Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 2.1: Life Goes On
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 2: The Last Days
2.1: Life Goes On
Tava Szenda Birthing Well
Tarn
Cybertron
Diatrion was beginning to feel just the tinniest bit redundant.
In theory he and the rest of the white and blue liveried Civic Guardsmechs were there to provide security for the Prime’s visit to the Tava Szenda Well. Maintaining inter-state security was, after all, the sole function of the Civic Guard and this was very much an inter-state event.
But of course the Prime was flanked at all times by a cadre of gold-armoured ceremonial bodyguards, and shadowed at all times by several dull grey full-time bodyguards, so his security was already doubly ensured. And the Well itself was under the protection of highly trained members of the Order of the Dai, each one a master of Metalikato, Circuit Su and a dozen other arcane martial arts, so anyone trying to do harm to the vast pool of protomatter would be sliced into spare parts before they got anywhere near it. And each of the surrounding city states had dispatched members of their own police forces - invariably those built along lines that discouraged boisterous conversation, let alone aggravated assault - to handle security for their individual delegations, so no one really had to worry about the presiding officials’ safety. And by long tradition, all those who wished to witness the miracle of creation were kept at a respectful distance by the Circuit Masters who tended the Well, whose sole purpose was to preserve the purity of the raw stuff of life that heaved and swelled within.
In fact, when you got right down to it, the only reason the Civic Guard was there at all was to make sure that the event didn’t dissolve into a four way argument over who held jurisdiction.
This time, no one showed the least inclination to argue over anything. Even the Vosian and Tarnian delegations seemed content merely to glare at each other from opposing ends of the grand observation deck. For not unrelated reasons, the phrase ‘stultifyingly boring’ kept reoccurring in Diatrion’s thoughts.
At least the surroundings were pleasant. Indeed, they were spectacular. The Well sat in the natural pit formed by the confluence of three of the great chasms that ran between Cybertron’s thousands of continental plates. Huge pipes and armatures grew from the encircling cliffs, the ever-shifting bones of a vast machine, interlocking and pulling apart in time to some ineffable beat. The Well itself was a roughly circular bowl sunk deep into the subsurface, the rough, raw ground giving way gradually to silvery almost-liquid. Strange currents tugged the pool this way and that, shapes forming one instant to be swept away the next. Sometimes smooth cables would thread their way under the surface, moving like lightning. Sometimes weird shapes would emerge, criss-crossing patterns of metal shards or hexagonal blocks intersected with one another. Sometimes the whole mass would begin to coalesce on a single point, a lone bubble that would surge lethargically upwards only to collapse back down, lacking the energy to break free. The motion of the Well was mesmerising, chaotic but full of tantalising hints of an underlying order that, if one just stared long enough, might allow a glimpse of something greater than the physical world…
Diatrion snapped back to attention, fixing his optics on a point well away from the Well, high in the observation deck where the Tagan dignitaries were taking their place among the throng. He was supposed to be watching for trouble - however unlikely it was to happen - not trying to commune with the Allspark. He had to be focused, ready for anything.
“Something wrong?” asked one of the two guardsmechs manning the observation post with him.
“No,” he replied, a little too quickly.
The other guardsmech, the eldest and most experienced of the trio by quite a way, chuckled. “He’s just bored. Like the rest of us.”
Shaking his head ruefully, realising there was little point protesting the assessment, Diatrion said mildly, “Just trying to stay focused.”
Clutch - a nickname earned long ago - simply chortled again and thumped Diatrion on the shoulder with one oversized hand. “Don’t worry. Shouldn’t be more than a deca-cycle or so before they start getting on with it properly. And the ceremony itself shouldn’t last till past midday.”
Mesinat, the third guardsmech, let out a long, low groan. With considerable effort, Diatrion clamped down on the urge to do the same.
It was going to be a very long day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The East Merchant District
Praxus
Cybertron
It had been a very long day.
Aratron lifted the beaker of oil and poured it into his chest inlet port with a satisfied hum. The highly refined fuel hit his systems in a rush of energy, jolting him out of his lethargy. His optics brightened considerably and he sat up straighter, a spasm in his fingers nearly causing him to lose his grip on the beaker.
“You looked like you needed that,” Calitae told him from behind the bar, leaning her elbow on the burnished surface, “Racetrack working you too hard again?”
“New stock,” he told her with a grimace, “Had me running raw sheets up from the docks all day.”
“You? What is he, too tight to hire a proper hauler?”
“Can’t afford it.”
The thickset orange feme nodded sagely. “Tough times.”
Taking in another draught of fuel, Aratron glanced around the room. The dingy oil-house was largely empty, a few regular patrons filling out a couple of tables, nothing more. The thunder of traffic filtered down from the expressway above as a distant roar, the occasional heavy transport setting the wall hangings rattling. A visualizer cube projected a news feed into the air, images and data-streams from the Prime’s visit to one of the Qosho Region’s Birthing Wells. No one was paying much attention to it.
“You seen Gauun lately?” Calitae asked, picking up a beaker and a buffing pad.
Aratron frowned. “Not for a few days.”
“Wow.” The barkeeper began polishing. “You two fallen out again?”
“Not since last stellar cycle.”
“That the time he got you chucked over a cliff?”
“Yup.”
“How long didn’t you speak to each other that time?”
“Day and a half.”
“Wow,” Calitae repeated, putting down the now-shining beaker and reaching for another. The treads slung across her back shifted a little. “So a few days means, what, he’s got himself run down by a train?”
“Dunno.” Sloshing the last of his fuel around in its container, Aratron looked across at the visualizer, aware of a surge in the information it was throwing out. The Prime had just entered the concourse leading down to the Well. Echoing the crowds in the images, a murmur of “hail the Flame, hail the Prime” ran around the oil-house, some of the mechs even lifting their beakers in salute.
“He’s probably just caught up doing ‘art’ or whatever,” Aratron said when the moment had passed.
“Doing art and whatever, I’ll have you know!” cried a voice from the door.
Gauun burst in like a small silver and black rocket, charging over to the bar gesticulating wildly and talking nonstop. “Honestly, I take a couple of days out of my busy social schedule to seal the greatest deal - so far - of my professional career and everyone assumes I must have dropped off the face of the planet. What is it with you people? Can’t face the thought of life without me? A fresh can of oil for my friend, Calitae, and one for me and one for yourself! Best quality you’ve got! I’m in the mood for getting completely blasted!”
Calitae and Aratron exchanged incredulous looks. “His processor’s finally gone and fried itself,” the mech muttered eventually.
“Just as long as he can pay for it,” the feme said with a shrug, and reached for a drum of high-grade.
“Fweee!” Gauun whacked Aratron on the door-wing. “Thanks a lot for all that faith you have in me. Really makes my day. Lucky for me that I have faith in me, otherwise I’d be the complete loser you seem to think I am - despite all the evidence, I might add.”
“What evidence is this?” Calitae asked, placing freshly filled beakers on the bar, “I’ve always thought you were a loser too.”
Snatching up one of the cans, Gauun threw back his head and chugged down half his fuel in one go, pouring it straight into his mouth. Slamming the container back down again, he grinned broadly and regally extended a hand. An image appeared above it, a burly black mech with bronze trim covered head to foot in garish cyan patterns. The hologram revolved slowly, revealing that the lurid designs wound their way across every part of the mech’s body.
“You are looking at this season’s decals for the West Sector Athletics Team,” Gauun explained, before snapping his hand closed and dismissing the image, “And now you’re looking at the mech who’s been paid a whole heap of shannix for designing them.” Looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, he hopped onto one of the bar-perches, the seat reforming to accommodate him.
“They paid you for those?” Aratron deadpanned.
“We can’t afford to turn the lights up full and that bunch of wannabe gladiators can splash out on your scrawls?” Calitae shook her head disbelievingly. “There’s no justice in the universe.”
“Oh no, no!” Their newly wealthy friend spread his hands. “Please, hold back on the gushing praise and enthusiastic congratulations! I’ve only finally made the big break I’ve been working towards for stellar cycles.”
Unable to help himself, Aratron laughed. “This is all because you met that quad at the party at Garadus’, isn’t it? The one who was ‘in sports’, right?”
“What can I say? He liked my ‘low-grade decals’ - thought they added a touch of the streets to the team, help the people relate to them big, tough, fancy-formed athletes of his.”
“Besides which, you’re cheaper than most of the pro-artists, huh?”
“Still got enough out of it to pay you for fuel all night,” Gauun told Calitae with a smirk, “Keep ‘em coming! I owe my best friend here for not being there to make sure he gets himself higher ‘n the Celestial Temple for the past quartex.”
He whacked Aratron’s door-wing again, affectionately this time, and flapped his own encouragingly. Aratron lifted his beaker in half-mocking salute and drained it into his mouth in one go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tava Szenda Birthing Well
Tarn
Cybertron
Sarristec would have given anything for a crystal goblet of the highest-grade fuel. Preferably with something borderline illegal dissolved in it to give it that little extra kick.
Being included in the delegation sent to oversee the Reaffirmation of the Tava Szenda Well was of course a great honour, although really his presence at the head of a group of sector representatives and wealthy business people was only natural. Most of the Lords of the Conclave did not fit with the image of a newly resurgent city grasping the future with both hands. He, by contrast, was well on his way to becoming the face of a progressive Vos, both at home and around the world. The reforms he had formulated had made him a popular symbol of a new, better order - which, coupled with his looks, had in turn made him the darling of the media networks.
The problem was that most of the Reaffirmation was taken up by long, interminable blessings delivered by a High Circuit Master whose voice resembled the high, shut-down inducing drone of a ventilation system. It rambled on and on and on about the mystery and magnificence of Cybertron, the glory of the Allspark and the wondrous gift of new life, until Sarristec was ready to cave its domed head in with its own staff of office. He did not even have the satisfaction of being able to complain about the proceedings. Along with everyone else on the observation deck, he had to maintain the image of his state and look like he was actually interested in what was going on. A finer display of false sincerity and feigned attention it would have been harder to find. Even the Civic Guards, their bland white forms easily identifiable on the fringes of the gathering, managed to keep up an air of respectful attentiveness and they must surely have been the most bored of them all, their presence being as superfluous as it was.
A stir went through the assembled dignitaries as the High Circuit Master finally slowed to a stop and, with much genuflection, beckoned the Prime forward. Sentinel strode to the Well’s edge, the midday sunlight glancing blindingly off his golden armour, and lifted a hand to the sky. “Brothers,” he boomed, his voice filling the great pit, “We are gathered today to witness the giving of the gift of life, to share in the miracle of creation and to welcome a new generation into this world. I stand here before you so that our forms may be shared by those who are to come, so that they too may enjoy the strength and the will that have made Cybertron great.”
As he spoke, the protomatter began to surge about energetically, more and more half-formed shapes bubbling to the surface. He stepped forward, his feet disappearing into the silvery mass. “It is the will of the Allspark,” he intoned, optics blazing, “that the past shall embrace the future and that all shall share in the light of creation.”
White fire criss-crossed his body for a moment, a flare of information that swept outwards to flood the entire Well. Sarristec leaned forward, engrossed in the spectacle despite himself. The raw power released as the Matrix imprinted on the protomatter flashed and crackled across the pool, surging and flaring like a living thing. Words and images spilled from the maelstrom, instants of lucidity scattered into the ether by a mad whirling rush of data - glimpses into the mind of the Allspark.
Then the wave of light had passed and the Prime had stepped back onto the shore. His great frame sagged imperceptibly with the effort of imparting the commands that kept the protomatter within the narrow parameters that defined recognisable sentience. The High Circuit Master gestured with its staff and two acolytes hurried forward, their bodies still armoured, not yet the stripped, gilded skeletons of true Masters. Between them they carried a heavily reinforced container, the large black cylinder held within an intricate bronze lattice. At the Circuit Master’s touch, this slid aside, unfurling and rearranging itself to allow the box to open. From it, the ancient mechanoid took a hand-sized, almost disappointingly plain grey sphere. This it lifted, first towards the Prime, then towards the watching audience.
“The Template of the Mech Tron,” it announced grandly, and plunged the sphere into the Well.
The protomatter became positively frenzied. Bubble after enormous bubble erupted, the great domes shivering in the sunlight for a split micro-cycle before beginning to deform, blank surfaces gradually giving way to more complex shapes. The transmutation accelerated as it went on, servos and gears, beams and pistons, hands and feet, all the parts of a working body flowing into existence, the template mapped on to reality. The heads were the last to form, momentarily blank then steadily filled out with the broad strokes of the final product, a mouth, optics, a central sensor node, the finer detail following almost immediately.
Hesitantly, uncertainly, following the ancient coding that had driven the Cybertronian race up to the surface of their world, fifty four protoforms made their way up on to the Well’s gently sloping shore, drawn instinctively to the where the Prime waited. He saluted them, one forearm held horizontal across his chest-plate. Rapidly becoming accustomed to their shape and their minds, they copied the gesture, some more readily than others. “My brothers,” Sentinel called, voice carrying once more through the great pit, “Feel the sunlight on your skin. Feel the glory of the Matrix in your circuits. Feel your Sparks filling your bodies. And know that you are alive.”
Circuit Masters, golden reflections of the naked silver beings who had risen from the pool, gently shepherded them into three lines, communicating with the new-borns in the most basic and ancient of the Cybertronian languages. The Prime spoke to them again, his grand words guiding them towards the higher and more complex methods of communication. “You will go forth from here, as did all those who came before you, to take your place in our world. As they did, you will begin your lives performing the humble, vital functions that preserve us all. As they did, you will rise in time, fulfilling the potential that lies within you. From this moment on, it is your duty to follow in their footsteps, to strive to be everything that you can be, to better yourself, to better your brothers, to better Cybertron. Let it be so, in the name Allspark, in the name of the greater whole in which we are all united, now and forever, until all are one!”
“Till all are one!” roared the crowds obediently. “Till all are one!” echoed the protoforms, caught up in the atmosphere.
“Till all are one,” repeated Sarristec sarcastically, more or less to himself. He looked down at the mechs who had just clawed their way out of Cybertron’s skin and wondered how many of them would ever rise from the ‘humble, vital functions’ of the menial classes. No more than a handful, if that. Since before Sarristec had come online, template and Well had dictated what you were or were not likely to achieve. They decided the forms you could take when you were formatted, the line of work your body fitted you for, the respect you got from society, your ultimate place in the world. And fundamentally, the Mech Tron line was cast in the menial mould, whether it emerged from Tava Szenda or Verous Klyda, whether it was formatted as a bulk in Tagan or a flyer in Vos.
The Prime had not lied when he said that each of the protoforms would rise in time to fulfil their potential. Society had simply decided long ago that that potential was very small.
And as he turned to converse with the wealthy, powerful mechs around him, Sarristec smiled with reaffirmed confidence that the Mech Tec line had very great potential indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.