Chapter Text
The protests died down after a few cycles. It was said an iron fist descended upon Kaon. Most Decepticons were quickly deterred from any more open rebellion after the threat of shortened rations, even if no law was enacted. You remember the conversations in the recharge vault. What power these bots had that words could crush a movement, you thought.
“I can barely keep this engine running as it is!” One of the berth attendants said. You pitied bots like him. He was well overdue for a deep clean and recalibration of his joints. His frame looked antique and you knew he would likely not be able to keep up with any more software updates; it would likely overwhelm his processor. You hoped that when you got that outdated someone would take care of you until you rejoined the Allspark.
He continued. “Protesting ain’t worth a thing if bots don’t open their audial receptors, and the senate has always been deaf to the pleas of ‘cons.”
The senate had gotten what they wanted. There was no one that could stand up to them. Each systematic law ensured that. The first bit of legislation required Decepticons, regardless of station, to be in their private residences a couple groons before the end of the solar cycle. You could only attend certain events, refuel at places, and exist in certain places. The second, allowed unwanted search and seizure of any ‘con any time. Just today you had seen a ‘con combed through on the street when you had passed the market. But the statute that particularly affected you was that ‘cons were now obligated to have “frequent and thorough” reports with a “trusted state official” to ensure there was no funny business. You were lucky that Switchtop had reserved most that served his household, and that he had never raised a servo to you. But you knew what this meant for those that didn’t.
You stood attentively by Senator Switchtop's side as the sleek transport hummed along the metallic pathways of the city, moving deeper into the center. You had been in this vehicle for sometime now, since early in the solar cycle. Switchtop woke you and gave you simple orders to get dressed. Today was a day that many Cybertronians anticipated with both excitement and horror. Kaon was finally opening up The Pits for the season–a brutal, steel-walled area where bots and ‘cons alike fight for the right out of their caste–Autobot and Decepticon alike. No one had ever made it out. Like a Cyber-Scraplet trap, the Pits lured all with the scent of sweet energon-nectar, only to close on those too stupid to saunter inside. Those great metal walls weren’t designed to let anybot out. That’s what made them so cruel, you thought.
However, it was historically cruel to your kind. The Pits, like much of Cybertron, were stained with the split energon of your people. It was the Decepitcons, afterall, that had built the great cities. It was their torn frames that had lifted the ancient Autobot Lords into their golden thrones. Nearly every great building had. Autobots and their affections for their ridiculous buildings, you thought.
The Decepticons had never been taken to stay stationary. No, your people were once voyagers, a nomadic race that traveled the stars not out of necessity, but out of a profound desire to learn. They were people of community. They had no money, no property, no aristocracy; Primus, they didn’t even have a word for thief. It was a unique Autobot concept. The closest thing that you could remember was something along the lines of greedy; someone that hides what they have or know. Furthermore, it was the belief of your ancestors that the only way to understand Primus, the creator within their planet, they must understand all that was not him. So, they traveled, recorded, and restored all that they could in their journeys off world. They made the primitive forms of the groundbridge and the fastest ships to carry the lot of their commune. The stories passed down through the generations tell of the times when your ancestors made countless trips around neighboring planets, returning only to the seasonal places of rest on your home planet. It was a cycle as natural as the rising of the sun, a dance between the stars and the soil, and your people thrived within it.
But the Autobots, your ancestor’s neighbors, never understood this deep-seated wanderlust. Their lives were rooted in permanence, in structures that stood for eons, in homes that never moved. You had never truly versed yourself in the beliefs of the ancient Autobots but you also doubted that they had changed with their endearment of constancy. From what you had gathered from the scarce visits you had made with your master, Autobots believed that leaving Cybertron was like denouncing Primus. Wonder how that might cause problems, you thought sarcastically to yourself. So, the Autobots traveled the surface of their planet, bound to the ground, while your people took to the skies, their sparks and processors open to the endless possibilities of the universe. For a time, there was peace between your groups, a mutual respect for the differences that defined you. There were even mixed communities where Autobots and Decepticons lived side by side, sharing what little they could from what you could recall from the elders in the household. Now your kind were not given the luxury of written records; everything transferred orally or manual code exchanges.
Yet, as the Autobots' ambitions grew, so did their desire for control. Their need for more resources, more energy, more power led them to see your people not as equals, but as tools. The Lords of the Autobots, with their towering architectural projects and unyielding desire to expand, realized that the Decepticons could be exploited. They began to kidnap your people, forcing them into the harshest, most grueling energon mines. To justify their cruelty, they spread lies, painting the Decepticons as savages, as beings unworthy of freedom or dignity.
You think of the stories your elders told, of how your people once had a different name, a name now lost to history, buried along with the countless lives that toiled beneath the surface. The Decepticons were forced underground, stripped of their connection to the stars, to the freedom they cherished above all else. The skies that once sang with the joy of your people's flight became nothing more than a distant memory, a symbol of a life that could never be reclaimed.Flight is more than just a mode of travel for your kind; it is a symbol of freedom, a connection to the stars that once guided your ancestors through the vast expanses of the cosmos. You can feel the echoes of those ancient journeys in your circuits, a deep-seated urge to explore, to roam, to never be tethered to a single place. It was something you’d never be able to act upon.
Your optics take a glance at the growing light from the horizon. The peaking sun causes your inner visual raptors to contract. The landscape is a dazzling array of towering structures, gleaming under the Cybertronian sun. Oh, how pretty this planet would be if you were the only one on it. A gentle cough from your master interrupts your thoughts. As always, you maintain a respectful silence, your servos and sensors tuned to the needs of your master.
“Have you ever been to The Pits?” he asked, gentle in tone. You shook your head. Kaon produced nothing–no energon, no raw materials, no cutting edge technology. Yet, it remained one of the most affluent city-states on Cybertron. Not because of the quality of their products, but for the quality of their entertainment. The Pits, gory and sunken, are what drew in not just bots from around the galaxy.
Your reply was slow. “No,” you said, “I’ve only heard about them.”
Switchtop nodded. He too gazed out at the city. “Then, no words I can utter will prepare you for today, ” He stated, coldly. “Yet, you still have duty; as I do.”
So, there must be something–or someone–important here, you thought. He needed your observational services. Your optics focused back on your master and you took him in. Senator Switchtop, a figure of imposing presence with his polished exoskeleton and intricate design, engrossed in reviewing data on a holographic display. No wonder he commanded so much attention. He himself looked like a gladiator despite never having seen any sort of combat. Despite the wear of time, there is a sharpness to his form that suggests he has been well-maintained. His face-plate, angular and stern, is framed by a pair of piercing optics that glow with a cold, calculating light. The optics, a vivid shade of cerulean, seem to dissect everything they fall upon, including you. He’s formidable in size, yet he isn’t towering. His helm is adorned with sharp, angular ridges, giving him an air of both elegance and intimidation. The lines of his design are sleek, tapering to a refined edge, yet there is a palpable sense of menace in the way his features are set. Switchtop always, as long as you had known him, favored a deep garnet red for his main plating. His accents were much more a vibrant orange and timid sliver. He wore a flowing cloak of pristine white fabric that moves with a fluid grace, though it does little to hide the strength of his form. His demeanor, though polished and controlled, gives off an aura of cold, detached authority. There’s a reason why he commands respect and fear in equal measure. It’s not merely his appearance, but the sense of dark, uncompromising ambition that clings to him like a second skin. His gaze, while seemingly calm, holds a calculating depth that makes you feel as though you are a mere pawn in a game you barely understand.
You can’t help but feel a shiver as you stand before him, aware of the weight of his presence and the dark shadows that seem to follow in his wake. There’s a sense that he’s not just observing but measuring, assessing, and that whatever decision he reaches will be made with an unyielding precision that brooks no dissent. You wondered how much longer you’d be at his side before he found better use for you.
You’re ripped from your thoughts as the transport suddenly lurches violently to one side. An explosion erupts with a deafening roar, and instantly, you feel the shockwave ripple through your frame. You attempt to stabilize yourself, your reflexes sharp, but not sharp enough. Your servos catch you as you are jerked forward onto the floor, proned. The senator lets out a rare exclamation of surprise. The intense heat and force of the blast corrodes your external plating, causing it to warp and buckle. The once smooth, polished surfaces of your plating now bear the jagged scars of the explosion and the metal twists painfully under the extreme conditions. The blast should have offlined you, you thought. The eruption seemed to have come from right underneath you. Yet, now, even with the raging fires around you, the heat died down in your plating. It would have been something you would have pondered if not for the dire situation you were in. Your servos strained against the impact, joints creaking and grinding as they struggle to maintain integrity. The force had knocked the air out of your vents and you could feel your cadulen had been torn to shreds from the scrap of the cap. The harmony of your internal operations was shattered, replaced by chaotic signals and frenzied attempts at self-repair. Critical systems flicker, momentarily disrupted by the blast, leaving you disoriented and struggling to regain control. Alarms blare throughout the cab. The sound is another layer of torment, an assault of high-decibel noise that reverberates through your auditory sensors, causing them to glitch and emit harsh feedback. The blinding flash of the explosion temporarily blinds your optical sensors, leaving your vision a fractured mosaic of static and bright, searing afterimages. Debris filled your intake forcing you to hack in response. You weakly lift your helm to the convulsive screen within the transport. It was running reports, assessing the damage. The cab sensors register the damage—a bomb has rocked the transport, and the once sleek machine now lies crippled on the road.
Before you can respond, a group of ‘cons emerged from the shadows, their movements precise and coordinated. It's clear they are well-organized, their actions deliberate.You almost wondered if they knew you were in the cab as well. Senator Switchtop was never alone so they must have known someone would be with him. They likely assumed they just happened to be an Autobot as well. How ironic that you’d die at the servos of your own. They surround the transport, and you can’t help but notice the insignias on their chassis—a stark, angular emblem resembling a stylized visor. It featured a sharply defined, symmetrical design with a prominent, pointed chin and narrow, slanted eyes that gave it a menacing, predatory look. However, this didn’t seem like a normal insignia, like those worn by the Autobot Elite Guard. This was welded into the very plates of these ‘cons. Who would do such a thing? You had never seen anything like it.
"What's happening?" Switchtop demands, his voice a mixture of anger and confusion. You forced yourself up, deliberately placing yourself in between these terrorists and your master. You weren’t sure what these ‘cons were capable of and you hoped you wouldn’t find out. If you were going to be honest with yourself, you weren’t sure if you could die for Switchtop. You weren’t sure if you could stand and watch either. You suspected it was both routine and fear that compelled you to his side. Complicated, you thought to yourself.
Your circuits hum with anxiety as you stand protectively in front of the senator. You scan the surroundings, looking for any means to defuse the situation, but the invaders are inaccessible. You expected that bots willing to brand themselves would be. This entire thing seemed well-prepared. From what you could see, they were armed. You thought those weapons seemed… rag-tag, but who are you to judge when they are about to be used on you. They had effectively disabled the transport and cut off any means of escape from within. One of these ‘cons moves forward, his voice firm.
“Step aside,” he commands. You, still quite disoriented, could muster up enough strength to shake your head from side to side. He moves again; this time with the intention of ensuring his will. His arm and weapon raised above your helm. His loss on the wasted energon, you recall in dry humor. Because from then you can’t remember a thing. You suppose the leaking of energon from your open wounds finally caught up to you.