C-14 dug into the dirt and rock mindlessly, thinking of the 557 miners who would never see another cycle, reduced to nothing buts numbers by those who oversaw their suffering. Another 356 were missing, and Jinx was part of that number. And that was just estimates.
His spark twisted, matching the pain he felt in his pistons from the long breems of labor. A warning popped onto his HUD, informing him he was low on energon. They had given him just enough energon to keep him standing. It was insulting. Insufficient fuel, harsh labor, and constant shocks from his inhibitor chip had pushed him to his limits.
Grief clawed at the edges of his neural net, and he forced it down, afraid that they would notice the slightest of mishaps from him. Anger started to burn in his spark again as he thought of all those responsible for this mess.
One solar cycle, a Senate scum came in, informing all the miners that their quota was being increased, and ignored the signs of instability. They left, tired and broken and resentful miners to continue digging out their fuel, so they would waste it on whatever they used it on.
When the Dweller came, they left their slaves to fend for themselves when the cave-in occurred. And now, instead of mourning the dead, they ordered the survivors to dig their comrades out, all while planning to discard them like broken tools. It made him burn with rage. He was so sick and tired of being treated like scrap, and knew others shared his feelings.
Now, they were being fragging kicked out! The mine was being automated, and all their livelihood and purpose was ripped away within just a klik, condemning them to reassignment, imprisonment, or worse. He hated her for it, and he never hated anybody before, except for Streamline.
We're nothing to them.
Pulling a heavy stone away, he yanked hard, and a cloud of dust rose around him, coating his vents in the blasted stuff. He paused, leaning against a boulder for support as his vents tried to unclog themselves, and tried to ignore the way his servos trembled.
What was he going to do? If he wasn't thrown into a cell or sent to another mine, he would still be shackled to his function, unable to break free from the system that enslaved him. He was a miner. That was all he was allowed to be.
Hot pain exploded from back, spreading through his frame as an electro whip hit against his spinal strut. C-14 gritted his denta and refused to allow a scream to escape, forcing himself to start digging again. Quickly, he uncovered shoulder plating that for a terrifying klik, looked like Jinx's. However, continuing to dig, he soon found the white, bulky frame.
That hot feeling coiled around his spark again, seeping into his very being. It was a venomous, poisonous thing. It was similar to the emotions that had driven him into a blind fury when he nearly murdered the miner, DV-44. But more... intense.
It was something that had been festering, growing, waiting. It was something that grew with every death that he witness in the mine, feeding on the fury that boiled beneath the surface. It was gorging on them now.
C-14 looked around, seeing other mech's frames, scratched and dented, some having large gashes in their plating, others sparking with loose wires. What was here was the inevitable result of a system that saw them as less than nothing.
Everything in him screamed to make them pay. The idea unfolded his processor, a sick and twisted fantasy. He wanted to see them kneeling in the dirt, faceplates wiped clean of their arrogance and smugness. He wanted them to feel insignificant and to suffer as they had suffered.
No.
That would be too good.
He wanted them to suffer more.
It was just right. They deserved it. Every pain, every punishment they had inflicted, should be returned tenfold. He imagined it all finding the sick idea more appealing with each klik that passed. C-14 saw them stripped of their power, chained with the shackles of the inhibitors they placed inside them before they were onlined, and forced to toil in the dirt they were.
He wanted to make them see what they had done.
The sound of pedes brought him back into reality, and he glanced up. Streamline was making his rounds, his optics scanning the workers with a bored expression. For a klik, he entertained the thought of swinging his fist and driving it into the taskmaster's smug faceplates.
But he didn't. Not because he didn't want to—Primus, he wanted to—but because he couldn't. His inhibitor would stop him before he even got close, and he'd be the one lying in the dirt. While he had resisted the device implanted in him before, he didn't have the strength or energy to right now. He'd probably end up killing himself with the effort.
Murmurs around him caught his attention and he turned around to see a holographic screens around the mine, drawing all optics to the screens. Usually when this happened, Sentinel Prime usually had something to announce to the world.
However, the tall blue and gold accented frame never came into view. Instead, a large silver mech with broad shoulders curling upward in pointed ends, red accents on his chassis, arms, legs and fusion cannon appeared.
"Brothers. Sisters. Today, we stand on the precipice of change." The mech raised his arms to his viewers. "For vorns, we have been told where we belong. Assigned our places in the grand design by those who claim superiority. We have toiled in darkness while they bask in the light. We have built this world with our servos and our sparks, only to be cast aside as expendable. But no more."
The taskmasters were distracted, staring at the screens appearing around the makeshift mining operation to get into Nova Point.
"I was forged in the pits, born into the same system that crushes so many of you under its weight. They told me I was nothing. Just another tool. But I refused to accept their lie. I rose from the arena not because they allowed it, but because I fought for it. And now I stand here, not as a gladiator, but as your brother. Your equal."
The miners glanced at each other, whispering amongst themselves, while the taskmasters grew uneasy.
"They would have you believe we are divided. That we are different. But look around you!" Megatronus gestured. "Miners, seekers, workers, warriors—all of you are here because you know the truth. We are not divided. We are one. One race, forged from the same metal, sparked by the same light. And together, we are unstoppable."
C-14 looked around, scanning the area and seeing an opportunity. The taskmasters were distracted, something that never happened, clustered together and weapons forgotten. He turned to the other miners, subtly drawing their attention.
Slowly, like a wave, soft, glowing optics turned to look at him and he pointed at the taskmasters, then punched the air with his fist. Some shook their helms, and others seemed interested. The gladiator tried inject urgency into his actions.
"They will call us rebels. They will try to break us. But we will not yield. This is our klik. Our revolution. And we will rise to claim the future that is rightfully ours."
There was hesitation as the speech slowed down, starting to come to its end. One miner stood up, curtly nodding at the miner. More followed, until one by one, the entirety of the workers were standing.
"FREEDOM!" one miner yelled, raising a fist into the air. More yells joined into a chorus, and the taskmasters turned to see a wave of angry slaves rushing at them. C-14 turned his attention to Streamline. He was the head taskmaster and as such, had the key to all of the miner's inhibitors.
Oh, revenge would be sweet.
The gladiator rushed toward him and saw Streamline already opening up profiles and taking down miners. C-14 snarled and pounced onto the cruel mech, pinning his arms above him as he bared denta at him.
"You're going to pay for all the miners lives you've taken," he snarled, ripping into his forearm. Metal screeched and bent and twisted outward, followed by an agonized scream when he tore out the controller for their inhibitors.
It made his spark sing the twisted melody humming through the air, thrumming in his spark, whispering in his neural net.
He raised his claws, vaguely aware of the shouting and yelling, mixed with grunts and cries, along with clashes of metal behind him, prepared to tear into the taskmaster's chassis. It sounded like they were winning.
Red optics were unnaturally bright, his frame was quivering, and his fields were dripping with fear. Something dark in him twisted, enjoying the feelings he was causing the cruel mech that had inflicted so much suffering on his kind to feel.
However, something stopped him from tearing into the taskmaster right then and there. Something warm and familiar, like a friend pulling back on his shoulder. He turned around and saw nothing behind him, only a raging battlefield of miners overpowering their captors.
C-14 frowned, feeling those phantom digits lying on his shoulder. Suddenly, guilt flooded him as he realized what he was doing. This wasn't who he was. Killing him in cold energon would make him no better than his slavers. He turned to look at Streamline and pursed his derma, debating on what to do.
The miner raised a clawed servo, hearing the taskmaster's plating rattling from fear, and balled it into a fist, punching the mech's helm hard enough to knock him into next cycle. His frame went limp, and optics dimmed, seeming as if he were offlined. If only...
C-14 vented, grabbed the head taskmaster by the pede and dragging him across the uneven surface of Nova Point, watching as the last of the taskmasters were subdued. It seemed many of them were taken off guard and hadn't been able to activate the inhibitors in time.
The desire to end the cruel mechs who had overseen their suffering burned hot in his spark. But as he stared at their frames, he forced himself to remember Chainlink. And even Jinx. He didn't think either of them would want him to be a murder.
"Tie them up!" he barked. "We need them secured!"
The miners sprang into action, grabbing whatever they could find. Stasis cuffs were found, energon bands were scavenged from nearby equipment, and even chains were used. Within kliks, the taskmasters were immobilized, those still awake furiously cursing at them.
A small miner that reminded him of Jinx, just less blocky, piped up. "What do we do now?" he asked, shuffling forward.
C-14 froze, and glanced around, seeing others looking at him now. Oh, Primus. He was in charge now. Him. A miner. A slave. It was almost laughable. He wasn't prepared for this. His optics darted to the mine entrance. The collapsed rubble was almost fully cleared, meaning they would be forced to dig again.
His neural net drifted to the speech they'd just heard, and an idea began to form. "We keep the mine."
Murmurs rippled through the gathering crowd of miners, and one of the bigger ones pushed through the crowd and yelled, "What?"
Another shouted, "What do you mean, 'keep the mine'? The Functionists will come for us."
C-14 vented, expelling heat from his frame. "Exactly. Nova Point is the largest energon mine on Cybertron. It's valuable. If we hold it, they'll have to listen to us. This is our chance to demand something better. For all of us."
"And how are we supposed to fight them off?" someone else challenged, not particularly sounding onboard with his plan. "They've got soldiers, enforcers, and the whole Functionists Council backing them. We're just miners."
"We're more than that," he said fiercely. "We've survived the impossible. We've endured more than they ever have. We've lived when they thought we'd die. And now we have a choice. The first, and only, choice in our lives."
He gestured to the bound taskmasters. "Look at them! For the first time, they're the ones powerless, and we're the ones in control. We've already taken the first step. Now we need to take the next."
At first, there was complete silence and nobody moved. Until one miner held up a fist, and another, and another, until all the miners were doing the same, chanting one word: 'Till all are one. Those blasted, accursed words that he had heard in the arena far too many times, was now, strangely, a comfort.
C-14 pumped a fist in the air. "'Till all are one," he said softly, watching as the miners rose up and started to move around the camp, grabbing equipment and tools. It was time to show Cybertron that there was more to them that met the optic.
Even if they died, it would be worth it to have change. It was what Chainlink wanted, and it was what he wanted.
"Letthis be the first step toward a new Cybertron. A world where no bot is forgedinto servitude. A world where every spark burns bright and free. Join me infreeing our planet from the claws of tyranny!"
Orion Pax stumbled inside of Kaon's arena, legs trembling as he struggled to keep himself upright. His vents cycled air, trying to expel the heat that was building up in his aching frame. Ratchet was right, he wasn't ready to be walking. At all.
Ratchet would absolutely have his helm if he found out how recklessly he had been pushing himself. The medic was already on his case for even being out of the hospital. It didn't help that his old friend had a stubborn streak that rivaled Megatronus'.
If Orion wasn't careful, the medic would likely drag him to the medbay, tie him down to a berth, and sedate him until he got the rest he needed. It was something the old medic had threatened to do more than once, and though Orion always managed to avoid it, he wasn't so sure this time.
As he rounded a corner, he was immediately greeted with greying frames of enforcers and gladiators alike. Orion knelt by one of them, placing a digit to the still-warm metal. They hadn't been dead for very long apparently. What happened to no violence?
The archivist eventually found Megatron in the room they often spent breems discussing various things, such as the rally they spent megacycles working on. Sending a quick message to Jazz, he opened the door to his room. "Brother!" Orion called out, groaning when his legs buckled under him.
Megatronus rushed over to his side, catching him with a strong servo before his faceplates could plant on the ground. The librarian wrapped his arms around his friend's waist, holding on tightly so he wouldn't collapse again.
A gentle servo rested on his spinal strut as he was awkwardly guided a chair by the holotable. "What's this about?" he asked.
"Please tell me you didn't kill anybody, Megatronus," Orion pleaded, wincing as his friend helped him sit down.
Megatronus was unreadable for a klik. Then, he chuckled softly. "I didn't, my little librarian," he said, placing a servo on his shoulder. "I give you my word." He paused, scanning his frame for injuries. "And it's Megatron now."
"Megatron?"
The gladiator smirked, gesturing vaguely. "Indeed. The crowd changed my name in their chants. It seems they believe it better suits a leader of our movement. Who am I to argue with the will of the people?"
The archivist stared at him, trying to process the sudden shift. It would be strange to let go of the name he'd always known for his friend. "Why are you here, brother?" Megatronus asked, kneeling next to him to look at him in the optics.
The archivist hesitated, feeling his brother's concerned fields brushing against his. "I..." He bit his lower derma, twiddling his digits. "I revealed myself."
The Champion's optics widened slightly, genuine surprise flashing across his faceplate. "Revealed yourself?"
Orion nodded and slumped, his optics dimming. "During your speech. I couldn't... I couldn't stay silent. The things they were saying, Megatronus, were wrong. So I spoke up, and now they know. They know I'm aligned with you."
His friend studied him for a long klik with an unreadable expression, and slowly, a smile spread across his faceplates. "My, my," he drawled. "I never thought I'd see the day when my shy little librarian would stand up and reveal himself to the world."
"This isn't funny, Megatronus," Orion snapped, crossing his arms. "They're after me! The enforcers were going to arrest me, and I had to run away!"
"And you came here," the gladiator pointed out. "You came to me."
"You're the only one I can trust."
The silver mech's other servo reached up to clasp his other servo. "And you were right to come here. You're safe with me, Orion. No one will lay a servo on you while you're under my protection."
"But the bombings..."
"Had nothing to do with you," Megatron interjected firmly. "And nothing to do with me, despite what they might be saying. They were... unfortunate accidents."
At that klik, Jazz came running in. His optics scanned the figure of Megatronus, and the visibly distressed Orion. The gladiator turned to face him, his optics narrowing. "You," he growled.
Jazz planted his servos on his hips and smirked, unbothered by the larger mech's glare. "Yeah, me."
Orion glanced between the two of them, confused. To his knowledge, neither of them had been introduced to the other. How did they know each other? And why was Megatronus acting so hostile to him?
"What are you doing here?"
"Came to make sure Orion's safe, big guy. He messaged me where he was." The cultural investigator crossed the room in a few strides to the other side of the archivist, giving him a once-over. "Looks like he's in one piece, though, so I guess you're doin' your job."
"Orion is safe," Megatronus stated coolly. "You've done your part. You can leave now."
"Funny thing about that," he challenged. "I don't take orders from you."
The gladiator's optics darkened, and he looked as if he were about to punch Jazz. Before either of them could escalate further, Orion placed a servo lightly on Megatronus's arm. "Stop," he said. "Both of you."
The Champion glanced down at him briefly, that hardened gaze softening ever so slightly, before his glare returned to the cultural investigator in an instant.
"Seems like your friend'll protect ya well enough," Jazz remarked, patting the librarian on the shoulder.
"He will. "
Jazz chuckled softly, shaking his helm. "Good. 'Cause you've sure stirred up a storm, Orion. Don't think I've ever seen the Grid blow up like that."
Orion winced. "Jazz, how did you even find me that fast? I thought you were in Vos?"
"Let's just say I've been keepin' tabs, mech," the white, red and blue mech admitted with a sly smile. "Ain't the first time I've had to keep an optic on ya, y'know."
"You've been meddling where you don't belong," the Champion hissed.
"Someone's gotta look out for him when you're too busy makin' speeches and stirrin' up trouble."
Megatronus turned his full attention back to Orion. "Come," he said, ignoring Jazz. "You need to get some rest."
Jazz placed a hand on his shoulder, whispering, "Big guy's got too much power over you, Orion." He pulled away and smiled thinly at the gladiator, who was giving him a death glare as he guided the archivist away from him. "Hope you know what you're doin'."
Orion frowned at the comment, and after a nano-klik of hesitation, he waved before his friend disappeared from view when they rounded a corner.
"Orion," Megatronus began, "what exactly did you say to the Grid?"
The librarian didn't meet his friend's gaze, instead focusing on the metallic floor beneath his pedes. "I..."
"Speak plainly, brother," the gladiator urged/
"I told them who I was and—" he paused, "I told them you weren't responsible for the bombings. And I may have said other... less pleasant things to them."
Megatronus stopped in his tracks, forcing Orion to do the same. The gladiator turned to face him fully. "You never cease to amaze me, brother."
The red and blue mech smiled shyly. "I couldn't let them think you were behind it," he said quietly. "They were accusing you of things that weren't true, tearing everything you've built apart with their words. I had to say something, Megatronus."
Slowly, he placed a reassuring servo on the smaller mech's shoulder. "Your loyalty is commendable, Orion," he commented. "But revealing yourself like that, you've painted a target on your back."
"I know," Orion replied quietly. "I've lost everything. My job, my home... everything I worked for is gone."
"No," he said firmly. "You haven't lost everything. You still have me, and you still have the cause. I won't let them touch you, Orion. You're safe here."
The archivist offered a faint smile, although it was probably a weak thing. "Thank you."
The Champion smiled and resumed walking, leading Orion through the corridors of the gladiatorial complex. They passed several warriors, some of whom paused to bow their helms respectfully to their leader. The archivist couldn't help but feel out of place among them, like he always did.
Finally, they reached a set of quarters the red and blue mech knew was close to his brother's quarters, which slid open to reveal a modest but comfortable room. A berth sat against one wall, with a small desk having some datapads, on the opposite end. It was a room he slept in multiple times before.
"If you need anything, you know where to find me."
"Thank you."
Megatronus inclined his helm. "Rest, brother," he said, though it bordered on that of an order. "You've been through enough for one solar cycle." With that, he turned and left, the door sliding shut behind him.
Orion flopped onto the berth, sinking into the warmth of the comfortable material. It was probably one of the higher-end rooms, made for the higher-ups in the arena. He pulled out his datapad from his subspace and saw a message waiting for him. He remembered receiving a notification earlier, but in his frenzied state, he had pushed it aside.
Much to his surprise, the sender was Alpha Trion. What did he want? Was he upset? Orion opened up the message and was bemused by the four letters that appeared before his optics.
We need to talk.
"The Senate wants to initiate a planet-wide Clampdown," Elita One informed him. The femme was one of the few Council members who had not yet been expelled or replaced by Sentinel Prime's increasingly paranoid government.
Alpha Trion nodded wearily, venting to release another puff of warm air. "I am not surprised."
"Once it begins, there will be no stopping it." The pink femme crossed her arms, watching him with critical blue optics that scrutinized his every move.
Trion's expression darkened. "I must gather with the Council... and Sentinel." He was aware that the Prime hadn't been answering any hails since the attack on Altihex, and he suspected that Zeta might be missing.
Elita frowned. "Sentinel cut all ties with you long ago," she reminded him. "You know this. He no longer heeds your counsel, nor does he seek your wisdom. Why do you think he exiled you here, buried among your books in the Hall of Records?"
A small, tired smile crossed the Master Archivist's derma. "He believes he has exiled me," he said simply, folding his servos on his desk. "Yet I still hold a seat at the table."
"Perhaps," she conceded, "but a seat does not mean influence. He does not listen to you anymore, Alpha Trion. He considers you an artifact of the past and a mech with no place in the world he is trying to shape."
"Then perhaps," he said slowly, "it is time we start looking for alternatives."
"What do you mean?"
"There is another worthy of being a Prime," he said at last.
The femme frowned. "The Matrix has not been seen in millennia," she pointed out. "Without it, there is no Prime."
"One does not need the Matrix to possess a spark worthy of being a Prime," he corrected gently. "Although, the relic certainly helps."
Her optics narrowed, and she uncrossed legs, shifting in her seat as she took a sip of her energon. "Who do you believe is worthy?"
The Master Archivist's gaze drifted downward to the datapad, where Orion Pax's name was, along with the message he had sent his protégé. Elita, knowing who he had contacted, stared at the datapad.
"An archivist?" she asked skeptically, looking up at Trion. "This is who you believe to be worthy of the title of Prime?"
"You speak as if the title of archivist diminishes him," he admonished. "Tell me, Elita, what makes a Prime? Is it power? The ability to wage war? To command armies?" He shook his helm and when she didn't answer, he continued, "A true Prime is more than a warrior and more than a ruler. A Prime is a beacon of light, and a guide. A Prime is a mech who sees beyond themselves and understands that another's spark is greater than their own."
Elita ex-vented, but she did not interrupt.
"I have watched this one for many vorns," Trion continued. "I have seen his fire, his spark, his neural net. He does not seek power for himself. He seeks justice. He seeks truth. Even now, after everything, his first concern is not for his own safety, but for the lives that may be lost in this struggle. He does not desire war, yet he will fight if he must. That, Elita One, is the spark of a Prime."
"And what of the Matrix?"
"Our archivist must journey to the core of Cybertron to find the Matrix," he murmured, watching as her optics went wide. "But before he ever lays a servo upon it... he will suffer much."
Elita One was well aware of who he was, despite his best attempts to hide he was once apart of the Thirteen. The femme was smart, perhaps a bit too smart for her own good, but that was what Sentinel kept her around for.
"Primus reclaimed it..." she muttered, coming to the realization. Her gaze snapped back to his. "You speak as if he will go to the core and claim the Matrix."
"He must," he said simply. "Cybertron's survival depends on it."
The femme frowned but did not argue.
"Cybertron will die," he admitted. "I do not know when it will happen. What I do know is that the gladiator who now calls himself Megatronus will play a great role in what is to come."
"Then must be stopped," she said, standing up and making her way to his desk. "If you already know he will bring devastation to Cybertron—"
"Would you strike down a bot for a crime he has not yet committed?" the ancient mech interrupted gently. "Would you condemn him for a path he has yet to take?"
"Even if it means preventing war?"
The Master Archivist vented. "Perhaps. The klik we make that choice, we become no better than those who rule with fear." He shook his helm. "However, I do not yet know whether Megatronus will be Cybertron's ruin or its savior. Though I suspect it is the former."
The ancient mech offlined his optics, weary from nearly a cycle of not recharging. "I am afraid my ability to read the future has been diminished," Trion admitted after a long silence. "Perhaps with age... or perhaps, something else entirely."
"You think something is interfering?"
"I have written many futures," he remarked quietly. "But I cannot write what I can no longer see."
"Then what do we do?"
Alpha Trion onlined his optics. "I will convince the High Council to listen to Orion Pax and Megatronus' vision."
Her fields immediately flared out in shock and outrage before she managed to reel them in. "They will never listen!" she snapped. "You know this as well as I do."
Alpha Trion did not react to her frustration. He simply held her gaze, maintaining the calmness he was known for the Halls. "Halogen will listen," he replied evenly, "he is the helm of the Council."
Elita scoffed, crossing her arms. "Halogen?" she repeated incredulously. "He is the longest-serving Councilor, yes, but he is still bound by the same laws as the others. He will not go against them. You place too much faith in him."
"Perhaps," he admitted. "But I have known him for many eons, Elita. He's an old friend. He is not like the rest of the Council. He truly wants what is best for Cybertron. And most importantly... he is willing to listen."
"Listening does not mean agreeing," she pointed out.
"No, it does not," the ancient mech conceded. "But it is a start."
Elita One started to pace the length of the room. "Even if he does hear them out, what then? Do you truly believe they will allow reform?"
Alpha Trion vented. "Then Orion Pax must be ready."
Oh, Alpha Trion. In trying to save Cybertron, you inadvertently cause the events that start the Great War. (although, I suspect there would've been war anyways). We draw nigh to the pivotal moment that will shape Cybertron and its race forever.