Chapter 57

"Needle"

Her name is Hawkmoon. Hawkmoon. Not that Earthling nonsense. She is a Seeker and she flies at the head of a warhost - her own bondsmecha sprinkled amidst slim silver things that fold in on themselves at every turn, wings on wings twisting around a sharpened spire. The pilots inside are drowned in suspension, their minds linked to their vessels with neuro-spikes lodged in their spines. A grisly necessity. They have none of the intuition of a Cybertronian, but they fly with more grace than most mortals could muster.

She loves them. They are her chosen people - one of many, sheltered beneath the shadow of her pale wing. They are her dark mirror; they are scared, anxious, grim, without hope, but they are vengeful. Eager to return the pain once delivered upon them. To strike against those who murder without reason.

They slip amongst warships in their droning thousands while world-shapers and battle-carriers crack against the blockade at their back. The power on display is rambunctiously dramatic, preposterously unnecessary - but it is the only way. The enemy understands grand displays of violence alone. There is poetry in apocalypse. There is love in war. This is the truth they preach - and so she practices. Reverently. Godly to the end.

Fire billows between her fangs. Her talons remain outstretched. She reaches for them-

The dreams were getting worse. Hawkmoon tried ignoring them, much to Augur's chagrin (someone hadn't explained to him how a Verunlix's preconceptions regarding dreams and those of an Exo might differ), but it wasn't working. Her only consolation was that her body didn't care for rest - only recharge. So long as she got her joors then her frame didn't care. The phantom aches of her human memories had begun to fade as a result. Too much exposure, she supposed. Too long in a dead body. Even the urge to lie still, to sink to the ground and decay had thinned to silence. A sort of limbo she couldn't escape - nor one she abhorred any longer. She was too tired for that. Too tired to care about too-smooth joints or the desire to yawn or even the lack of lungs to fill with delicious air. Too tired to drown.

Traveler above she was turning native.

The waking hours were hardly an improvement. Her interview had spread through the Teletraan network like a tech-mite plague - which was to say like wildfire. Or at least Soundwave had made it out as much. After a couple of cursory searches Hawkmoon supposed he was right; the results were... well, they were something. Everything from fearmongering to conspiracy theories to clickbait ramblings, a lot of them with her faceplates right and centre. Some of them were funny. Others... not so much. It was just like she'd thought would happen: her extra kibble caught the wrong kinds of attention. A few of the more conservative Seeker forums, well... They weren't kind. Better, she supposed, to be derided by bigots for the cosmetic appearance of her armour than something more intrinsic - like maybe that she was woman or that she was gay or that she came from Mars, those harmless little things humanity used to blow way out of proportion - but that didn't make it sting any less. It was her interview they were poring over. Her plate, her body. Her words. Her grief. Out there for the whole world to pick apart.

Scrapheads.

She took to flying whenever there was time to spare. Worldly concerns seldom reached her so high; it was a rare luxury Hawkmoon pounced on wherever she could. Never alone, though, and not just for Augur and Rook. One of the 'twins' always accompanied her - Contrail seemingly feared either someone tracking her down and snatching her from out in the open or Hawkmoon herself deciding to cut and run. Which... on which count he wasn't entirely wrong, especially in regards to the latter. There came the times where all she wanted was to quit it all and fly far, far away.

Most of the time it was the green Seeker that accompanied her. Skyquake was his name. A touch more approachable than his brooding brother, Dreadwing - who, Hawkmoon thought, had one of the coolest designations of any Cybertronian she'd met so far. She'd heard some pretty 'out-there' names in the past, amongst Cybertronians and Risen both, but that took the cake. The likes of Thunderhowl and Felwinter had nothing on him. Dreadwing. Dreadwing. Dreadwing.

A funny name for such a grumpy fella.

::Are you reading me?:: Dystrexin questioned.

Alright, maybe it wasn't fair to say she was beyond all those worldly concerns. Some pesky mecha had it in their processors that they couldn't waste time. ::I read you,:: Hawkmoon grumbled.

::Then recite the Iaconian terms of peaceful conduct..::

Hawkmoon did as she was asked - partially falling back on her memory banks to supplement the report. It was boring, degrading work but she wasn't fool enough to disregard its importance. It reminded her of her time with Sunburst, learning all she could to pass off as something next-to-Cybertronian. ::There,:: she said once finished. ::Happy?::

::Ecstatic, dear. You know that.::

::Sure.::

::I only mean to help. If you're to meet the Prime-::

::Is there no way around that?::

::There is not,:: Dystrexin informed her. ::But you shouldn't believe all those tales. Zeta Prime is… he's an honourable mech.::

Hawkmoon wondered where live-broadcasted executions ranked in Cybetronian notions of 'honour', because from where she'd stood it hadn't landed well with anyone she'd met. If anything, Nacelle and Cyberwarp had been all the more horrifi-

No. Don't. Don't even think about them. Don't need the reminder. Leave them to their rest.

::Hawkmoon?::

::Sorry?:: Hawkmoon said. ::Can you repeat that?::

::Alpha Trion will be there to receive you,:: Dystrexin assured her. ::He's a friend to us. To Vos. You'll be under his protection besides. He'll vouch for you.::

::I've hardly talked to him.::

::It matters not.::

Hawkmoon vented. ::Whatever you say.::

A couple more orns passed before they received the go-ahead - go on, bring her to Iacon, the Prime wants the measure of her. Hawkmoon was forced to swallow her pride and allow Dystrexin to personally touch up her paintjob, just to keep it fresh. Soundwave was there and ran her through both the customs of Iacon and what was expected of a Vosian dignitary. And dignitary was a strong word for what she was, more like lost little deserter, but Hawkmoon smiled, she nodded, she pretended "Yeah, sure, I can play the part. Sign me up."

Soon enough the allotted joor came. Contrail showed up out of the blue, walked her down to a subterranean chamber occupied by a vacant ring - a dormant groundbridge - and motioned for Soundwave to man the nearby terminal. "You behave," he told her while the faceless mech worked. "When the most powerful being on this planet speaks, you listen."

"I'm no fool," Hawkmoon said with a scowl.

Contrail regarded her coolly. "I know. But I also know how stubborn you can be. Don't make yourself an obstacle. Zeta Prime lives to break things down."

"Charmed."

"You will be. The pair of you have a lot in common - and no, that is not a compliment. Soundwave, are we ready?"

"Affirmative." Soundwave stepped back and fell in line with the twins behind her and Contrail. It was just to be the five of them. Six if one counted Augur. She'd been pressed to leave Rook behind; symbiotes were too 'unpredictable' for the political scene. "Query: transmit aperture permissions?"

"Granted."

Soundwave's visor briefly flashed - then the groundbridge flared to life. The Scrambler lodged in Hawkmoon's chassis buzzed. She read the data it scanned, filed the coordinates to deep memory: Hall of Records, University of Iacon. Senatorial district. Trespassers to be prosecuted.

"Let's go," Contrail said. Hawkmoon followed him in, gingerly stepped through-

-and emerged somewhere else, somewhere brighter, far more spacious. A half-dozen mecha were gathered on the other side to meet them, Alpha Trion amongst them. The elderly mech approached and nodded first to Contrail, then to her - a slight motion scratching the very edge of politeness. "Senator Contrail," he greeted warmly. One of the mecha at his back sported a helm-mounted camera with a blinking light. "Vidame Hawkmoon."

"Thank you for receiving us," Contrail said smoothly - oh, he was made for this. Made for the big screen. Made to act out the whole play on his lonesome, set at the centre of the stage. A world-class actor in his own right. "It's an honour, High Archivist."

"Come, this way." Alpha Trion escorted them onwards, through the crowd and soon away from the trans-bridge station. They strolled through the cavernous corridors of the Hall of Records, passing chamber after chamber chock full of glittering server towers. It was impressive. A Warlock's daydream. Enough to fill the Vanguard's vaults and then some. "Here lies our histories, our learnings, our philosophies," Alpha Trion explained for her benefit. "Everything worth remembering is kept here. There is nothing in this galactic arm to rival it."

"Is it all Cybertronian-based?" Hawkmoon asked. "Or do alien records figure in?"

"They do," Alpha Trion replied. He had a... very guarded tone. As if he couldn't be bothered to sound like he cared for the conversation, even if he'd been the one to broach it. "We keep the manuscripts marked during our treatises with other stellar civilizations mechanical, biological, and ethereal - from the Ekha-Drezhari to the Arkborn, the Qugu and their Jaw-Beasts... along with the testimonies of Quintessons."

"From before the Quintesson Wars?"

"And after," Alpha Trion said with a nod. "Those surrendered or taken captive during the scourge."

"What..." Hawkmoon paused. "What about... Worm Gods? Anything on them?"

Alpha Trion glanced at her, his optics narrowed. "I'll have to touch up on the subject, I'm afraid," he said coolly.

Yeah, he knew something. She'd figured as much last they spoke, but this confirmed it.

"Press him," Augur whispered, perched on her shoulder.

"Or the Tenerjiin?" Hawkmoon continued. "Perhaps something relating to a figure like... Kharad-Tan?"

Something flickered across the old mech's faceplates. His mouth opened briefly. No words came out.

::Hawkmoon...,:: Contrail warned.

::What?::

::Not now.::

Alpha Trion looked ahead with a grimace. "You are daring."

"I meant no offense," Hawkmoon said quickly.

"To speak that name under my roof? Daring indeed." He picked up the pace with huge, near-leaping strides. Hawkmoon hurried to match it.

"You know who he is?" Hawkmoon questioned.

"Do you?"

"I spoke with him."

Alpha Trion stopped in place. She almost bowled him over as he twirled around, optics wide.

"Hawkmoon-" Contrail hissed, but Alpha Trion raised a servo for silence.

"You... spoke with him," he echoed dubiously. "With the Arch-Fiend."

"First Arch-Fiend," Hawkmoon corrected. "He's a bit leery of the Second right now, so our chat didn't get that far, but yeah."

"You know not what you speak of."

"I tried telling you about the Hiv-"

"This is not the time," Contrail crossly cut in. "Hawkmoon, enough."

She looked at Alpha Trion. Alpha Trion stared back. "Another time," he reluctantly said at last. "But we will discuss this, Seeker. With detail."

"Great," Hawkmoon replied, forcing a smile. "So what's next?"

They brought her to the Prime. There was little fanfare around the occasion; Iacon wasn't making a big deal of it yet, or so she'd been left to believe. That part was yet to come. Alpha Trion led them to a circular chamber occupied by a central dais, upon which stood three mecha. Hawkmoon recognized Zeta Prime straight away. She'd seen enough footage of him to pick him out of a crowd - and oh boy, he really did stand out.

In a vacuum he could have been considered slender, but he was so tall in comparison to the average Cybertronian that he just looked big. His pauldrons were so heavy a Titan would have been envious and from his back sprouted kibble not unlike doorwings - except there were grand total of eight instead of two. His plating was a dull blue crisscrossed with bands of muted golds, and his optics were a bloodied red, forever glowering out from beneath the brow of his reinforced helm. On one arm was mounted a massive riot cannon and with the other he clutched a grand sceptre. Zeta Prime cut the very image of a ruthless tyrant, someone that wouldn't have been amiss in the ranks of Red Legion butchers provided a new painjob. Opposite Alpha Trion's near-human form he appeared positively monstrous.

His guards were large too, bulked up with so much steel they perpetually hunched over themselves, plated entirely in peerless gold. Both bore four weapon-laden arms each with countless smaller limbs sprouting from their chests. Glorified prawns, the pair of them.

"Archivist," Zeta Prime gruffly mused - and Traveler above his brassy voice was more like that of a Hive Prince rather than a mere Cybertronian. "Senator."

"Noble Prime," Contrail greeted. He bowed at the waist. "You have my thanks."

"Just make this quick," Zeta growled. His optics flashed. "I have business to attend to."

Contrail delicately inclined his chin and gestured to Hawkmoon. She stepped forward, arms by her side and wings level. Zeta Prime frowned at the sight of her. "Lord," she said stiffly, lowering her helm. "It's an honour."

"So I've heard," he said tersely. "It's true?"

"Lord?"

"It must be. A shame. Transform."

"Sire?"

"Are your audioreceptors faulty? Change."

Hawkmoon glanced at Contrail, then Alpha Trion before inwardly shrugging and shifting into her fold-fighter form. She hovered above the floor, her wings tilting here and there.

"No," Zeta Prime said. He raised his voice to be heard over the roar of her engines. "The other shape, not this alien toy."

Ah. That.

Hawkmoon shifted into her draconic form, her limbs crashing against the ground. Her claws dug into the flooring, cutting and hooking on as her frame distributed her weight across her shifting body. Her tail swept through the air behind her, the bladed tip singing as it went. Hawkmoon raised herself up, lifting her neck to keep her bestial skull level with the Prime's faceplates.

"There," he said. Zeta Prime crouched and inspected her. "Archivist, do you see this?"

"I see it," Alpha Trion murmured. He wasn't looking at either of them.

"And what do you think?"

"Very little on the matter."

Zeta Prime's lip curled. "It's a travesty."

"Lord?" Hawkmoon questioned.

"The Vosian form is a masterpiece molded by the hand of Primus Himself - all of Cybertron's castes are, so long as they keep in their lanes. The beastformers blur those lines." The Prime grimaced. "Has no one told you?"

"I've inferred as much," Hawkmoon said lowly.

"This... this template is a blemish. You haven't purged it yet? It sullies your databanks."

"It's useful."

"Useful," Zeta grunted. "Useful is a soldier's word. You think yourself a soldier, Seeker?"

"Yes sir."

"Do you know what a soldier is? What it means?"

"A killer with a cause," Hawkmoon replied coolly.

For a long moment there was silence - a tension so thick she could have cut it with a talon.

"True enough," Zeta Prime huffed. "You're unsightly but you know your worth. Don't forget it."

"I'll try not to," Hawkmoon said dryly. She reverted to her bipedal state and stood up. Zeta Prime stared at her a little while longer before gesturing flippantly to Contrail.

"Take her out of my sight, Senator."

"My lord-"

"I'll swear her in but nothing more." Zeta Prime tapped the butt of his sceptre against the floor. "There, Archivist. It's done. I've given my word."

"And I am grateful for it," Alpha Trion murmured.

"Is that all?" Zeta Prime looked at everyone in turn. "Nothing else? Are we finished with this farce? Good-"

Hawkmoon made a sound analogous to a throat being cleared. The Prime's gaze fell back on her. "There is one thing," she said. Her comms system buzzed frantically; she blotted it out. "Something was stolen from me after I arrived."

"... Stolen?" Zeta Prime said slowly.

"By agents of the Vosian Weapons Division."

"Then I suggest you take it up with your own polity, beast."

"The Vosian Weapons Division relocated here," Hawkmoon continued. "In Iacon."

Zeta Prime's optics narrowed with suspicion. "What are you suggesting?" he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Hawkmoon defiantly raised her helm. Contrail fidgeted with discomfort on the edge of her vision. On the other side Augur lurked, laughing softly. "Vos's jurisdiction doesn't extend to Iacon. Your authority does."

"... You go too far."

"Her offworld experiences have addled her," Contrail blurted. "She doesn't mean it."

"Silence."

"Lord-"

"SILENCE!" Zeta Prime snarled. Contrail shut up real quick. The Prime raised a servo and pointed at Hawkmoon with a single accusatory digit. "Who," he sneered, "are you, beast, to demand something of me - your Prime. Have the aliens scrambled your central processor?"

"I merely thought it prudent," Hawkmoon said in a neutral voice. She imagined Ike was in her place - how he'd just stand there and pin the bastard through with a cold glare and a couple of big Warlock-y words. Or Jaxson, with his arms crossed, teeth bared and hackles raised like a true-to-life wolf-man. Her own instincts were to raise the bird, but she doubted it would have amounted to much. "It's a pressing matter."

"A pressing matter? For the sake of a lost trinket?"

"No trinket. A spark."

Zeta Prime's optics flickered with confusion. "A spark?"

"Exactly. Cut clean from its frame."

"Whose?"

She hesitated. And tried to write it off as something else - forgetting the answer and sifting through her memory drives for it. "A mercenary," she said at last. "A murderer. His designation was Rampage."

"Rampage." There was no recognition in Zeta Prime's optics. That was something to be grateful for. "Where did you find this spark?"

"I ripped it out of him."

A beat passed.

"You are a beast," Zeta Prime mused. "Better that we cut your wings loose and throw you to the nomads with whom you belong."

"That would be cruel, lord."

"It would be proper. As Primus intended." He raised his chin. "Why, little beast, should I dare trouble myself with your battle trophy?"

"Because it's the right thing to do?" Hawkmoon replied. "Because it might just be as Primus intended."

Another pause.

"You claim to know the mind of Primus?" Zeta Prime challenged. Oh, he sounded mad. "More than I?"

"Anyone may know the mind of Primus," Alpha Trion pointedly interjected. He cast a firm look Zeta Prime's way. "All they need do is listen."

Zeta Prime glowered. "We are done here," he snarled. He turned on his heel and marched to the opposite exit with his guards in tow.

Augur walked onto the dais in the Prime's absence, his ears pricked up. "Oh bother," he dryly observed. "That cannot be good."

But no one said a thing. They returned to the Hall of Records' lobby, then turned in to one of the libraries. Alpha Trion soon left them be, hurrying somewhere else - and it was in his absence that Contrail turned on her.

"You... fool," he seethed. "Why can't you just work with us?"

"He was an aft," Hawkmoon coolly replied. She pulled a stool out from under one of the study desks and sat down. "And I need that spark back."

"That was the Prime. The Prime, Hawkmoon!" Contrail yelled. His voice bounced across the room. "The most powerful mech on the planet and you - you made demands of him."

"A request," Hawkmoon corrected. "Not a demand."

"The difference hardly matters!" Contrail slammed a fist onto the desk. "You've endangered everything we've been working towards. We need this. And you've just thrown it all away."

"He never said he'd give us up," Hawkmoon argued. "We're still in the clear."

"Oh, are we?" Contrail towered over her. "And what if he changes his mind?"

"Zeta Prime gave his word. Soundwave's logged that - he's recording, right?"

"Affirmative," Soundwave said lowly. He took the chair opposite Hawkmoon and folded his servos over one another on the desk. "Footage: uploaded to cloud."

"Yeah. So he can't rescind unless he wants people to know his word is scrap," Hawkmoon said.

Contrail glared. "That's a weak defense."

"I'm not defending myself. I don't need to."

"You don't need-" Contrail shook his helm. He angrily walked away.

"Where are you going?"

"To fix this mess." Contrail slipped out the exit, Dreadwing in tow. Skyquake remained by Hawkmoon's side. She sighed and leaned back, bracing her shoulder against one of the server stacks.

"I'm sorry," she murmured after a while. Soundwave's facescreen flickered - something she'd learned to recognize as a curious tic. Hawkmoon looked away. "I'm sorry I didn't act how you told me. But I'm not sorry for what I said."

Soundwave didn't reply. It just wasn't his thing. Maybe that was why she tolerated him that little bit more than everyone else.

"What compels you to speak out like that?" Hawkmoon shifted with surprise and looked at Skyquake. He stared back, expressionless. Even his EM field was still as water, trained to betray nothing.

"His manners," Hawkmoon answered. "Or lack, really. I don't care for bigots."

"Then you're in the wrong business," Skyquake grunted.

"No helping that, is there?"

"No. But you could speak with more tact."

"I could. But that'd let him think he can get away with it."

"He can. He's the Prime."

"Yeah, a prime afthead," Hawkmoon muttered.

Skyquake snorted. "You don't have to like him, but you can't antagonize him. Where did you say you came from?"

"... Vello," Hawkmoon said after a moment's hesitation. "You won't know it."

"Oh, I know it. Thought the mecha of Vello were supposed to be a little more polite is all."

"Kind of like how I thought a Prime was supposed to be a decent guy. Fat load of scrap that was."

Skyquake made a face. "Just don't say it out loud. For our sake."

"Riiiight."

A joor passed before Alpha Trion returned, and with another mech in tow. The newcomer was a blocky guy, all reds and blues, and his helm barely reached to Hawkmoon's shoulders. A grounder, wingless, with wheels set along his thighs.

"Orion Pax," Alpha Trion gruffly introduced. He gestured to them. "This is the Vidame Hawkmoon."

Orion Pax smiled nervously. "It's an honour," he said, bowing his helm.

Hawkmoon raised a servo in greeting and nothing more. "What's next on the schedule?" she asked impatiently.

Alpha Trion looked at her with a frown. "Now?" he asked. "Now you learn your part."

"That's all I've been doing."

"Not diligently enough." Alpha Trion clasped his servos behind his back. "You will study. You will practice. You will ready yourself for the appointment-"

"Where I'll be named Emirate, I know," Hawkmoon finished. "Do I have material to work with or is it all oral?"

Alpha Trion motioned to Orion Pax, who sat down between Hawkmoon and Soundwave. "I, ah, have the prescribed texts and manuals," he explained. "There's some, uh, datapackets for you to download. Upgraded permissions and electronic marks-of-station."

"Little early for that now," Hawkmoon muttered.

"It's for a Vosian Vidame, not Emirate," Alpha Trion clarified. "Of which you are presently de-facto, already officially recognized."

"When did that happen?"

"Early this joor. I passed it myself. You can check the senate logs. It was released to public scrutiny several joors ago."

Hawkmoon skimmed the Teletraan, cross-referencing it with her own name - and there it was. Vidame Hawkmoon has been recognized by the City of Iacon and Abroad, as authorized by the Staff of Zeta Prime and Archivist Alpha Trion, for the services rendered in the name of Cybertron as following; energon seeking, defense of the realm, acts of diplomacy, and improvement of relations with composite post-imperial bodies.

If she had a mouth it would have been dry. "Oh," Hawkmoon said. "Alright then."

Orion Pax offered her a smile. "Congratulations."

"... Thanks," Hawkmoon said at length, frowning.

"Progress: optimal," Soundwave droned. "Hawkmoon: politically immune. Weapons Division: incapable of intervention."

"Out in the open, sure, but they're underhanded enough that I'm still gonna worry," Hawkmoon quipped. She glanced at Orion Pax. "Beam me the particulars."

"Right." Orion Pax transmitted the datapackets. Hawkmoon paused to scan them, but they came up clean. She integrated them into her system slowly, feeling a tingle as the data dissipated and infused with her software. An easy download all things considered. Her tumultuous experience with the Krenshan codex had left her a tad wary regarding software updates; a little pins-and-needles beat having fireworks running down her energon lines.

"Swiftsear's estate will be read three orns hence," Alpha Trion told her. "As his sole beneficiary, it will ease the transition of inheritance. Zeta Prime shall name you Emirate on the following orn."

"So four orns from now?"

"Four orns and not a joor longer. You will be ready. You will act the part. There will be no repeat of today's eccentricities."

"... I understand." Hawkmoon grimaced. "I'll play nice."

"Good. Then there's something we need to discuss." Alpha Trion's helm swiveled. "Orion, remain here. Provide Soundwave the syllabus."

"Yes sir." Orion Pax bowed low.

Hawkmoon stood and made to follow. Alpha Trion regarded her for a moment before striding away. Skyquake marched after them at a respectful distance - far enough that they could talk lowly enough without fear of him hearing. They left the archive behind and delved into the meandering corridors that slithered between the bones of the Hall of Records. After a time Alpha Trion slowed and vented deeply.

"Kharad-Tan is a myth," he said quickly, as if reciting something he'd been thinking over for hours. "And nothing more. Whatever you encountered was a mirage. A phantom. A bad memory."

"I spoke-"

"No," Alpha Trion snapped. "I don't want to hear otherwise."

Hawkmoon glowered. "You're scared."

He ignored her. "The Arch-Fiend is something to be excised, cut away from the collective of universal memory. Senator Contrail heard what you said. Your guardian too. If they share that with others, then we have failed to bury Him."

"Forgetting something like that isn't right. People need to remember the crimes of the past to make a better future."

"That requires decent mecha. There will always be those who buck against the yoke of civility. The xenoforms who beset upon your formation - were they not the same way?"

Hawkmoon ground her denta. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I hope so," Alpha Trion retorted, "because I shudder to think of what would happen if the Arch-Fiend's influence were to worm its way here. You don't know the lengths I would go to, Seeker, to solder that wound shut."

"But-"

"No, enough. Alien hearsay, that's all it is. And we'll leave it at that." His expression softened. "Don't tempt fate, Seeker. You won't like what you find."

"Wise," Augur purred. "But misguided. Kharad-Tan is not yet dead enough to be buried."

"Already found it," Hawkmoon replied. She sighed. "Still... I take your point."

"I am surprised."

She raised an optical ridge. "I don't agree at all, just to be clear, but I understand."

"And you'll follow along?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

Alpha Trion's mouth set in a thin line. "You are difficult. Recklessly insubordinate."

"Respect is a two-way street. You haven't earned mine yet."

"... You..." Alpha Trion shook his helm, optics offlining. "Return to Orion."

"What about you?" Hawkmoon asked. "What's your next play?"

"Careful, Seeker," Alpha Trion warned. "I am partial to your cause, but not to your arrogance. Remember your place."

"Remember yours, Archivist," Hawkmoon retorted. She turned and walked away, leaving him behind. He didn't call after her, didn't give way to reprimand or ridicule. He simply let her go.

For some reason Hawkmoon desired otherwise. A good argument was what she needed. Zeta Prime hadn't been enough; her appetite was hardly whetted. I've dined with Emperors and bartered with dragons, she thought, rounding the corner back to the server room. And now I've to content myself with taking orders from glorified clerks. Someone somewhere's laughing their ass off. Gotta be. Fraggers.

But her dark mood evaporated the moment she returned to the others. Orion and Soundwave both sat stock still, listening to a radio broadcast emanating from the latter's transformed chest. A set of fancy speakers splayed across the front of his narrow frame.

"-y Primus he's taken the chain! The swarm is rising but he's taken the chain and he's free from the press! The masters are screaming, the crowds are screaming, the fighters are screaming; he's taken the chain and he's free!"

"What's this?" Hawkmoon inquired curiously, sitting back down.

Orion looked at her meaningfully, his expression dire. "Wait," he whispered, his optics narrowing to needles of concentrated blue.

"Listen to them! Listen to him!" the broadcast chanted gleefully. "Listen-" and a howl cut across it, filled with fury and grief and so much more - so gut-wrenchingly sincere Hawkmoon all but leapt to her pedes with alarm. It ran on and on until the wail choked off, the vocabulator on the other side shorting out.

Orion Pax vented deeply, sinking into himself. Soundwave remained stock still, his facescreen blank - but it wasn't without expression. There was something like... anger in his lanky stance, rendering him rigid with suppressed rage. His field reeked of it.

"DAMN YOU!" the broadcast bellowed raggedly - but it wasn't the commentator from before. It sounded... a little more distant. A little more real. "MURDERERS! MURDERERS, EVERY ONE OF YOU!"

"What is this?" Hawkmoon demanded.

Soundwave looked right at her. He said nothing. But the broadcast - it carried on with spirit.

"There will come a day when the line between castes wears thin," the speaker snarled, gathering themselves up. "When these chain links rust away. And nothing - no law, no Prime - will keep me from you. That is a PROMISE!"

The broadcast shut off. Soundwave's frame closed back into itself, like a blossoming flower in reverse. "Signal: intercepted," he said stiffly.

"There'll be recordings on the Teletraan later," Orion said, then lamented, "but I don't know if I have the steel to watch them. Even to hear him speak."

"Who was that?" Hawkmoon pressed.

Orion glanced at her, his earlier anxiety forgotten. A deep sadness had taken over and he made no move to hide it. His EM field wavered erratically, playing on her nerves. "You've heard of Megatronus?" he asked. "The gladiator?"

"Mega..." Hawkmoon paused. It sounded vaguely familiar. "No."

"Megatronus: Champion of Kaon," Soundwave droned.

"He makes speeches," Orion explained - even if it told her nothing at all. "After every fight. He's very good at it."

"He's an orator?" Hawkmoon frowned.

"He talks about the rights of mecha, decries the caste-system and Kaon's, ah... indentured servitude."

"You mean slavery."

Orion winced. "That's not-"

"That's exactly what it is." Hawkmoon turned to Soundwave. "The Pit were they doing to him?"

Soundwave shuddered. It was the most animated she'd ever seen him. "Scraplets," he said.

Ah.

"Fucking hell," Hawkmoon muttered. "So his... what, owners? Masters? They don't like his speeches?"

"I don't think so," Orion answered. "They've tried to stop him but, ah... the crowds don't appreciate that. They prefer to hear him."

"It's about money? Shanix?" Hawkmoon shook her helm. "Primus, what a way to make it. No product like pain, I suppose."

"It's wrong."

"Then why are you listening?"

Orion's optics shuttered with surprise. "I-I'm sorry?"

"If his speeches sell, why're you giving them your attention?"

"Because... because he's right. Everything he says is right."

"Yeah, I'm sure that gives him comfort," she said dryly. "That all?"

"I don't..." Orion trailed off. He averted her gaze, shamefaced.

"Forget it." Hawkmoon grimaced. "Let's move on. Where do we start? How do we make me an Emirate?"

AN: Big thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!