name. A promise of safety.
He accepted and wrapped himself around the other spark, cementing the connection with his own, only vaguely aware of another two connections that his saviour had.
/-
Skywarp and Barricade would kill him. They'd tear him into a tiny thousand million ittybitty pieces and then some. But, looking down at the now stable technopath on the medical berth beside him, the dancer couldn't find it in himself to care. He'd done the only thing he could have to save the mech's life; he'd merged sparks, something he really should have let a medic do, given they had the proper protocols to prevent accidental bonding but at the time there'd been no other way.
The technopath would have died. Jazz didn't think it fair. Adult technopaths were extremely rare, thanks largely to the prejudices of their world (and he hated those prejudices with a passion). He knew of one other technopath and that was by accident. The mech was as gregarious as they came and he'd never seen Blaster lose his tempter once nor use his gift without a reason and even it had to be a good reason. To say nothing of the impressive collection of 'pets' Blaster had. A mini zoo if ever there was one. Jazz figured the technopath next him was the same.
Poor thing didn't even know who'd tried to murder him, let alone how old he was or were he'd come from. Scans had shown there was damage to the protoform, as if the moults had been traumatically close together, and just thinking about that had his plating crawling in horror. There was also damage to the memory core that ran to the base coding, and Jazz wondered how much the technopath would remember, while idly he wondering if he were an empath like Blaster.
It might explain the traumatic moulting, but not the core deep damage.
Hopefully, he wouldn't blame Jazz for what he did, either.
/What happened!/
Think of the pitspawn and his mates show up, though that wasn't far on them, because only Barricade was something of a pitspawn, and typically only on the job.
/This./ He extracted his own memory files and shunted them to both Skywarp and Barricade. /Sorry./
Several kliks passed before acceptance flooded the bond from Skywarp, Barricade's coming a few kliks later, laced with reservations about having a technopathic mate.
/It won't be that bad,/ he sent soothingly. /I think he's an empath./
/The moulting.../ Barricade grumbled, and Jazz could feel the fine tremors in his mate.
/If he's a telepath, I'll deal with 'im. Promise./
/Jazz!/ Both Skywarp and Barricade protested.
/Trust me? He's only bonded to me, so.../ If worst came to worst, he had his other mates to lean on if he had to sever the bond - kill- the telepath.
/Always,/ came the grumpy replies, and Jazz laughed, wrapping himself first around Barricade, then around Skywarp, leaning in to the spikey, gruff, danger that was Barricade while the chaotic nature of Skywarp embraced them both.
/What's his name?/ Skywarp asked after a while.
/Leadfoot./
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