They say that The Clampdown began with the Matrix of Leadership. They say it began with the greed of Cybertronian sparks. They are wrong.

We came to this world as explorers. We stayed as conquerors. All the while, the natives never suspected that we were the ones in control. They never assumed that our greed led to their downfall. For centuries, I have watched my family's plans come to fruition. I have diligently watched my father's work. I have opposed my ancestors' wishes, yet I am alone in that endeavor.

The Cybertronians have the right to be left alone. They have the right to know about our kind, and the right to choose for us to stay on their planet. This is not our planet. We have no right to control it.

Yet my people, my family, do not agree with my sentiments towards the natives. They say the natives are ignorant brutes, crude and primitive. My father spoke of the natives one day: "Their whole disgusting race is like a curse." They're only good when dead. Dirty, shrieking devils. Filthy little heathens. Vermin. Scum.

Savages.

My people, the Children of Eldran, were once explorers in ancient times. We moved from star system to star system; tracking the movements of the stars and mapping our way across the galaxy. We told stories of our ancient homeland and the brothers we left behind. We rested from time-to-time on random, suitable planets, but then each Queen of the Four Guardians would command The Exodus, and then our race was on the move again. However, when we came here, something went wrong. A Queen of the Four Guardians was never born, and—considered to be divine providence—we stayed. We grew hateful. We grew into warriors.

My ancestors arrived on this planet with high hopes for the future. Queen of the Four Guardians Hija passed away on the flight from Arcus 4 to Cybertron, so the Royal Family decreed we settle in Talus and make peace with the natives. Our first delegates made their way out to the nearest settlement and never returned.

That was when our outlook changed. The new settlers feared for our lives and rushed to hide ourselves away from Cybertronian eyes. We built the walls that still stand to this day. We cowered in fear as we saw Cybertronians shed the blood of their own. We had never known such terrors as violence and war. We reviled it. We hated it. We grew resentful of being captives in our own city. Too afraid to venture outside our walls, but without the power to leave the planet. Our superior technology was useless to us without our greatest power source. Then the Laws of Secrecy were written and enforced strictly to preserve ourselves. The resentment grew.

Stripped of our identity, our hatred turned to the Cybertronian race. Then my Grandfather of my Grandfather bore the fruit of a new idea: conquer our conquerors. We would turn their system on its head and use the inferior ones to power our escape. We would be free and get revenge on our captors all at once. He ventured out into the wider world disguised as an ordinary Cybertronian and manipulated and clawed his way to the side of Nova Prime.

"Why not," said he who was my Grandfather's Grandfather to the Prime, "why not build a society where all are equal by virtue of their alt-mode? Why fight for choice when the choice has already been made?"

It was so that Sovereign Gimangen sowed the seeds of functionism and sowed the seeds of Eldran control of Cybertron. A seed that has sprouted as time has passed with careful nurturing by my family. A seed that I am guilty exists at all. A tree that I want to burn but am powerless to stop my father. For now that he holds the power of the world in his hands, he loathes to let it go. And though I may be the one who could order Eldran to leave Cybertron when I am of age, I fear I may never live to see that day.

My name is Princess of the Four Guardians Amaithea, daughter of Sovereign Proteus and Neiji, direct descendant of the First Guardian, Raijin-Oh, next in line for the throne of Eldran. I leave this journal behind—written in Cybertronian tongue—so that if the worst befalls Cybertron, that you do not blame yourselves for what occurred.

Blame us.

Blame me.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Prowl."

"No Optimus! I won't accept this unverified document as evidence! I can't!" the back and white mech shook his head as if stung.

The massive stadium was packed to capacity with furious, bloodthirsty Autobots. Megatron, the great leader of the Decepticons, was finally caught and brought before a tribunal for crimes against the species. This was payback time, but all they could do for the moment was watch Ultra Magnus and Prowl hiss in hushed tones back and forth at one another before Optimus Prime's bench. The crowd was angry. It wanted blood.

"This document is hardly unverified," Ultra Magnus scoffed, "Perceptor and Nautica both verified its age. This document proves beyond reasonable doubt that my client is innocent."

"It proves nothing!" Prowl snarled, "We can't prove that this 'Amy-tea-.'"

"I believe it's pronounced 'Am-I-They-uh.'"

"Whatever. We can't prove this Amaithea," he derisively emphasized the name out of spite to throw the word back at Ultra Magnus, "ever existed. This whole document could be fabricated even if the document is as old as it claims!"

"But if the journal is-."

"Enough. I've heard enough," Optimus sighed, "I will allow the document into evidence unless you, Prowl, can prove it's a fake."

Prowl looked thunderous.

"The journal of Amaithea will be allowed into evidence," Prime announced for the watching crowd to hear.

Autobots in the stadium and watching via broadcast roared in anger. Decepticons that were pirating the broadcast cheered.

Prowl turned on his heel and stomped back to his podium to Optimus's right, growling to himself about 'getting a real historian'. Ultra Magnus shook his head sadly. He moved massive bulk back to his side of the arena. Megatron stood to the side of the podium and Ultra Magnus tried not to make eye contact with the red-eyed tyrant, but the other mech's eyes seemed to burn into his blue paint. Ultra Magnus willed himself not to shiver as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the hateful Megatron.

"Elita," Optimus called to the femme, "Please come here. I want you to read this aloud."

His conjunx endura stood and glided over to her husband. Her lithe, pink body made barely a sound in the now silent arena. The entire Cybertronian race waited with baited breath as Elita One took the journal into her outstretched hand.

Elita cleared her throat and brought both microphone and datapad closer to her face. Finally, she began.

"They say that The Clampdown began with the Matrix of Leadership. They say it began with the greed of Cybertronian sparks. They are wrong."