Nightwing sat in her office in the Grand Imperium, optics locked onto the screen as the news broadcast unfolded before her. The headlines cast their message across Cybertron:
ENFORCERS CAPTURE REBELLIOUS MINERS WHO HELD THE LARGEST ENERGON RESERVE CAPTIVE
"Two cycles ago, a group of miners, led by a known agitator designated C-14, staged a rebellion at Nova Point, seizing control of the largest energon mine on Cybertron. By detonating the mine's entrances, they effectively cut off a critical supply chain, halting major energon shipments across the planet. Their demands? That the High Caste mine their own energon. An absurd request that has now resulted in their capture. Earlier today, enforcers successfully breached the mine, apprehending the rebels."
The camera feed shifted, and Nightwing recognized the scene: a collapsed Nova Point, tunnels reduced to broken rock and smoke. C-14's resistance were dragged in stasis cuffs, into vehicles usually signaling a bots "disappearance."
Then, the camera panned to him.
C-14, his derma curled in a vicious snarl, optics burning hot with a fury that nothing could diminish. His frame was battered, dented from the battle, but he still carried himself like a mech who refused to bow. He struggled against the enforcers, but the restraints kept him from lashing out.
An enforcer shoved him forward, making him stumble before forcing him into the transport.
"The Functionist Council has released a statement assuring the public that justice will be served, and that order has been restored to the mining sectors. Further updates will follow on the fate of these criminals."
Nightwing knew that wasn't true. The Senate was panicking over the uprising of other mines across Cybertron, and they were trying to find a way to get everything back under control. The gladiator, Megatron, was the source of this, and C-14 had only boosted the morale among the low castes.
The news shifted to some mindless coverage of high-caste affairs, but Nightwing didn't care for that scrap.
Oh, C-14... what were you thinking?
She leaned back in her seat, optics dimming as she processed the situation. He had held Nova Point for nearly two entire cycles. That was no small feat. It had thrown the Functionists into chaos. Her sessions at the Senate were about energon rations, supply disruptions, and most interestingly, fear. The upper castes didn't like being reminded that they relied on the labor of the very mechs they treated as disposable.
She should have been proud of him. And part of her was. But she was concerned because she knew he was being taken to the Rig. A location that only the top senators knew.
Nightwing knew what happened to prisoners sent there, or rather heard rumors of what happened there. The Rig was a high-security prison, and it was a place where dissenters were silenced permanently. Those who entered rarely came out. And if they did... they weren't the same. From what Whiplash had told her.
She ex-vented slowly, forcing herself to think. She had influence, more than most, but not enough to openly challenge them without endangering herself. If she intervened too directly, it could expose her own growing opposition to the caste system. And yet, if she did nothing, C-14 would be lost.
Nightwing couldn't just sit here and let C-14 be crushed under the Functionists' heel strut. She would find a way to help him. She had to.
|"Sir, we have him."|
Senator Proteus smiled, leaning back in his chair as the transmission cut off with a click. Excellent. Everything was finally falling into place, just as he had planned.
C-14 had always been an intriguing project, an anomaly among Cybertronians. He was not an ordinary mech, he was something far more valuable.
As product of Quintesson engineering, he was one of thirteen main experiments conducted by their former slavers before their grip on Cybertron had been all but destroyed. Their creation had been an ambitious fusion of Cybertronian essence and Quintesson construction, a spark from the Well of All Sparks placed inside an artificially crafted frame with unknown capabilities.
Proteus had studied him for years, fascinated by his capabilities. The mech was riddled with protocols, directives woven so deeply into his neural network that even his team of scientists had yet to decipher them all. What else had the Quintessons buried in his mind?
It hardly mattered for now. Trauma had ensured that C-14 remembered little of his past. Of course, Proteus had helped that process along with a touch of mnemosurgery, stripping away what little fragments of memory remained. A clean slate, a blank canvas. A weapon waiting to be forged.
At first, his intention had been to ship C-14 off world, where his true potential could be unlocked in a controlled laboratory setting. But the formation of the caste system had derailed those plans.
Proteus had been instrumental in building that system alongside the others who had survived the invasion. And so, a new opportunity had presented itself, letting C-14 live among the miners, blending in with the lower castes while remaining under Proteus' watchful optic.
That was why Proteus had placed one of his best agents in the mech's shadow, constantly tracking his every move. Until, unfortunately, that agent had perished, which was an untimely inconvenience.
Fate had provided a solution. Another bot, who had desirable skills had surfaced, one who had foolishly believed in change, in reforming the system that had been so carefully constructed. They had been a dangerous idealist. Mnemosurgery had solved that problem as well.
And now, a new opportunity had presented itself, one that Proteus had not anticipated but welcomed all the same. His agent's latest report confirmed a curious detail. C-14 had been in contact with Senator Nightwing.
That was interesting.
He had long suspected that she harbored sentiments against the caste system, though she was careful, never giving away any direct evidence. She had always walked the line, maintaining her facade of obedience to the system while keeping her true opinions hidden beneath layers of duty.
This could prove revealing.
Nightwing had tried to save C-14 in the mine. That was a critical detail. One of the lead taskmasters at Nova Point had reported it, relaying the event in hopes of a promotion. Despite hardly knowing the mech and barely interacting with him, she had still made an attempt to aid him.
That meant she was emotionally compromised. Somehow, within a short period, she had become attached to him. Proteus nearly laughed at the irony. The poor fool likely didn't even realize it yet. She had a weak link now. A crack in her armor, and he would exploit it to the fullest and remove another threat to his reign.
All it would take was a push, a subtle nudge in the right direction, and the pieces would fall neatly into place.
As he walked through the lit halls of the Grand Imperium, one of Cybertron's greatest marvels, his optics landed on his target. A pale red frame with black accents, a curvy, dare one say, attractive form to many but him. He immediately noticed her wings were held higher than usual, which meant she was alert.
She heard his pedesteps and turned at his approach. A small smiled formed on her derma, polite but not warm. She had learned well.
"Senator Proteus. What a surprise."
Proteus returned the gesture with a slight incline of his helm. "Senator Nightwing. I could say the same to you, my dear. What are you doing here at this time of night?"
She raised a datapad in her servo, looking weary. "I had some work I left in here."
It was a believable excuse, but the senator wasn't so easily convinced.
"What are you doing here?" she asked casually, and he knew she was probing.
Proteus vented, allowing a tired smile to grace his faceplates. "Finishing up my work."
A dry chuckle left the femme's dermas. "Late night then."
"Indeed," the senator agreed with a nod.
"I haven't seen you in a few solar cycles," he noted. "How have you been?"
"Tired," she admitted. "Been busy trying to keep up with all my work. Plus, I had to prepare to tell the miners that the mine was being automated just a couple of cycles ago. It was a lot more work than you might think. Those miners are quite a crowd. They nearly attacked me."
Oh, I know.
Proteus chuckled, shaking his helm slightly. "Indeed. Those lot are dangerous brutes. It's a good thing we have a system that keeps them in place. Imagine if they were just running around, doing their spark's desires."
He watched carefully. There wasn't shift in her expression, something she had grown masterful up compared to the open datapad she used to be, but he had spent stellar cycles reading bots. A fleeting emotion in her optics gave away displeasure, perhaps even anger, though it was quick to vanish.
It made him wonder how deeply her convictions ran. How far would she go for the lower castes?
He decided to test her.
"Did you see the DataNet?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.
"I haven't had the time today. Why? Did something happen?"
Proteus couldn't tell if she was lying or not. "We've finally dealt with those troublesome miners," he said, feigning exasperation. "Quite the mess, though. We had to send quite a few enforcers to deal with them."
Her servos tightened around the datapad she was holding, and he smiled inwardly. "And what happened to them?"
Proteus feigned sympathy, shaking his helm. "They were taken, of course. Shipped off to the Rig."
"Of course, that's just what they're saying publicly." He kept his tone casual, even a little amused. "I heard a rumor—completely unverified, of course—that the Rig is supposedly, located somewhere in the Badlands first." He waved a servo dismissively. "But who knows? You know how these rumors spread. Bots talk."
"The Badlands?" she echoed, raising a delicate optical ridge. "That seems... inefficient, doesn't it? Its quite a way and with dangerous criminals..."
The senator smiled. "Quite. But, as I said, just rumors. It's likely nonsense, my dear."
Her frame relaxed just a fraction, just enough to make it seem like she was merely making idle conversation. "I see."
Proteus inclined his helm slightly in a parting gesture. "Well, my dear, have a nice rest of your evening. I must be on my way."
"As do I. Take care."
The senator returned the courtesy. "You too."
Nightwing turned and disappeared around the corner to where he assumed the elevator was. He had to give it to her, she was clever, but he was smarter. He had made his move, and he was counting on her to play it next. And the game would proceed exactly as he had planned.
She thought she was playing him.
But it was he who was playing her.
Satisfied, he turned on his heel strut and walked in the opposite direction. He lifted two digits to his audial receptor, activating his commlink.
"What is C-14's status?"
The response was immediate. |"He's been placed in a cell, sir. Nearly got the best of the guards, but they managed to subdue him."|
Proteus hummed thoughtfully. "Excellent."
The thought of his "project" locked away, contained, was a comforting one. C-14 had proven to be more difficult to control than anticipated, but now, with him secured at the Rig, everything was firmly within his grasp. He had initially intended to visit the Rig personally, to observe C-14's condition and further his work, but now...
He smiled faintly. "I intended to visit the Rig to see my project, but I suspect my plans will change. Have Pharma work on him, I need him docile when I come to collect my prize."
|"Understood, sir."| Then, after a pause, they added, |"And, sir?"|
"What is it?"
The bot hesitated for a moment before speaking. |"Now that your project is secure, that means... that means I am free to go, correct?"|
"Not yet."
|"What do you mean? That wasn't the deal."|
"Do you wish to lose your privileges?" he demanded sharply, annoyed.
The agent fell silent, but Proteus continued slowly. "I'll have you know that I can place you back where you belong. On the bottom. Forgotten and alone. Is that what you want?"
After a long pause, the agent spoke, resigned. |"No, sir."|
Proteus' smiled. "Good. Then you'll continue to serve until I decide otherwise. Do I make myself clear?"
|"Yes, sir."|
Without another word, Proteus deactivated the commlink, lowering his servo. This was only the beginning. The pieces were moving into place, one by one, and soon the game would be his to control entirely.
Nightwing, C-14, even his agent—they were all tools, pawns in a much larger plan. And as far as Proteus was concerned, he would use every single one of them to solidify his power.
Everything was proceeding exactly as it should.
The great chamber of the High Council was a monument to Cybertron's long history. Pillars connecting to the high domed ceiling, were lined with golden artwork of their ancient past, a past that many scoffed and thought were tales and myths told to sparklings.
The councilors of the High Council in a circular formation on elevated platforms, their grand thrones positioned to overlook the central podium where cases were argued.
Alpha Trion stood at the center of the chamber, optics sweeping across the gathered councilors, some of whom already regarded him with hostility. Many did not like him, considering him an old sentimental fool, and thus, he was a lesser voice on the Council.
"Councilors," he began, "I bring before you a matter of great consequence. A petition for an audience with two Cybertronians who have stirred the neural nets of the lower castes, who have spoken against the injustices of the Functionist system. They seek the opportunity to plead their case before us. Not with violence, not with rebellion, but with words."
A moment of silence followed, before a scoff shattered the calm.
"Words?" sneered Councilor Contrail, a Seeker with polished gold plating and piercing red optics. "Is that what they call their propaganda now? Orion Pax and Megatronus have done nothing but rile up the laborers, incite unrest, and threaten the very foundations of our civilization! And you would have us grant them an audience?"
"They are terrorists," another Councilor, Ratbat, spat. "Nothing more than radicals who wish to undo everything we have built. Why should we entertain their delusions?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber.
Alpha Trion clasped his servos behind his back, lifting his chin as he addressed them once more.
"They are neither terrorists nor radicals," he countered. "They are Cybertronians, no different than any of us. What they seek is justice, not destruction. The caste system, as it stands, has created suffering. Do we not have a duty to listen to those who call for change? To hear their grievances and judge their merit with open minds?"
"You speak of duty," Councilor Sigil interjected, his run-down, green and purple accented frame creaking as he shifted on his chair, "but our duty is to the stability of Cybertron. Allowing these—" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "—agitators to speak before us would only embolden those who already seek to disrupt our way of life. It would give legitimacy to their rebellion."
"A rebellion that grows stronger by the day," Alpha Trion pointed out, optics narrowing. "Have you all not noticed? The miners grow restless. The laborers whisper of revolution. You may sit upon these thrones and pretend Cybertron is at peace, but beyond these grand halls, discontent festers like rust in our foundations."
Some councilors shifted uncomfortably. Others, however, only looked more incensed.
"You suggest that we should reward sedition with an audience?" Decimus barked. "Should we kneel before every malcontent that rises from the slums? Listen to every worker who thinks themselves equal to a senator? The caste system exists for a reason, Alpha Trion. It has guided Cybertron for millennia. What you propose is dangerous."
"What I propose is a hearing!" Alpha Trion snapped in a rare moment of anger. "A date, nothing more. A single session where they may speak their truth. If their words hold no merit, then let them fall on deaf audios. But to silence them without hearing them at all? That is tyranny."
Silence followed. The councilors exchanged glances, murmuring amongst themselves.
Drivetrain, a cobalt and silver mech, leaned back, red optics watching him calculatingly. "You would risk giving them a platform. And what if their words spark rebellion? If the lower castes rise against us, will you bear the responsibility for the war that follows?"
Alpha Trion met his gaze without flinching. "I fear that war is inevitable if we continue to ignore them."
The elder mech knew how deeply the councilors clung to their traditions and to the caste system that upheld their power. But he also knew they feared what they did not understand.
"I have seen the future," the Master Archivist declared, glancing at the High Council, some of whom looked unimpressed, others skeptical, and more than a few visibly irritated.
"I have searched, as we all have, for Cybertron's path forward. I have seen the consequences of stagnation, of oppression, of silencing those who would fight for justice. And in that search, I have found one who is worthy. One who carries within him the potential to lead Cybertron to a new age." He straightened. "I have found one worthy of the name Prime."
A ripple of shock swept through the chamber.
"You overstep, Alpha Trion!" Xenon, a ruby Counciler with bright orange optics, snarled, rising from his throne. "You dare speak of replacing Sentinel when he is merely missing? Or is it that you have already decided he will not return?"
"I speak only the truth," he said evenly. "Sentinel was never truly a Prime. The Matrix of Leadership refused him."
Ratbat leaned forward, yellow optics narrowing. "That is a dangerous claim, Alpha Trion. One that borders on blasphemy." His optics bore into the old mech, searching for weakness. "Sentinel Prime was chosen to lead Cybertron. Are you now saying that our very system of succession is flawed?"
"I am saying that a Prime is not chosen by this Council alone," the Master Archivist replied. "The Matrix of Leadership, the wisdom of our ancestors, the will of Primus himself are what determine who shall bear the title of Prime." His optics swept across the gathered councilors. "And the Matrix rejected Sentinel."
Contrail scoffed, crossing his arms. "A convenient argument when Sentinel is not here to refute it."
"He never carried the Matrix," the elder mech countered. "Not once did he wield its light. You all knew this. You all turned away from that truth because it was easier to name a Prime than to wait for the one truly worthy. I have found one."
"You mean to replace him," Decimus growled. "With whom, then? Who is this supposed Prime?"
Alpha Trion turned his gaze upon them all, knowing this klik was crucial.
"Orion Pax."
The uproar was instant. Voices overlapped in shouts of outrage and disbelief. Councilors pounded their fists against their armrests, some laughing in open scorn, others seething with fury.
"A data clerk?" Contrial hissed. "A low-caste scribe? A mech who fraternizes with terrorists? This is your great Prime?"
"A Prime should be forged for leadership," Ratbat hissed, "not scraped from the slums of Iacon!"
"Have you lost your mind?" Highframe all but roared. "You would have us believe this unremarkable mech is worthy of standing where Sentinel Prime once stood?"
"He is more than what he appears," Alpha Trion retorted. "Orion Pax has the spark of a Prime. He is noble, just, and wise beyond his station. He does not seek power, he seeks justice. He does not crave war, yet he is willing to fight for peace. And most importantly, he sees Cybertronians as they are, not as their castes dictate them to be. He truly cares for Cybertron, more than many of you sitting in this chamber."
Sigil's optics narrowed. "He is an idealist with a fool's dreams. If he were to rise to power, he would shatter the very foundation of Cybertronian society. That is not a leader."
"A Prime must be strong," Decimus sneered. "Not some naive clerk who only knows words."
Alpha Trion took a step forward, optics flashing. "And what was Sentinel Prime before he took the mantle? A warrior, yes, but no different from the soldiers who now enforce his rule. Tell me, has he led us into an age of wisdom? Has he brought peace to Cybertron? Or has he led us to the brink of civil war through oppression?"
Highframe's derma curled. "You speak of him as though he were some mythic hero, but he is a commoner. A bot of the working class." He gestured vaguely. "You would hand the leadership of Cybertron to one who was never meant to rule?"
"Meant?" His optics darkened. "By whose decree? By a system that has been rotting for millennia? By a Council that upholds the status quo rather than the ideals of true leadership? A Prime is not forged by lineage. A Prime is chosen by the will of the Matrix. And I tell you now, Orion Pax is worthy."
That struck an axon. Some councilors shifted uncomfortably, but most hardened their expressions.
"You speak treason, old one," Ratbat warned.
"I speak truth," the Master Archivist shot back. "And you all know it."
Halogen, who had been silent throughout the case, finally stirred. Unlike the others, his expression was calm and unreadable. His large, dark and pointed frame, etched with marks and worn-down from time, leaned forward slightly, deep emerald optics watching him.
"Let him speak," Halogen said.
The chamber fell silent again.
Sigil turned to him, incredulous. "You would entertain this madness, old friend?"
"I would hear what an old friend has to say," the Helm of the Council responded evenly. "Alpha Trion is not a fool. If he truly believes Orion Pax is worthy, we should at least listen before dismissing him."
Several councilors muttered among themselves, but Halogen was a respected voice. He was not known for reckless decisions.
Halogen met Alpha Trion's gaze. "You understand what you are proposing, do you not?" His tone was firm. "You are not merely advocating for a new Prime. You are advocating for the end of the caste system. That is what Orion Pax stands for."
"Yes."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Halogen vented, leaning back. "Then I say we listen."
"Tell us," Drivetrain questioned softly, seeming genuinely curious. "Where is this worthy candidate?"
"Orion Pax walks among our people. He does not sit in a tower, removed from their struggles. He sees their suffering and dares to challenge it. He fights, not for his own gain, but because he believes in a Cybertron where all may stand as equals."
"And that," Contrail cut in, "is precisely why he is dangerous."
The chamber stilled.
"You think you are speaking of an idealist," the golden mech continued, "but what you are truly advocating for is an uprising. If we grant him legitimacy, if we acknowledge him in any way, the lower castes will rise. And they will not do so with words. They will do so with war."
He did not waver. "War will come regardless, if we do nothing. The people suffer, Contrail. And suffering breeds rebellion. But if we give them hope and show them that their voices matter, we may yet avoid catastrophe."
"Orion Pax is not the answer," Ratbat snapped. "He is the spark to the fire."
"And fire purges the old to make way for the new," Alpha Trion shot back.
Sigil narrowed his optics, leaning forward. "You claim the Matrix rejected Sentinel, yet the Matrix has not been seen in vorns. No one alive has beheld its light. Not one of us here has felt its wisdom. So tell me, Alpha Trion—how do you know it still exists at all?"
A few councilors muttered in agreement.
"The Matrix is not gone," he declared. "It slumbers, waiting for the one worthy of its power."
Contrail scoffed, throwing up a hand in exasperation. "A convenient answer! How long shall we wait, then? How many cycles will we sit idly by, hoping this so-called chosen one appears? Meanwhile, Cybertron thrives under the order we have built."
"Thrives?" His optics darkened. "You call this thriving?" He gestured outward, as if encompassing all of Cybertron in his sweep. "Do you not hear the cries of the lower castes? Do you not see the suffering beneath your towers of polished steel? Cybertron does not thrive. It survives, barely. And only for those fortunate enough to sit upon the top of this system while the rest toil beneath them!"
"You call it suffering," Ratbat cut in smoothly, "but I call it stability. The caste system is the very foundation upon which Cybertron is built. It has stood the test of time, longer than most of us, Alpha Trion. It has served us well, and it will continue to do so."
"Until it collapses under its own weight," the Master Archivist countered. "I have walked the streets of Kaon, of Tarn, of every district where the working castes are forced to labor beyond their limits. I have seen the way they are discarded when they are of no more use. I have seen the sparks extinguished because no one thought them worthy of saving. That is not stability. That is cruelty."
Some of the councilors shifted uncomfortably. Others merely sneered.
Halogen spoke up once again. "Let us return to the matter at hand," he stated wearily. "The Matrix has not been seen, it is true. But we cannot deny its existence simply because it has not made itself known."
Xenon turned his gaze sharply to Halogen. "And what do you propose? That we search for this relic? Are we to entrust the future of our entire civilization to a mystical artifact no one has laid optics upon in countless vorns?"
"No," the Council elder replied. "I propose that we listen." He turned to Alpha Trion. "You say you have found one worthy. Then tell us—where does this lead?"
"Orion Pax is not yet ready," he admitted. "But he will be. He is young, but his spark burns with a fire that few possess. He is unshaken in his belief that Cybertron must be better than what it is now."
Contrail shook his helm. "You speak of ideals, but Cybertron is built on reality. Sentinel Prime may not have carried the Matrix, but he held the title. He commanded our armies. He led our people. And as far as we know, he may yet return!" His optics gleamed dangerously. "Do you seek to usurp him, Alpha Trion? Is that what this is?"
"I seek only what is best for Cybertron. If Sentinel were truly meant to rule, then he would have returned. But he is gone, and the Matrix remains silent." He took a step forward, holding his servos out, face up. "You all fear change. But the truth is, Cybertron has already changed. Our race know the caste system is broken. They whisper of revolution. And if we do not guide that change, it will consume us all."
Sigil leaned forward, steepling his claws together. "You have always been a scholar, Alpha Trion. A historian. A keeper of records. But you have never been a leader. You do not understand what it means to rule. Cybertron does not need a dreamer. It needs order and strength. And the moment we allow sentiment to guide us rather than logic, we invite chaos."
"We must see them," Halogen finally said, breaking the silence. "Orion Pax and Megatronus. We cannot debate their worth without hearing them in their own words."
A few of the councilors shifted in their seats. Xenon scoffed but said nothing. Drivetrain, the only Council member who was not originally a high caste, merely folded his servos together and nodded. He could be one of the more reasonable ones.
Alpha Trion seized the klik. "If you claim to stand for logic, if you believe in Cybertron's order, then you will listen to those who challenge it," he said firmly. "Cybertronian-kind already do. Orion Pax and Megatronus are not mere agitators, they are voices that Cybertron has turned to, whether you approve of it or not."
"And what if they are nothing more than radicals?" Drivetrain. "What if they seek to tear down what we have built, rather than improve it?"
"Then you will hear it from their own intakes, and you will have the chance to prove them wrong."
A murmur rippled through the council chamber. Even those most opposed to change recognized the wisdom in the statement. Dismissing Orion and Megatronus outright would only fuel their supporters' belief that the High Council was deaf to the voices of the people. A public dismissal would serve them better than mere silence.
Halogen nodded. "A hearing, then," he said. "One cycle from now."
Ratbat, ever the disagreeable one, snarled, "You would give these insurgents a platform?"
"I would give them a chance to be heard. And if they are truly as dangerous as you say, then it will be evident to all who listen."
The chamber filled with quiet murmurs. Even those opposed could see the logic. To refuse would be to appear afraid. The High Council did not fear mere words, or at least they would not admit it.
Finally, Sigil stated, "One cycle from now it is."
A nod of reluctant agreement passed between the councilors. It was settled.
Xenon stood abruptly. "Then this meeting is adjourned."
With that, the chamber erupted into movement. The Councilors who opposed the idea the most, left immediately, displeased and egos wounded. Others lingered, quietly discussing amongst themselves. Some seemed thoughtful. Others wary.
Halogen ex-vented slowly, making his way down the central podium where his old friend was. He had known Alpha Trion since the solar cycle he had come online and had debated, argued, and conspired with him in equal measure. And yet, in all their long friendship, his friend had never spoken with such certainty about any single Cybertronian as he had today.
The very notion of naming a new Prime was no small thing. The last true Prime had been lost to history, and Sentinel... well, Sentinel had never truly been one. He had ruled, yes. But the Matrix had rejected him.
And now, here was Alpha Trion, standing before the High Council and proclaiming that an unknown archivist from the Hall of Records was the one worthy of taking up the mantle of Prime.
Halogen had to know why.
"Walk with me, old friend."
Alpha Trion turned his gaze to the elder councilor, finding his green optics steady, his tone lacking the sharpness that had characterized much of the earlier debate. It was an invitation, not a challenge.
"It has been some time since we walked together, hasn't it?"
Halogen gave a short chuckle, beginning to stride toward the exit, his broad frame moving slowly and showing his age. "Far too long."
Alpha Trion fell into step beside him as they left the grand hall, walking through the Hall of the Primes. The figures of the original Thirteen looked down upon them as they passed through, and the ancient mech found himself longing for his long deceased brothers and sisters.
They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Halogen finally spoke.
"You have always been difficult to move, Alpha Trion," he mused. "You see the tides of Cybertron before they shift, and you take action before the rest of us even realize the currents have changed. I have never doubted your foresight. But today, you did not merely speak of change. You named the one who would lead it."
The Master Archivist smiled faintly. "You are troubled by my certainty?"
"Merely intrigued. You've never spoken about a bot like this before," he mused. "Not in all the vorns I have known you. So tell me about this Orion Pax."
"He is... young. Younger than most would expect of a leader. But his mind is sharp, and his spark... his spark burns bright with compassion, wisdom, and conviction. He is not like the leaders we have known before."
Halogen hummed, taking on a thoughtful expression. "And that is either his greatest strength... or his greatest weakness."
Alpha Trion chuckled. "You have always been pragmatic."
"I have always been cautious," Halogen corrected. "How is this Orion Pax better than the others?"
Alpha Trion ex-vented, gathering his words carefully. "Orion Pax is not a warrior, not in the way Megatronus is. He does not seek destruction. He does not hunger for battle or revel in his own power. And yet, he is willing to fight, not because he wants to, but because he must. And when he speaks, he does so not to command, not to dictate, but to understand.
"He listens, Halogen. To those above him, to those below him. He absorbs their words, their struggles, and he does not simply hear them, he feels them. And it is because of that... that he knows what must be done."
Halogen studied his friend carefully. He had never heard Alpha Trion speak of anyone this way. Not even Sentinel.
"The greatest leaders are not those who hunger for the mantle. Orion Pax does not crave authority. He does not see himself as a savior or a conqueror. He is simply... a mech who wishes to make things right."
The elder councilor made a low noise of contemplation. "That sounds idealistic."
"It is," Alpha Trion agreed. "And yet, that is precisely why he must be considered. Cybertron has had enough rulers who see themselves as unquestionable and infallible. Orion does not see himself that way."
Halogen frowned, optics narrowing slightly as he studied his old friend. "He is young, as you have said."
"Yes," the Master Archivist acknowledged. "And inexperienced in the ways of politics."
"Then how can he lead Cybertron?" Halogen countered.
"He learns," he answered simply. "He listens. When he does not know something, he seeks out the answers. He is not bound by arrogance, nor by the belief that he alone must dictate the path forward. Orion is... adaptable in a way that many leaders are not."
After a long klik, they resumed walking. The Helm of the High Council was quiet, considering all that had been said.
"And what of this Megatron?" he finally asked.
His expression darkened slightly. "He is a fire that burns hot and bright. Megatron is powerful and passionate. He is a force to be reckoned with, and his voice carries with it the will of thousands. But his path is a dangerous one. His rage and pain drive him forward, but it may also consume him."
The Helm of the High Council nodded slowly. "I suspected as much. He is the one I hear the most about from my informants. They say he is charismatic. That he inspires the miners, the laborers, the gladiators."
"He does," the ancient mech admitted. "And he believes, truly, that Cybertron must be reforged. But he is willing to take drastic measures to do so."
"And yet Orion stands beside him."
"He tempers Megatron. Where Megatron is willing to strike first, Orion urges caution. Where Megatron sees war as inevitable, Orion seeks peace." He shook his helm. "But it more than that, old friend. Orion believes in Cybertron's people. He does not see the high caste or the low castes, only Cybertronians. He speaks not for power, but for unity."
Alpha Trion's optics softened. "He tempers Megatronus. Where Megatronus is willing to strike first, Orion urges caution. Where Megatronus sees war as inevitable, Orion seeks peace. Without Orion, Megatron would burn unchecked. And without Megatron, Orion would lack the fire he needs to push forward. They are a... balance. But it is Orion who holds the wisdom."
He shook his helm. "But it is more than that, old friend. Orion believes in Cybertron's people. He does not see the high caste or the low caste, only Cybertronians. He speaks not for power, but for unity."
Halogen studied him for a long klik, then turned his gaze forward. "It sounds as if you are already certain."
"I am," Alpha Trion said. "But it is not my certainty that matters. It is yours."
Halogen stopped walking, turning fully to face his old friend. "You believe he is worthy of the Matrix."
"Yes."
"And if he is? If he is what you say... then he will be the next Prime."
"That is for the Matrix to decide."
Finally, Halogen said, "The Matrix has not been seen in vorns."
The Master Archivist nodded solemnly. "I know."
His friend hummed in thought. "It is no small thing you suggest. You say Orion Pax is worthy of being Prime, which means he must take the burden of the Matrix. You know what that means better than most."
"The Matrix is not a gift," the ancient said after a long klik of silence. "It is a burden. A great one. One that bestows all the wisdom of the Primes upon its bearer, all their knowledge, all their experiences. It does not make one a god, nor does it answer every question. It demands strength of spark, of mind, of conviction. It tests those who hold it."
A long pause.
Halogen ex-vented deeply, pausing in their walk. "Do you truly believe this Orion Pax—this archivist—will be able to withstand the burden of all those who came before him?" His voice was low.
Alpha Trion met his gaze without hesitation. "I do."
Halogen searched his face, gauging his words. "Why?"
The ancient mech vented softly and began walking again, forcing Halogen to fall in step beside him once more. "I have watched Orion Pax for many vorns, long before he ever knew of Megatronus, before he knew the weight of his own voice. He is not a warrior, but he does not shy from battle. He is not a senator, yet he speaks with the passion of one who believes in Cybertron's future. He is not a leader, and yet—"
"He has followers," Halogen finished, understanding.
"Not just followers," the Master Archivist corrected. "He inspires loyalty because he does not demand it. He does not wish to rule; he wishes to guide. And that is why the Matrix will accept him."
Halogen frowned. "Do you think Megatron would challenge Orion Pax if the Matrix chose him?"
"I do not know," the ancient mech admitted. "I hope he would see the wisdom in it. I believe he cares for Orion as a brother, and that bond may yet temper him. But he is not the one the Matrix will choose."
The Helm of the High Council studied him closely. "You are certain?"
The Master Archivist nodded. "The Matrix has not been seen in vorns. It did not come to Sentinel Prime, nor did it come to any before him. It is waiting. And when the time comes, it will not choose a conqueror. It will choose a leader."
"And you believe that leader is Orion Pax."
"I know it is Orion Pax," he responded simply.
They reached a vast window overlooking the city, and for a long while, his old friend said nothing. He merely gazed out at the skyline, and at the towers of Iacon bathed in twilight, and the Cybertronian civilization stretching far beyond what their optics could see.
Finally, he spoke. "You make a compelling case, old friend."
The ancient mech turned toward him. "And do you believe me?"
Halogen was silent for a klik longer before he finally nodded. "I do not trust easily. But I trust you, Alpha Trion."
Alpha Trion only inclined his helm in acknowledgment. "You are wise, Halogen."
The elder council let out a small chuckle, though it was weary. "I only hope I am not a fool."
The Master Archivist turned back toward the window, optics lost in the horizon. "So do I, my friend. So do I."
"But," Halogen added quietly, "if he is what you say he is..." He ex-vented, allowing himself to fully accept the weight of his next words. "...then he will be the next Prime."
And so, the fate of Cybertron shifted. One cycle from now, Orion Pax and Megatron would stand before the High Council.
And Cybertron's future would be decided.
Orion Pax had never been good at waiting.
He paced back and forth. The Light Bender he wore was the only thing ensuring he wasn't swarmed by enforcers the klik he set pede in Iacon.
Megatronus would not approve.
Orion knew exactly what his brother-in-arms would say if he ever found out. He could already hear the deep growl of disapproval: You're reckless, Orion. You think the Senate doesn't have eyes everywhere? They'd have your helm if they caught you.
And yet, Orion couldn't not come.
He had received Alpha Trion's message not long after the Master Archivist had informed him he would be talking to the Council to get them a hearing, and though no details had been given, the archivist knew it had to be important. Alpha Trion wouldn't summon him without reason.
He had run through every possible scenario on his way here. The Council had rejected their request outright. No, Alpha Trion would have told me that immediately.
Maybe they had postponed their decision. Maybe they had agreed but placed restrictions. Maybe—
Maybe—
A thousand possibilities, and none of them mattered until Alpha Trion spoke.
He forced himself to slow his pacing, venting deeply. Calm down. Patience had all but abandoned him.
Finally, the doors hissed open.
Orion straightened immediately as Alpha Trion entered, staring at the broad frame clad in crimson and cobalt armor, shone to perfection. Warm but tired cerulean optics holding great wisdom in them bore into him.
His expression was unreadable behind the white plating on his faceplates. "You're more impatient than I remember," Alpha Trion observed.
His optics widened in embarrassment, and he ducked his helm slightly. "I—I apologize, I didn't mean to be disrespectful, I was just—"
Alpha Trion waved a servo dismissively, chuckling good-naturedly. "No need to apologize, young one. I was merely making an observation."
Orion hesitated, then allowed himself to relax. He had known Alpha Trion long enough to recognize when he was jesting, even if his humor was subtle. Still, he let out an ex-vent, composing himself. "You said you had news."
"I do." His mentor folded his servos behind his back, regarding the librarian carefully. "The High Council has agreed to a hearing. You and Megatronus will stand before them in one cycle's time."
"They agreed?"
Alpha Trion nodded. "With much debate, but yes."
A bright grin spread across his faceplates. "By the Primes..." He laughed, almost disbelieving. "They're actually going to listen to us?"
"They will hear you, Orion Pax. What happens after... that remains to be seen."
"I have to tell Megatronus!"
His mentor's voice stopped him. "In a klik."
"You're pleased," the archivist noted carefully as he turned to study the elder mech, optics narrowing. "But there's something you're not telling me."
Alpha Trion smiled slightly, but it was one of those cryptic, infuriating smiles that never gave away anything. "I have told you all you need to know, for now."
Orion frowned. "For now?"
The Master Archivist rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "This is your klik, Orion Pax. When you stand before the Council and speak your truth, you must do so not only with conviction, but with the knowledge that your words will shape the future of this world.""
Orion swallowed, some of the earlier excitement replaced by a solemness. "I know," he said quietly. "I know how much this matters."
Alpha Trion nodded approvingly. "Good. Then you must prepare. The Council will not make this easy for you. They will test you and challenge you. Many of them do not wish to see change.""
"They can challenge me all they want. I won't back down. Megatronus won't back down."
The Master Archivist nodded. "Walk with me."
The younger mech obediently fell into step beside him, and checked his Light Bender again, relieved that it was working well. It would not do well if he was caught before their hearing.
The Hall of Records was mostly empty at this breem, but Orion still found himself glancing around warily. The Clampdown had only intensified over the last few cycles. There were more patrols, more enforcers, more fear in the streets.
He and Megatronus had known the Senate would not take their movement lightly, but the escalation was overkill. Everybot was suffering the effects of it, and it was only adding fuel to their movement. Which made his presence here even more dangerous.
It will be fine, the archivist reassured himself.
"What do you know of the Matrix of Leadership?"
His thoughts scattered. He hadn't expected that question.
The Matrix?
He frowned slightly, considering his response. "The Matrix of Leadership is a relic of the Primes," he answered carefully. "A symbol of Cybertron's highest leadership. It's said to contain the wisdom of all the Primes who came before, passed from one bearer to the next."
Alpha Trion hummed, but he did not immediately respond.
"Sentinel Prime is currently in possession of it."
At that, Alpha Trion gave a soft chuckle, though there was something knowing about it. "A common belief," he stated, "but an incorrect one."
"What?"
Alpha Trion did not answer right away. Instead, he turned a corner, leading them toward the deeper, more private sections of the Hall of Records.
"The Matrix is not merely an artifact to be wielded, Orion," Alpha Trion said at last. "It is a burden. A great one. It bestows upon its bearer not just wisdom, but the weight of all those who have come before. It is not something given lightly."
Something about the way Alpha Trion spoke about it made him seem like he was intimately familiar with the relic.
"The Matrix does not choose lightly either. It refused Sentinel Prime."
His optics widened, halting in his walk. "Refused?"
Alpha Trion stopped as well, though he did not turn to face Orion. "Yes," he responded. "Sentinel was never truly a Prime. The Matrix never accepted him."
Sentinel had always been spoken of as a Prime, but if he had never wielded the Matrix, if he had never been chosen—
Then he had not been a true Prime at all.
Another thought struck him. His mentor had spoken of the Matrix with such knowledge, like he knew it better than the back of his own servo. He spoke of it not as a historian might, recounting lost information, but as someone who had witnessed it firsthand.
Slowly, Orion turned his optics toward the elder mech, his processor putting the pieces together with dawning realization. Alpha Trion had spoken of the time before the caste system. He had spoken of the Primes.
And there was only one kind of being old enough to date back that far.
"You were a Prime," he whispered, the words leaving him before he could stop them.
The Master Archivist turned to look at him. Instead of acknowledging his words, he merely said, "Go. Tell your friend of the news. Use this time well, Orion Pax. Speak with your friend. Prepare your words carefully. The Council will not be easy to sway."
And Alpha Trion was gone.