Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…

Warnings: Unbated. Discrimination against a minority, mentions of detailed deaths, disturbing images and dark themes. Angsty. Slash.

AN: This is a story that is in my 'Oneshots, Kinks, and Ideas' (OKI) story and due to the reviews of some of it's readers I've decided to start up it's own, individual sector since I've found myself writing on it more and more. Please enjoy, and if you've already read this in OKI, I hope still find some pleasure in reading through the first chapters a second time. (Edited…)

Mahikashi

-Prologue-

In the Golden Age of Cybertron, before the civil war that would split the race in two and destroy their planet, peace reined and prosperity came to those born to its right. For a time all seemed right in the optics of the people. The masses were fed their daily energon and the fractured corners of their world were covered in a veil of shadow. Their optics looked to the light of their rising cities and the practiced smiles of their leaders.

The dockworker unloaded the cargo of his employer and returned to his family with his hard earned credits, the employer sold his cargo to the businesses of the growing cities and returned to his own with his subspace lined, the businesses sold their wares to the citizens who would then give praise to their leaders for their wealth, and the leaders would look upon the people and smile for they knew they need not touch the hands of the many to be their masters.

On and on the lives of the masses went, consuming all that would be brought before them as their five-ringed masters drunk from the golden goblet of power, brimming with the endless roar of cheers and cries of the people. But as with any who would greedily feast upon its bounties and drink from the well of privilege, sloth, indulgence, and power drunkenness seeped into the very core of cybertronian culture. In time they wanted more than they were given, when there was so little left to be had.

The great cities, swollen and humming with unease, began to become aflame as scores of its mobbing citizens took to the streets demanding more than what they had. The masters, hidden within their towers and engorged from the feasts they had for so long privileged those born to the right, had nothing to give when they themselves had yet to have their fill. They too, wanted more then their planet could offer.

The masses were many, the masters few, and in the many vorns to follow those born to privilege would look upon the many with fear and repulsion for their hostile ways and those born to the masses would looked upon the few with fear and anger for the power they held. The gap between people and masters widened and the voices became lost to the vast abyss that lay before them. They could only see into the lives of the other, for all sound beyond their barrier was quiet to them. Rebellion was brewing.

A dieing planet, a starving people, and leaders who could no longer speak the language of the masses; all could feel it in the air, the stillness and the tension. Time was slipping by and the gap was growing wider. The leaders had nothing to give that they had not already taken and the masses had nothing to take then what was not already gone. Tensions had to be settled, the gap had to be bridged before the entirety of the race split in two under the weight of a corrupted world, corroded from the vary foundations that formed it.

Then, when uprising seemed all but inevitable, a…solution was found.

Primus was bestowing punishment, the priests of the high temples would call out to the masses. They spoke of the Allspark being tainted by the insidious acts of the few who had turned their backs on the very One who'd created them and then callously sought to claim entitlement to His wondrous works by bringing forth tainted life into their cities, their world. They spoke of the few not as children of Primus, but as the bringers of Unicron; children of the Unmaker who sought to destroy their peace and spread chaos and war throughout the whole of Cybertron. And as the masses were ought to do in times of great distress, they believed.

In the name of Primus, of Cybertron, of all cybertronians, the few were slaughtered, their hands bound and spark chambers ripped open for the scrutiny of the priests and masses before they were tossed to the pits, returned to the very depths of fiery oblivion the priests had so feverishly spoken of. And the masses would cheer as the metal would peel from the very bodies of their captives, the roar of the many blocking out the anguished cries and screams of the few as the many drunk their energon and praised their leaders for their guidance, as it was meant to be.

In the name of Primus, of Cybertron, of all cybertronians, the creations of the few were ripped from the very spark chambers of their creators and forced into a frame of metal forged from the remnants of the few long since thrown to the pits, coverless, to reveal their tainted spark to all. Then the young life would be cleansed, baptized in great barrels of acid that slowly corroded their frames to nothing as their sparks dissolved. Their wails of pain and panic, confusion and fear, would pull a mighty cheer from the gathered masses as the priests would pull the young one back under the cleansing acids to complete the purification again and again. And when the decontamination was complete the empty, mutilated shells of the newborns would be placed at the temple steps to appease their great Primus, as testament that their tainted sparks would never make it to the Allspark.

For vorns the masses hunted the few in hopes of appeasing their Primus, in hopes of reviving their slowly dieing planet with the spilt energon of the tainted. Even a whisper as to the identity of one of the hunted was enough to rally the masses into frenzy, sending the planet into a time of darkness where brother turned against brother and suspicion was in the sparks of all. Many were accused of association with the few and many more were killed in the name of peace. There were few who did not agree with the mass's idea of tainted sparks destroying their world, but there were fewer still who spoke out against it and fewer still that did survive.

The few: those who were capable of creating life, or as the priests had proclaimed, a perversion of life, from within their very spark chambers. To give new life that was not of the Allspark, as the priests would say, was a sick distortion of the natural order.

The few were given a name, one that would follow them far into the future, even as the masses fell into a civil war that would forever destroy their home planet despite their leader's efforts to prevent it. Tainted Ones, Bringers of Unicron, Infection, Children of Discord, The Plague, all titles labeled upon them since the beginning of the Hunts, but ironically, it would be the very name they'd given themselves that would forever remain in the minds of those who'd lived long enough to remember the days of the Hunts. They were called Mahikashi: The Damned.

From deep within the confines of an uncharted ship, lost within the vastness of the farthest reaches of the universe, smoothly floating through the infinite void of space, a voice rose, ringing through the hollow belly of the ship, echoing into the silence.

"We are not of the people, for they will not have us! We are not children of Primus, for He will not have us either! We are known to them as the Infection of Cybertron, Bringers of Unicron himself, Children of Chaos, A Virus, filthy, unworthy, tainted; we are the means by which they have kept their peace, and now that the spilling of our energon can not longer keep that peace, we are forgotten and tossed aside."

A quiet keen of anguish was heard in the silence of the ship's hull, followed by an uproar of indignant cries from the bots gathered together in their small vessel.

The speaker raised a single hand, and all was quiet again. "Yes. We have been tossed aside, used ruthlessly so that those with power may keep it, and those without power may obtain it for what little time they could. But why should this bother us? Is it not the first time we have been used, abused, killed, and tossed aside when they deem we have served our purpose?" Deliberate pause. "They are not of us, and we are not of them. They are cybertronians, children of Primus, and we…we are Mahikashi! He is not our God, for we are not of him, but as we always have, we will survive! We are Mahikashi!"

A roar of approval flooded the ship, echoed off every wall and crowded every corner. The endless cheers made deaf the audio receptors of those in the hull, but still they cheered louder as the joy overtook them. The war had begun, and with it they could look to a future where they would be able to live out their lives in peace, forever forgotten by the very people they had once, very long ago, called their own.

Tossed aside after their spilt Energon could no longer appease the cybertronian God, forgotten as the war consumed the planet, they'd escaped into the farthest reaches of space, away from the fighting. Now they were free, out of reach of the very people who had sough to annihilated them for so long: they, the Mahikashi.

However, they were not as forgotten as they believed.

AN: For those who've been reading this story in OKI and have chosen to also write about the same material, please do not hesitate to write and post them up. I see as a sharing center for ideas and lolz, so as long as it is not a 'cut and paste' duplicate of my own; I encourage others to explore any ideas I may bring into the fandom as they will. Good luck!

Please review…