We belong to each other. . . .

We belong to the Matrix. . . .

. . . the Matrix belongs to us. . . .

We sing to each other dark dark music against the noisy babbling of the light and we fall ever deeper into the flames that do not sear . . . into the perfect abyss at the heart of the Matrix filled with blue fire where in the very deepest depths something stirs . . . and turns to regard us. . . .

We are One.

Forever!

A hunched-over, twisted shape slunk about the energon-shipping yard and into the warehouse, using the dark of the Cybertronian night to its advantage. It flitted from shadow to shadow, moving faster than anything of its relative size had the right to move as it cautiously stalked energon.

The secured double doors to the warehouse were so very easy for him to override and open. With barely a whisper of sound, the bent and shadowed form entered the huge warehouse. His target lay before him in gleaming, glowing stacks of delicious nourishment.

So close . . . so close. . . .

The figure carefully, almost nervously approached the stack of energon cubes, freshly unloaded from the barges that had carried their cargo downriver.

Slow, yes . . . we must go slowly. . . .

Narrowed blue optics examined the dimness of the interior. He tilted his head slightly, audio receptors straining to pick out any sound that might indicate that he was not alone in the darkened structure. About him, the walls of the warehouse rose to a towering height, the roof barely visible in the energon's soft glow. Gnarled, twisted hands twitched by his sides under the cover of the ragged metal cloak that hung from his shoulders, then reached out hesitantly to take a cube. Upon snagging his prize, the figure instantly retreated, hunching over the cube as if to prevent its betraying light from alerting any potential observers to his presence.

Tasty energon . . . good energon. . . .

Now away . . . back to ground again, back to where we can sing and praise the Jewel once more . . . Jewel, precious Stone of Heaven and of Hell . . . the Light that heralds the Dawn of War. . . .

Inwardly, the monologue continued, a stream of consciousness barely affected by the more rational act of pausing at the great doors to the warehouse.

A clawlike hand wrapped itself around the edge of the door, followed by a pair of mangled lavender projections and then a set of narrowed blue optics. Seeing no one, the rest of the figure emerged and ducked quickly once again into shadow.

We are One.

Forever!

From the breakroom, a small room equipped with a few chairs, a table, and a vid screen, Orion Pax stepped into the large cavernous expanse of the main warehouse. Energon rose up in highly organized stacks all about him, the cheerful pink glow faintly illuminating the distant ceiling.

"Cybertron to Orion Pax!" the loud call came from the open set of huge doors that allowed access to the warehouse, where Ratbat waited impatiently. His employer was a small purple robot with a lighter, lavender Decepticon sigil showing prominently against the darker metal of his chestplate. A pair of small purple wings were held out to the sides, framing the otherwise humanoid form.

"I'm coming," the red Mech called back, shambling across the expanse of warehouse floor, his tenor voice rough and slow.

"When we unload the energon, take it back into bay five," Ratbat instructed carefully, red optics glinting in restrained irritation at the way Orion always required precise orders. Even though bay five was currently the only empty bay in the warehouse, the owner did not trust his employee to come to the correct conclusion that it was the logical destination for the incoming shipment.

Orion Pax grunted briefly in reply, and together they stepped out into the bright sunlight of the Cybertronian noon. A river, one of the few on Cybertron, glinted merrily as it flowed from the northwest. A large solar plant manufactured energon a few hundred klicks upriver, and a good fraction of it was sent here, a major distribution point for the region.

The docks were about a hundred yards away from the warehouse, which in Ratbat’s opinion had been too close to be worth loading and unloading a transport flat for the distance. However, it was but far enough away for the diminutive warehouse owner to hire a few workers specifically to help haul energon from the regularly scheduled barges as quickly and efficiently as possible.

As they approached, the head of the towering blue dock Guardian turned to track them. Ratbat continued on, unruffled, but Orion scowled up at the Guardian, whose red optics glinted dully in the bright sunlight. Orion Pax had never seen this particular Guardian stir from his current position, which over the vorns had become so stacked around with boxes and materials that to move, it would probably have to break something. However, there were sufficient stories from the last war of Guardians intercepting and destroying Autobots that even now those with blue optics felt uneasy around them.

Together with the barge crew, the duo worked to unload the shipment. With an ease belied by his medium build, Orion hefted at least twice the load as the others did on each trip. His strength was the major reason that Ratbat kept him around, despite the other frustrations of dealing with the dull-witted Mech.

About half way through the unloading, another Mech joined them, holding his hand over his optics as they adjusted from the dimness of the warehouse interior to the bright sunlight. Ratbat hailed the orange newcomer with relief.

"Novaculon! Help Pax with this while I speak to the barge captain."

The approaching Mech, also one of Ratbat’s employees, acquiesced with an easy smile, allowing his much smaller employer to walk over and make arrangements for the next delivery with the barge captain, a medium-sized blue and turquoise Femme named Riverway.

“Where’ve you been?” Orion demanded sourly of the newcomer as he picked up another load. His expressive face was set in annoyance even as he lifted half again what his co-worker could carry.

“Had to sort out a shipping problem to Perihelion,” Novaculon replied good-naturedly. His red and blue co-worker grunted in reply as they stepped from the bright light of Cybertron’s primary and entered the cooler shade of the warehouse, heading to Bay 5.

Once the barge was unloaded, Ratbat gave a critical glance at the resultant stacks in Bay Five.

“That’ll work, I suppose.”

Novaculon grinned slightly.

“You know us - always aiming for the perfect alignment.”

Orion frowned at the statement - with disagreement or with confusion, Ratbat couldn’t tell - but did not comment.

“You better be when you’re working for me,” the small purple robot replied, but with a genuine smile. “Orion, wait for Dion. He’ll be here in a few breems. Help him load fifty cubes from Bay 2. Do you understand?”

The red and blue Mech kept his reply to a sullen, “Yes,” then stalked off to the break room to watch the vidscreen while he waited.

Ratbat shook his head slightly as he watched Orion Pax lumber off, almost clumsy in his movements.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake hiring that one,” he murmured softly. Being much taller, his companion had to lean over a bit to catch the words.

“Pax?” the orange robot frowned. “He has his moods, sure, but he’s a hard worker.”

“True enough,” Ratbat frowned as the two of them entered the real office - where the paperwork bred like glitchmice. In every other operation Novaculon had worked for, the forms and datapads would have been in almost random heaps. But because Ratbat ran this business, everything was stacked into neatly ordered piles, preferably on the desk as opposed to around it. In one corner, another Mech, Saevitor, was tapping on a datapad. He waved in greeting.

“You know my feelings about those who claim Autobot heritage,” Ratbat continued softly, twitching his wing extensions. “They need to continue to be integrated into our society, with as little prejudice as possible, regardless of the sanctions against them the Decepticon Council is still proposing. Orion’s obviously of that line - as are any number of others in my employ. But for some reason. . .” he paused, his small agile fingers toying absently with a datapad.

“I honestly don’t know why, since he’s never really done anything but be generally unpleasant - and occasionally waste time with a blunder or two,” and here Ratbat’s optics flashed briefly in constrained irritation, “but Orion is the one who disturbs me sometimes. Like he remembers the times of Autobot dominion . . . and wants them back.” Saevitor cocked his head curiously at the tone of the conversation, wondering what had brought it on.

Much as he would have liked to, Novaculon could not disagree.

Sure enough, in a few breems an empty yellow truck drove itself up to the warehouse doors, then transformed into a silver and bale blue robot, the yellow truck bed slitting and forming the shoulders of the Transformer. The Mech confidently strode into the warehouse, knowing exactly where to find the help he was going to require. With a cursory knock on the breakroom door, he entered.

“Yo, Pax!” The subject of his greeting turned from the vidscreen, where a golden-yellow Mech was holding a swooning Femme in his arms. “Watching old Sunstreaker vids again, Orion?” The Mech shook his head in mock disapproval. “Sad. His time rolled out orbits ago, buddy.”

Orion’s optics lit briefly at the teasing, then died back again into their customary dull blue. “I liked him,” he said shortly, then stood up, scowling at the other Mech. The blue and yellow Mech was named Dion, who like Orion himself was of Autobot descent, although neither wore the forbidden symbol.

“Well, yeah, it was good to see *someone* with blue optics get some spotlight,” Dion admitted, going back out through the door with Orion following slowly behind. That was the closest anyone of Autobot descent went these days of obliquely referring to the lack of prominence any of their race had in the current times - from politics to popular culture, the icons and decision makers were almost entirely Decepticon or from Neutral factions. That fact quietly galled more than one descendent of Autobot lines and was seen as unjust by a number of Neutrals and bleeding-spark Decepticons; but to those in power it was considered a quiet precaution against the ideals of the conquering tribe once known as Autobots from ever returning.

The pair walked to Bay 2, where Dion transformed into the yellow truck in preparation for Orion to load energon cubes into his flatbed.

“Where are these cubes off to?” Orion asked in idly curiosity as he began lifting cubes from their neat, orderly stacks in the bay.

The trucks front wheels shifted slightly in a shrug. “Just inland a few hundred klicks to Dalatacron.”

“I don’t know how you stand all those long boring trips,” the red and blue robot commented sourly.

“Hey, at least I get to go out on the roads a bit!” Dion retorted. “Working here at the yards all the time, seeing the same four walls, listening to Ratbat chitter on about 'efficiency' and 'thrift' and all that - it'd be enough to drive anyone to the brink of insanity.” The yellow cargo truck paused for a moment, then added with a teasing voice, “Of course, if one happens to be too dense to understand quaternary economic structures, then it might be easier to keep all the microchips intact in the processor.”

Pax may not have understood exactly what Dion had just said, but he knew an insult when he heard one. “All my microchips are intact,” he muttered darkly, ‘accidentally’ allowing his foot to connect into Dion’s tires as he turned to lift another cube from the stack.

“Ow!” Dion reacted to the stinging blow by rapidly turning his tires from side to side, shaking it off. “You’re clumsier than usual today, Pax. Watch it.”

“Sorry,” Orion grunted. They both recognized the apology for a lie, but let the matter drop. Dion judged it the better course of wisdom to avoid needling an ill-tempered Mech - who was loading high-energy fuel into his cargo hold - any further. Pax lifted the last cube from the fifth stack of ten and realized that this was the last one for the delivery. Roughly, he shoved it into place among the others.

“That’s all you get.” A quick survey showed that they were still the only ones in the bay, but Orion dropped his voice to a whisper anyway. “Til we rise again, Dion.”

The truck had started his engine.

“Oh, not again, Pax,” he groaned softly. “You want to get caught and fired? Huh?” Orion just looked down at him, sullenly, expectantly. “Til we rise again,” Dion finally answered, a note of bitter longing entering his voice.

As the yellow truck drove off and around the stacks of energon, the red and blue Mech watched him leave with slow approval.

As the day drew to a close, an irritable Ratbat dismissed Orion Pax from his duties. The small purple Decepticon had discovered a small discrepancy in his inventory that he couldn’t quite account for, and it was driving the normally patient warehouse owner almost into surges. Orion left the huge warehouse without comment, leaving Novaculon and Saevitor to drag their employer to the nearest energon pub to relax.

Orion’s own steps turned toward a more rowdy tavern than the others preferred. His destination this night, like most evenings for him, was The Rusty Axle, a place where rougher activity was tacitly ignored by the Decepticon authorities as long as no serious property damage occurred. He trudged along the silvery thoroughfare that paralleled the river, passing gold-toned buildings and other Cybertronians as they walked or drove themselves to their evening destinations. His slow thoughts had turned to the quantity of spiked energon he planned to consume that evening when a familiar voice was carried by the wind to his audios.

He turned his head, and there she was again, a vision of unattainable beauty walking along the path that lead to the river and escorted as usual by her gang of Femmes. The Femme he admired stood out from the others, for her frame was painted in that particular shade of quartz pink that seemed designed to arouse a Mech's interest, a graceful energon-colored rose among a garden of lesser flowers. Her walk was sensuous, almost sultry, and her face set in an expression of tempestuous challenge.

Her name was Ariel, and to Orion Pax there was no more desirable creature in existence. Like himself, Ariel was sigil-less, but the aura of her Autobot heritage was visible in her controlled movements, in the flash of her sapphire optics, in the stubborn tilt to her chin. As he sometimes did, he placed himself casually along her route. As usual, the sight of her caused a major glitch in his speech processor, and so he stood quietly, communicating his interest only by his absolute attention.

"Oh look Ariel, your admirer's here today," one of the Femmes teased with a wicked glint in her lavender optics.

"And you know what they say about the strong ones," added another, dryly. The red and blue Mech didn't even look at the others, but simply focused on the pink Femme who momentarily looked intrigued by the comment.

"Ah yes, I know what they say…" Ariel purred, and in a departure from the normal routine of walking by, stopped in front of him. He looked across at her, their blue optics meeting for a moment. The evening sun slanted down upon them, its warm reflections touching them both with auras of light. She walked around him, studying him like one might eye a cube of energon for its color and purity.

When Ariel emerged from his other side, she stood in front of him and gazed speculatively at him. He went very still, starting to hope. The Femme he desired most in the world was close, close enough that he could have reached out and touched her, had he dared. Their optics bore into one another and he could feel a connection between them; by Primus, the war god of old, he could feel it . . . they were destined to be together. . . .

"Strong, yes. . ." she trailed off, then backed away, a sneer replacing the evaluative expression and distorting the symmetry of her face. She shook her head, sending her pink ponytail swinging. "But I fear that the dim wits are too much of a drawback," she addressed her companions with a snicker. "I'm amazed there's enough energon running through his cranium to power his optics!"

The group of Femmes broke out into raucous laughter and moved off with a few well-chosen cat-calls, leaving the red Mech behind, seething with repressed rage. He watched them leave, his optics narrowed and bright with anger, and swore that someday he would be powerful enough to simply take whatever - and whoever - he desired.

He stood there for a moment longer, then turned his back and trudged toward the river again. Instead of heading to the left, toward the towering blue dock Guardian that glinted in the evening sun, he turned his back on it to walk further downriver. He was headed in the general direction of the Rusty Axle; yet instead of going to the tavern he continued walking to the very edge of the river, passing mounds of forgotten old junk that had moldered near the docks for eons. No one else was in sight, allowing him solitude. Behind him, the sun set in quiet glory, a sight that was lost on him as he sullenly stared at the hypnotic ripples in the water's surface as the river flowed by on its endless journey.

Orion Pax was an Autobot. He clung to that fact, despite the ideology being forbidden, despite having to confine the only discussions of his heritage to whispers and darkened rooms. A Decepticon might be his employer, and the Decepticons might currently rule Cybertron; but deep within his core programming he knew the Truth. One day the Autobots would rise again to claim what was theirs by right of arms, and there would be glorious battle raging across his world.

"And when that day comes," he muttered, slow and almost inaudibly, casting out his words to the twilight winds. "I will be there in the front ranks. My enemies will fear me, and other Autobots will sing of my triumphs. And when the last of the Decepticons have fallen, then we will create an Empire. We will be feared, and we will rule the stars!"

A thrill rushed through his frame as he spoke the words, a delightful tingle that sent surges up and down his spinal support and along his limbs. Optics glowing a sudden fiery blue, he gazed up at the twin crescent moons that were ascending over the river. Standing in the warm night wind, Orion Pax clenched his fists and unknowingly spoke prophecy.

Not far away, another figure had been stirring as twilight deepened its hold on the city. Behind a rusted grating that formed the door to a warren hidden among the piles of junk, a pair of narrowed blue optics gazed from a wizened face. He had paused at the sight of the red and blue Mech, who had picked a spot just in front of the disguised entrance to the cramped burrow where the twisted robot spent the daylight hours hidden from the world. The wind brought the stranger’s words to ancient audio receptors, and something within the breast of the old Autobot listened. . . .

. . . and awoke, with a silent rush of blue fire.

His name had once been Alpha Trion, back in the long-ago age when he had walked in sunlight as well as darkness. The Jewel called him by a dark melody that caught his attention far more thoroughly than any prior designation ever had, and over the course of a meganium spent worshipping the steel-encased star-sapphire the concept of ‘name’ had ceased to have meaning. For age upon age, he had survived by roaming the night for energon and by frequent changes in location. At this point, some million years after becoming One with the Fallen Star he loved so, Alpha Trion had lived in every city on Cybertron, and some more than once, but always shunning the wonders of the daylit Golden Age for the security of darkness.

And now, Alpha Trion couldn't help himself. He had to see him again. The pull of the young Mech was magnetic in a way the ancient Bot could not quite understand. He watched the red and blue dockworker from hiding with a silent intensity, muttering silently to himself in his usual endless litany. Long after the cunning old Bot would have ordinarily moved to new scavenging grounds, he stayed along the river and the docks, watching. A dim part of him realized that even Decepticons would soon realize the slow but steady loss of energon from the warehouse and start looking for the cause, but that was silenced in the need, the bizarre obsession to follow and watch this dull, rebellious Mech, this Orion Pax.

Who is he? What is he that I must follow and watch, follow and watch? Brief disgruntled thoughts skittered across the broken landscape of his mind, to be soothed away by tendrils of shadowy music. You sing only for me, he whispered to the Matrix, and content in that knowledge, returned to watching the red and blue Mech as he carried energon from the river to the warehouse.

A quartex went by and then another, forty-eight days slipping away as quietly as the water in the river. The Matrix stirred restlessly within him, and Alpha Trion began to perform more activities that he did not understand. In addition to nearly nightly raids for energon, slipping by the ever more complex security systems put up in a futile attempt to discourage theft, he scavenged for parts and tools. He was stocking his lair with energy and supplies for no reason he could discern, but was rewarded with dreams in which he flew across a plain of pale blue fire. The flames reached up painlessly to caress the aged metal of his body shell and sent a thrill of warmth and power through him.

We are one, he whispered to his Jewel, his god, and it responded with surges of dark music that wrapped around him hungrily. Alpha Trion became enveloped in the seducing power of the Matrix, and dipped down lower into the flame which had no end.

Ratbat flung a digipad across the office into the opposing wall with a solid thunk, arousing the instant wide-opticked attention of the blocky purple Mech sitting in the corner.

“What is it, Ratbat?” Saevitor asked with real concern, setting aside the digipads he had been working on. The diminutive Decepticon did not answer at first, his silver face an expression of thinly controlled anger and the slim wings at his back quivering with irritation. His larger companion was dismayed at the changes the long series of small thefts had worked in his employer.

“We’re short two cubes overnight,” Ratbat finally ground out. “AGAIN.”

“Again?” Saevitor asked with dismay. “What about the new security system?”

“Worthless, apparently. Like all the others.” Ratbat flicked at items on his desk randomly, face set in an annoyed expression. The last two quartices had seen a small but steady drain of energon missing from the warehouse inventory. It was never much at once, but the accumulated total ranged up into some sixty cubes at this point.

Saevitor suppressed a shiver. Something had changed in the warehouse beyond the thefts. He no longer cared to work in the office alone, for it felt like something dark was lurking around a corner, just out of sight. These days, it gave him the cold surges to walk in the energon bays by himself.

“The Ghost strikes again,” he remarked glumly, using the name he and Novaculon had settled upon to refer to the unknown thief.

“Oh, ghost my skidplate,” Ratbat snapped. “What would a ghost want with energon?” Whatever influence was making Saevitor nervous and Novaculon twitchy seemed to arouse irritability in their employer, who vehemently denied any involvement by the supernatural in the thefts. The small Decepticon’s near-legendary patience had worn thin with the constant drain of stolen energon and the failure of each new security system to catch so much as a theft in progress.

“The more I look at the problem, logically the thief could only be someone who works here, someone who has known all the security codes,” Ratbat continued, the angry energy suddenly leaving him and leaving him depressed and exhausted in its wake. With a flash of insight Saevitor realized just why Ratbat was so high-strung recently. Ratbat invested a large amount of trust, even friendship in his employees, and the thought that he was being betrayed by one of them must be a sharp and constant goad to his processor.

“Ratbat, you know that none of us would - “ Saevitor began to protest, to be cut off.

“Oh, I’m not doubting you or Novaculon,” Ratbat managed to grouse and be reassuring at the same time, waving off the concern. “It’s Pax, honestly.”

“You don’t think that . . . Pax. . . ?” Novaculon asked in surprise, just entering the office. The orange Mech felt a powerful urge to look over his shoulder again, resisting through sheer force of will. The warehouse was not the friendly place it had once been. Instead, he constantly felt like some inimical force was watching him out of the shadowed corners, plotting to cause him harm.

Needless to say, this was not the most pleasant of working environments. On the trips carrying energon from barge to warehouse, he tended to linger in the outdoor sunlight, finally driven by duty to enter the cavernous storage bays only to hurry out again.

“Oh, come in and shut the door behind you,” the small glider ordered with a sigh, rubbing the ridges above his crimson optics in a tired gesture. Novaculon swiftly did so, pressing a plate that caused the door to slide shut behind him.

“Orion?” Saevitor was asking with some incredulity. “C’mon, even if you give him the security codes, he forgets them half the time. I’ve had to let him inside in the mornings at least a dozen times. How could he manage thefts like these?”

“I’m not sure,” Ratbat admitted, frowning. “But you have to admit his behavior has changed recently.”

Novaculon snorted, green optics flaring for a moment. “We’ve all been acting oddly, Ratbat. I’m not sure what it is . . . but something around here these days is giving me the constant cold surges for no good reason.”

Ratbat nodded.

“We work in the middle of an unsolved crime scene,” he observed clinically. “Of course that bothers us all. But look at how Pax has been acting lately. He used to spend all his spare time in the break-room watching the vidscreen. Now. . . .”

Saevitor spoke into the expectant silence, a touch unwillingly.

“We’ve all seen him prowling around the bays, Ratbat. But he could just be keeping an extra optic out, trying to figure out how the thief is getting in.” His words lacked a certain conviction, however, and Ratbat gave him a brief sideways glance.

Everyone in the warehouse had become jumpy as of late - with one exception. Pax didn’t seem to notice… whatever-it-was. No, the sullen red and blue Mech was perhaps more irritable than usual, but he did not exhibit the desire to jump at shadows and glitchmice that Novaculon did. Coming across a rare amusing thought, Novaculon speculated that Pax had an advantage for once in his lack of sensitivity.

Even ghosts would have a time talking to that one. He gave the smallest of chuckles at the notion, then berated himself for the unkind thought.

“Prowling around the bays, exactly,” Ratbat nodded with emphasis, silver face set in a frown. “Figuring out which stack to steal from next!” He crossed his violet arms over his chest, half-covering the Decepticon sigil that rested there.

Novaculon and Saevitor looked at each other, then back at Ratbat.

“There is no proof, of course,” Novaculon ventured cautiously. The orange Neutral finally found an uncluttered chair and sat down.

“No, and I’m not about to fire anyone without it, no matter how high my suspicions run,” Ratbat said tiredly, uncrossing his arms to rest them on the desk. “Beyond all the security systems, I have yet to post a night guard. That is the next logical step.”

“Who did you have in mind?” Saevitor asked, fervently hoping that he would not be asked to remain alone in the warehouse at night. The very thought sent a renewed series of surges up and down his spinal struts.

“Orion Pax,” the small glider replied firmly.

“Huh? I thought you just got done saying that you didn’t trust him?” Novaculon was confused.

“Exactly. So I’m giving him a chance to prove me wrong,” Ratbat sighed. “I’d like to be proven wrong, actually. And I’ve heard about some of the brawls he’s gotten into at the Rusty Axle.” The small purple robot made a face, then continued. “He’ll be able to take care of himself if there is an outside thief to be tangled with. And if the energon keeps disappearing, well… I’ll know for certain about him.”

The other two in the office couldn’t fault the logic.

The urge to collect parts and tools had ceased at last, but the drive to hoard energon remained. Each night called for a new visit to the warehouse, where he crept among the shadows and stalked the pink glowing stacks of fuel, adding to his stockpile until one entire wall of his hidden lair was obscured by the haphazardly stacked cubes.

And then, one quiet night, the ancient Autobot slipped into the warehouse, evading the newest security system yet again. As soon as he entered the cavernous structure, he felt the Matrix pulse and sing with sudden dark anticipation. Stopping short, Alpha Trion rubbed absently at his center chestplate where his Jewel lay beneath, trying to determine the cause.

The sound of footsteps not his own upon the floor instantly told him that he was not alone in the warehouse. As the intruder upon his quiet nighttime energon harvest came into view around one glowing stack, Alpha Trion knew, with a strange jolt, exactly what it was that he would be harvesting tonight.

“Hey watch where you’re going! Sheesh, try to help someone…” The annoyed cry brought Orion Pax from his self-absorbed reverie to belatedly realize that he’d almost walked straight into Saevitor. The other robot had opened the door for Pax presuming correctly that as usual, Orion had forgotten the security code.

Pax wasn’t about to apologize, but in a semblance of manners muttered a ‘thanks’ to the blocky purple Neutral for holding the door as he entered the warehouse. Almost immediately the blue-opticked Mech was back in his own world of slow thought.

There. He passed a stack of energon and paused, the signature of some invisible Power making itself known to him. Faintly, ever so faintly, he could feel a trace of an energy that called to him, an energy more seductive than the most attractive Femme. Frowning, he stood where the influence was the greatest and once again tried to figure out what it was.

From behind him, Saevitor scurried past the red and blue Mech, shaking his head incredulously. He didn’t care what Ratbat said - some sort of aura in the warehouse was supernaturally frightening and Orion Pax was standing right in the middle of it.

Orion watched him pass as Saevitor looked around furtively on his way to the office, and snickered softly. How the others amused him lately, jumping at shadows and constantly looking over their shoulders. What was here was not interested in them, Neutrals and Decepticons all. No, what was here called to the deepest parts of him, to the Autobot that simmered just beneath his submissive surface.

It was the dreams that would have convinced him that he was not simply imagining things, if the increased anxiety of the others had not. For the last ten recharge cycles, Orion had found himself in a dark void above an abyss of bottomless blue fire. He would reach out to the flame, somehow unafraid of its heat, but every time was not permitted to touch. Something like music, but more profound, would ask him a question that he had yet to understand… and then he would wake.

In the spot in which he stood, he could feel the faint echoes of that music. Unbeknownst to all but itself, the Matrix had marked him out and was leaving pieces of its song in its wake for him to find. But while Orion Pax found those hints and echoes irresistible, the dark whisper of the Matrix’s presence infected the other workers with grave anxiety.

The day went on as usual, energon being carried from river to bay, then being loaded in cargo holds for delivery. The other workers were starting to be more obvious in their avoidance of Orion - even Novaculon would no longer meet Orion’s optics. The surly Mech simply withdrew even more into himself, thinking dark thoughts.

Pax had no idea what was responsible for the thefts, but even he connected the stolen energon to the warehouse’s new aura. Ratbat had insisted on all of his workers taking turns doing evening watch patrol around the warehouse, determined to catch whoever or whatever had been causing the disappearance of energon. That was what Ratbat had told Orion, anyway - and for whatever reason, the red and blue Mech had drawn the short straw and been assigned the first night’s duty.

Although outwardly Orion simply grunted in sullen acceptance, he couldn’t help an anticipatory glow from his optics as he thought of finally finding out what it was that was calling to him.

A soft sound alerted Orion that he was no longer alone in the darkened warehouse. He was supposed to sound the alarm and call Ratbat immediately at this point, but he ignored that directive in favor of his own desires. As quietly as he could, he lumbered over to the doors, trying to discern who and what was there.

He didn’t hear anything more, and couldn’t see anything odd either. He was considering turning on the main warehouse lights, when from behind him a shadow separated itself from the wall and flung itself upon him.

The scuffle was brief but vicious. With berserk tenacity, the ancient red and lavender form clung to the red Mech's back, a glowing electroknife rising up only to descend again and again into the angle between his target’s neck and shoulder. Almost immediately, Orion lost the use of his right arm, and bellowing with pain and a sudden rush of fear, he spun around, crashing into a stack of energon cubes and sending them scattering. His adversary did not loosen his grip, and a subsequent thrust found the hapless dockworker's vocorder, ending his cries. Frantically, the red Mech arched in silent agony and reached up with his left hand to claw at his attacker, but with a final frenzied thrust the connections between Orion’s central processor and his body were severed.

With a final shudder, Orion went still. The twisted Mech released him and with a soft mutter sat back on his heels and inspected himself for damage. Finding none, Alpha Trion quickly examined his victim, visible only by the soft pink glow of the energon and the fiercer light from his attacker’s optics.

Orion Pax lay on his back in a slowly spreading pool of his own fuel, a few sparks arcing from his neck and right shoulder where a considerable amount of damage had been incurred. Blue optics flickered fitfully as they started to shut down in the face of major damage. His self repair systems were entirely focused on the nick to his main fuel lines, and a flurry of error messages scrolled their way across his fading vision.

Past them, he saw for a moment the face of his attacker. Eerie in the soft pink light of the energon cubes, he saw a set of twisted lavender projections framing a dented red helmet and narrowed blue optics. Further down the robot’s body, he was dazedly astonished to see that his attacker wore the forbidden Autobot symbol. His systems swiftly shutting down into preservative stasis, the dock-worker nonetheless heard a few of the softly muttered words.

"We take you, yes, we take you home. We know. We know what to do with you. We know. . . ."

With the sudden horrified realization that he had been attacked by an insane mechanism, Orion Pax went forever offline.

At one time, long ago, Alpha Trion had been a leader in the Great Rebellion against the Quintessons, and later had been renowned as a leader in the field of Cybertronian design. It was a grand past that he had nearly forgotten in the last meganium as he hid himself away to commune with the Matrix. Gradually though, as he worked, the memories were filtering back to him.

"Fuel pump, yes . . . filtration subsystems, yes . . . subspace generator, yes . . . we remember these things. . . ."

Alpha Trion chittered incessantly as he worked, a quiet cacophony composed of his own voice. The captured Mech lay deactivated and half-disassembled on a low table. For cycle after cycle he worked, pausing for recharge at whim and living from his store of energon, soon leaving a pile of empty magnetic casings as haphazardly stacked as his remaining supply of cubes.

He made adjustment after adjustment in the internal systems of the red Mech, using every trick he had ever learned or theorized to increase reflexes, efficiency, power.

At first, he did not question the desire to rebuild, to tinker. He became caught up in the work, enjoying the use of skills not employed in over a thousand vorns. The cache of stolen parts became a treasure chest, or perhaps pieces to be fitted into a jigsaw puzzle. With the Matrix humming encouragement into his mind, the mad old robot raved as he worked, babbling his memories of the Second Cybertronian War and his hatred of Decepticons as well as his usual litany praising his Fallen Star, his Jewel.

And then near the end of it, he began to wonder. The thoughts were few at first, and quickly soothed away by the Matrix' dark song. Later, however, as his efforts began to solidify in the powerful form of the robot he was constructing, the thoughts and doubts returned.

Why? He started to ask. Why on Cybertron was he devoting so much time and energy on a project of no possible benefit to him? In fact the project was draining most of the resources that he had so laboriously stolen! Why? Even his mad scattered thoughts could not escape being disturbed by these questions.

He paused in the midst of some delicate cerebral circuitry work, the nanowelder pausing its precise motions as the memories of the last upgrade of this scale that he had performed filtered back to him. There had been one project in particular from the last war that he remembered, and remembered it vividly because it had been the first time he had laid optics on the Matrix.

Long, long ago, it had been his own hands that brought to life the being who would become the leader of the Autobots in a glorious time of war. Sentinel Prime had been among the most powerful of Cybertronians ever created, and once the Matrix had been added to the magnificent construction of his body shell, he had been nearly unstoppable. In the end, it had been treachery by one of his own that had resulted in two deaths from a battle over leadership fought far from reinforcement by Sentinel’s loyal soldiery.

And lurking in the shadows, trailing Sentinel Prime as he had since first hearing the Matrix’s siren song long before, had been Alpha Trion. Knowing only that the object of his obsession was now his, the Mech had claimed the Matrix as his own and carried it off into the night, hiding away so that no one could steal his prize from him. Without the energies of the Matrix to fuel a definitive leader, the Autobots of that time had been overwhelmed by the Decepticons, who drove all Autobots into death or exile and led the planet into what became known as a ‘Golden Age’. The Decepticons knew nothing of Alpha Trion, nor knew that they owed their time of peace to his instinct of hiding away from all optics, disappearing from notice and memory.

Alpha Trion stopped his motions and looked down at the body shell on the table. The form and coloration were different, yes, different, but the feeling, it was the same. This construction . . . it was meant to . . . was meant. . . .

His mind started to trail off as subtly, he felt the need to continue reassert itself. Tendrils of dark music, the beautiful and seducing call that Alpha Trion had never resisted in an entire meganium, threaded their way into his mind. Soon, soon, it will be done, the music crooned. Soon you will rest in my embrace. Forever.

''No!" The aged and twisted robot dropped his tools in horror, scrabbling backwards away from the red and blue construct before him. 'No nonono! We are never done! We are together always . . . Jewel . . . beloved blue star. . . ."

He huddled in a corner and raised trembling arms to cover his face. The Matrix, the object of his worship and adoration for uncounted vorns, had manipulated him into making a replacement for himself! Betrayed, he wailed bitterly.

The music changed. Seduction became command, and when the cowering robot refused to move, rose up in dark fury. In all the countless years that Alpha Trion had carried the Matrix, he had sought only deeper, more perfect communion with the powerful object. And so now, he had no shields, no defense against the angry psychic grip imposed on him now.

Finish!! A roar of fury communicated the imperative with a lash of pain that flashed through the aged robot’s twisted frame. With a shriek, the lavender robot fell completely to the ground, trembling. The tendrils of Matrix-song that for so long had curled lazily around its Bearer's core hardened into jagged spikes that struck deep into Alpha Trion's mind without mercy.

Finally, overcome by the goading of the Matrix, the twisted robot painfully dragged himself to his feet and with pitiful whimpers once more approached the silent red and blue form on his work bench. As he began to cooperate, the wracking pains subsided until the roar of sound became a more restrained rumble in the background of his mind.

Narrowed eyes gazed down bitterly at the inert shell on the rough work bench. Reluctantly, he took up his tools again to complete the delicate adjustments to the central processor required to connect the mind to the new body. He was unable to resist the stern command of the object he had worshipped for so very long, but as he worked, a feverish idea entered his thoughts.

No other Cybertronian could have performed the delicate adjustments in so little time. The wizened figure hunched over what once had been Orion Pax had a deeper knowledge than his present state would seem to indicate. At one time, Alpha Trion had been the premiere body shell design specialist of all Cybertron, with extensive experience in modifying them for increased military capacity during the Second Cybertronian War. These modifications had occasionally included that almost-forbidden of procedures, alteration of a Cybertronian’s primary programming. The purpose then had been to increase aggression and reflexes- until there had been one too many examples of the alterations working too well, even for Autobots.

Alpha Trion cautiously started on those modifications, receiving no warning from the Matrix. Perhaps it didn't care that he was increasing the naturally aggressive tendencies of its host-to-be, or perhaps, just perhaps . . . it didn't quite know what he was doing.

Without breaking the rhythm of his work, the sly old robot began craftily inserting other sequences.

The desire for power was already present within the personality. But desire alone was not enough. Trembling, Alpha Trion knew that his own weakness lay in his lack of will power- his will was a weak thing, easily overridden by the Matrix to suit its own mysterious needs.

A string of dodeca-numeric code was followed by minute physical adjustments with the central processor. Intelligence and processor speed - those were easy to upgrade. Stubborness, will power, these were more ephemeral things and the betrayed Autobot did all he knew to increase them in the raw mind at his fingertips. And then, he was done, making the final connections and closing the armored cranial covering over it all, leaving only the chest compartment open . . . and ready.

“Please! Nonono . . . no. . .” the whimper trailed off as the Matrix took direct control of his systems with a surge of power he could not fight. Horrified, Alpha Trion felt his own hands open the compartment under his own Autobot sigil - the place where the Matrix rested. Unable to mount even a flicker of resistance, his mind was brutally shoved aside as the Matrix transferred itself to its newly chosen host. The blocked out mind could only watch with a pitiful, silent wail as the Matrix was placed within the waiting chest cavity of the Mech on the table. Great panels closed over the glowing blue Jewel, hiding it from Alpha Trion’s worshipful gaze forever.

With a disorienting rush, Alpha Trion was once more in control of his own body, infinitely empty and bereft. Matrix-song had left him for another, and the silence in his soul left a dark and overwhelming void.

“Give it back, give it back!!” he howled with mindless despair, clabbering at the body beneath him with twisted hands. But with a sudden blaze, the dead optics of his creation ignited and a powerful arm slammed into him with incredible force, sending him flying across the room to slam into a wall and lie in a heap among the empty energon cube-shells, just as cast-off as they.

A small flicker of light touched his darkened world. It grew quickly, at first a few flickering flames, dark blue at their base and brightening to intense cerulean at their tips. Then, as if unshuttering his optics, he perceived that he floated in a black starless void with a plain of azure flames stretching out beneath him. It stretched out in all direction to infinity, alive and restless, roaring soundlessly with the fury of a million furnaces.

The being who had once been Orion Pax dipped down lower toward the flames, somehow recognizing this place from some other lifetime’s dream.

He reached out fearlessly, and this time was allowed to touch. Fire wrapped painlessly around his arm, running up in cool shivers of sensation, the prickling of power. The question came to him once more, only this time, he understood. His value was being questioned, and affronted, he answered.

I AM WORTHY!! He stood tall before the fire in a soundless proclamation of authority and command.

The fire looked upon the changes wrought upon him and found them good. A dark ribbon of music touched him then, and he was pulled completely beneath the flames.

Down.

Down.

Deep. Deeper. Deepest.

Down into the infinite abyss of fire he was pulled. Matrix energy surged around him in cascades of flames. Descending still, he went deeper yet until Something stirred amongst the eternal flames. A Power older than Cybertron’s sun regarded him, and he looked at it and somehow Understood.

He looked more carefully at the flames around him, and now recognized the agonized forms within each fitful flicker. Indistinct at first, then more clearly, he made out the shapes of robotic limbs twitching in uncontrollable spasms, hollow optics filled with mindless despair, and mouths open in silent echoing screams. The shadowy forms were continually melding and meeting, flickering away only to meet again in a chaotic parody of dance. He looked at them, impassive, and saw that the souls trapped here in torment eternal formed the power base for the Matrix itself.

You need more, he said aloud, or what passed for it in this place. He sensed agreement that escalated into a demand.

The impulse came to him then to kneel in the presence of this Power, to pledge it more souls or whatever it wanted, to be lost in the wonder and fierce beauty of its fires and song forever. That impulse was halted as the newly reborn mind balked. He was Autobot! He was slave to nothing! No thing, no being, no Power, would ever rule him so absolutely!

The new mind was almost confused at first from his thoughts running so much more clearly and quickly than the sludge-like rate to which he was accustomed. Just before he roared defiance, a new thought occurred to him as possibilities suddenly presented themselves. There was something he wanted too, something that he desired enough to pay a high forfeit.

I want Cybertron, he said instead, offering a bargain instead of servant-hood.

The fires around him quickened in their frenzied flicker and the Power’s anger beat down upon him like the heat from a blast furnace, scorching him. He denied the scream attempting to well up in his vocorder, marveling in his own determination and strength, and steadfastly refused to bend.

There passed a timeless interval in which his will battled that of the Power. The surrounding fires lashed him, the sensation altering from a pleasant tingle to an agonizing whip. Unable to fight back, he nonetheless refused to submit.

Cybertron for souls!! He roared at the Power, even as the flames threatened to consume him.

The Power pulsed and swirled restlessly, angrily. How dare this creation that it had caused to be defy it? It had become used to the ease in which Alpha Trion was manipulated and this new stubborn spirit was proving incredibly difficult to subdue. The more it lashed at its new host, the more it became obvious that this one’s spirit was strong, too strong to merely control. Reluctantly, the alien intelligence compared it to the last such host it had inhabited.

One of the flames licking hungrily at the form of the new host was larger than most of the others, and attacked with a ferocity that needed little encouragement from the Matrix’s anger. The burning and tormented soul of Sentinel Prime lay within, a silent snarl coming from the blue-tinted shadowy form.

The intelligence within the Matrix considered, the Force contracting and expanding slightly in thoughtful waves. Sentinel Prime had been difficult to control, but had offered up many souls to feed the fires. Alpha Trion had been ridiculously easy to dominate, yet had barely managed to wrest any sparks to stoke the flames inhabiting the Matrix’s core.

With a reluctance slowly sliding to anticipation, the Force caused the attacks to cease, and with the reluctant snarl of a predator acknowledging its equal, accepted the bargain and sealed it with surges of dark music.

For the new host, the agony slowly ceased. His will had remained unbroken despite the intensity of the ordeal. And, he sensed, the Force had decided to agree to his terms.

We will conquer together, you and I, he managed to laugh darkly, ignoring the residues of pain that remained from his ordeal, instinctively showing no weakness. Agreement radiated from the Force, and music came between them, and bound them together in that deep and fiery place in a pact as solemn and ephemeral as the stars.

There was one flame yet, the large one, that prickled at him and swiped at his chest in impotent anger. Annoyed, he lashed out -

Up.

Out.

Vertigo.

The sound of something hitting a wall and crumpling to the floor oriented him. He lay on his back on a broad worktable of some kind, staring at a dimly lit rusty ceiling. Smoothly, he sat up and vaulted himself off the table, scattering tools that clanged as they hit the floor.

His birthplace was an ignoble place, filled with junk and cast-off parts. The walls and ceiling were formed of ill-fitting plates of rusty metal, and lit by sullenly glowing lights that barely illuminated the filthy room. He almost was forced to duck his head to avoid hitting the cramped ceiling.

The robot he had hit lay in a denervated heap on the floor, surrounded by cast off cube-shells and lying in a stain of fluids. Contemptuously, he nudged the dented pale red and lavender form with a foot, distracted in that his movements were easier, more graceful, more powerful than he had ever imagined they could be.

Black music sprang up and into his mind. Give him to me, the Matrix whispered hungrily.

“You want . . . that?” the Mech asked with a measure of disgust. His voice was deeper now too, he noticed, deciding he very much liked the change. With a shrug, he started to open his chest panels, instinctively knowing what he must do, then paused as yet another new thought occurred to him.

The old Autobot before him, crazed and hideously dented and stained and all, had somehow been the hands behind his transformation. The Mech curled a hand into a fist, marveling in the strength that lay there, and re-closed his panels. Matrix-song instantly grumbled a complaint at him, snarling at being denied.

“Patience,” he replied. “This one . . . could yet be useful to me.” Plans were spinning in his mind, possibilities whirling at incredible speeds. What if the process used to transform his own body could be applied to others? He would have to have followers, he knew, a force upon which he could build an army.

Frowning in thought, he turned from the fallen Autobot on the floor, satisfied that he had not killed the wretched Mech. A narrow winding corridor led from the squalid room, and he took it, anxious to experience his new reality in better surroundings.

He reached the end of the cramped tunnel that led to the outside world, and flung aside the grating he found there with a casual swing of his arm. He emerged facing the river, the sun setting in glory behind him and the second moon rising in its fullness above the flowing water. In the distance, he saw the back of the dock Guardian’s head as it remained dully unaware of all that had transpired beneath its watch.

The massive robot took a few confident steps out onto the path, then turned his back on the river to gaze at the sunset. The dying light touched upon the spires of his deep blue helm, kindled the crimson of his upper armour, and picked out the golden Autobot symbols proudly resting on either shoulder.

Sapphire optics blazed above a battlemask that concealed its owner’s expressions from the world. Everything was completely clear to him now. His mind moved with a speed he had never imagined possible, already planning out his first strategies to recruit the first members of what would become the greatest army ever seen on Cybertron. Images of conquest and glory - and for a moment, memories of desire - flashed through his mind, and the Matrix hummed in dark harmony to his thoughts.

Orion Pax was forever gone, leaving behind only memories. Something else had arisen in his place, a conqueror of strength and speed and cunning. A new name pulsed through his fuel lines now, a name that would quickly become known across his world.

Optimus Prime considered the sunset for a moment more, and the thought came to him that this was the last sunset that Decepticons would ever have in peace. The thought pleased him, and his dark chuckle rumbled forth to be carried along the twilight winds, leaving a chill in its wake.

He had been left alive, a wretched, broken thing. Everything had been taken from him. He was empty. He was… Empty. He wrapped his arms about himself, hunched over on the ground until he finally found his voice. A pitiful whisper was all he could muster as he rocked himself back and forth, back and forth.

“. . . my Jewel. . . .”