Stage 6: Children of Light

"And you say this is a good thing?" Megatron expostulated. He pointed up at the bundles of piping hanging from the ceiling. "Those are my mechs, Sixshot, not yours; and you would do well to remember that."

Optimus smiled to hear Megatron claiming Autobots and Decepticons equally. But he put a restraining hand on his bond-brother's arm. "Hear him out," he suggested. "We don't want to do them more harm by charging in without full information." He turned to Sixshot. "Speak quickly, however. Those are my mechs, too. And I will climb the walls to free them if I must."

Sixshot sat on the floor of the high cavern, no less at ease than if he had been settling down for an oil bath. As the strange light of that place flickered down like drops of water on his armor, he began at the beginning.

"Before time began, there was The One."

"Light and darkness, life and death, creation and destruction. We slagging know the story, Sixshot." Astrotrain paced, caught between his insane Commanders and the creepy wall.

"Conflict arose within him," the six-changer went on, unfazed. "One became Two: Primus the great Creator, and his opposite: a Destroyer who sought to unite all things in dissolution.

"Wasn't reunion the whole point of this Smelter-slagged scheme? Our Glorious Commanders found so much slagging ecstasy in their most-holy bond that they thought they ought to force the gods to try it too?" Astrotrain snorted. "Much good it did us."

"Yes," agreed Sixshot. "It has done us more good than we knew. It has set us free from our immortality. It has returned the gift of death, if we have courage to accept it."

"You know-" Astrotrain was livid now, his hands working in and out of fists. He was long past any lingering fear of the mighty Phase Sixer. "I somehow don't think Dirge would agree with this shiny new philosophy of yours. I saw him, Sixy: all splayed out on the overload table, with Starscream's damned 'Happy Juice' still pumping into his limp corpse. His was not a pretty death. It was not a good death. And nothing you can say will convince me that something like that is a gift."

With the deceptive speed of those who seldom feel the need to run, Megatron made his way to the side of his Lieutenant.

"Slag off, Great Leader," Astrotrain warned.

But Megatron stilled him with a firm hand on his shoulder. (Astrotrain's armor was quivering with tension.) "It's all right to be angry," he said. "I felt just as you do, at first." He gestured to Sixshot. "Continue."

The soft colors of the tall six-changer's plating caught and reflected the flickering light in the chamber, until he appeared almost intangible as he leant against the lambent, shifting walls. "Primus could grant life," he said. "But without the influence of Unicron, any life he created would go on living forever. Or as near to it as makes no difference. Not even several million years of civil war have managed to annihilate our species." Sixshot looked across the wide room to Astrotrain, and for the first time the transcendent peace that was so unexpected on his features drained away. "Can you honestly say that you've never felt your endless life to be a burden? Because if you can, Astrotrain, then I envy you."

The triple changer met Sixshot's gaze as bravely as he could. But slowly, the light in his optics dimmed. Eventually, he looked away. He shrugged free from Megatron, and slipped off into a corner.

Sixshot exhaled a long, tired sigh. He ran a finger along a pipeline in the floor beside him. "White energon," he explained to the three Commanders. "More refined than anything we've ever tasted. But these-" he pointed to the darting lights within the clear bright liquid, "These are the Gift of Primacron. To take them into your systems is to accept that one day, you will die. But it is also... much more..." Sixshot faltered. "I cannot describe it. But it was..." he paused, then looked up to meet Megatron's optics. "I am free now. I am-" his voice broke, "...forgiven."

Astrotrain gave a sudden yelp, and jumped back to his feet. The coiled bundles far above were moving. Optimus and Megatron raised their weapons. Elita stood taut, hands splayed and spark flared to sense the mood of the room itself.

Without any fuss or fanfare, the captives were lowered as gently as Ratchet would have laid a wounded bot upon a slab. Translucent pipelines uncoupled from the ten mechs' spark-cores; then with sentient precision, re-closed their armor. Some of the bots sat slumped upon the floor, some lay as if asleep, some swayed on stumbling feet; but gradually and with some false starts, all booted up to full power. They were dazed. They were dizzy. Perceptor, for once, was silent. But so far, these were the only side-effects from their direct core-interface with a living planet.

It was Sixshot who acted first. He stooped to look into the optics of each bot. Some quailed at the sudden nearness of a feared Decepticon; but Hound, Jetfire, and (to everyone's surprise) Mixmaster met his gaze with quiet directness. "What?" the Constructicon demanded of Megatron's raised eyebrow. "It was something I'd never tried before!" But there was no denying that the once-fey scientist had partaken of the Gift of the gods; for some - a very little - of his usual reckless love-affair with danger had been eased.

Jetfire made his unassuming way to Optimus. "I'd like to report a completed mission, Sir."

"Well done," said Prime. What more was there to say?

The taller white Autobot laid a hand on Prime's shoulder. "Sixshot and I will get the others to the fleet. We have been shown the way. But now it is your turn. Primacron wishes you to report. This is what I was requested to tell you."

Optimus blinked. But then he nodded.

Megatron stooped beside his blunted Lieutenant. "You've done your duty, Astrotrain. You may return to the fleet with the others, if you wish."

"Won't you need me to get your favorite dead-weight Autobots back to the Command ship?" Astrotrain tried for bite, but managed only a mumble.

Megatron exchanged a quick glance with Prime and Elita. "I don't think we're going back," he said. He straightened, and a great weight slipped from his shoulders. "I think our long exile is over."

Astrotrain gave his Commander a disbelieving glance. But he did not stop to wonder further. He did not turn back as he stepped into the opening of Sixshot's cargo-hold.

The ships were buzzing with excitement. A sense of anticipation absent since before the Cataclysm was threading its fiery fingers into the crusted sparks of even the most distrustful bots. They did not understand what had happened or why. Some were afraid. Some thought it must all be some new sick joke. But they had all seen the reformatting of their homeworld through the cloudy porthole glass; and they had heard the call - a message from Optimus Prime in a tone of confidence they had never thought to hear from him again: Come home.

"Of course," said Shockwave, as he waved his non-gun-hand for calm, "The Prime does not mean we should all simply plummet helter-skelter down to the surface. Plans must be made. Precautions taken. Weapons armed in case there is some... unforeseen development. But yes, we will go down. With caution."

Prowl agreed. While Shockwave deployed the Seeker Air Corps and the Arialbots to once again map out the new-made planet and to look for likely landing sites, Prowl sent Jazz, Mirage, and Bumblebee with teams of three to test out its surface and make sure the place was transformer-friendly. Each captain in the fleet was ordered to have his ship's cargo ordered and ready for deployment. All of Cybertron's refugees were sent to quarters and told make ready, which in Prowl's lexicon meant priming all guns for battle, just in case.

Optimus, the erstwhile Prime, took something out of his subspace and sat down on the undulating floor to look at it. It was a piece of charred metal: vaguely oval-shaped, with four holes at each end which fingers might thread through. Broken flanges in the center had once held something precious. Now it was empty. Optimus scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked up at the shining globe hanging so far above him, and he sighed.

"Need a lift?" Megatron had come silently up to his bond-brother, and stood there, looking down at him.

Optimus paused, then shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, old man," he said. "But I think I'll climb." He started off, then turned back and fell against the big Decepticon in a quick, desperate hug.

Megatron patted his back a couple times. "Good luck," he said lamely.

Optimus wrenched away, and moved to stand beside Elita. She was running her hand lightly over the luminescent wall. Light shone faintly green through the ducting material. It reflected oddly on her face. She smiled up at him then - a sad, strange smile. "It will be all right," she said.

He grabbed her up and pulled her close - as close as two life-bonded sparks. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him tight. Their souls reached for one another; and for half a klik their frames hummed with an energy so strong it had defied time, war, distance, and disappointment. "It will be all right, Orion," she repeated. She disentangled herself from him. "Go."

Optimus Prime hooked one handle of the Matrix casing on his thumb, reached up to clasp the strongest-looking pipeline he could get a good grip on, and climbed hand-over-hand up, up, up, and out across the curving ceiling. He looked for all the world like a boarding space-pirate.

The white globe hung before him, neither beckoning nor hostile. It's just a really bright light, some heathen voice within him whispered. Or perhaps some strange chemical that caused hallucinations. Or a parasitic invader which fed off the sparks of Cybertronians. It was nothing; he should leave it. No one was so foolish as to plug an unknown substance into their own core! Their planet was restored to them; why should he risk self-inflicted pollution? (Why should he have to face the Source like some newling bot caught in disobedience?) He pushed that last thought aside. He was afraid.

His shoulder and wrist joints had not been constructed to bear up his entire weight. He told himself he'd hang here like an idiot until the first alarm from his internals. Then he'd retreat to the floor and have done with it.

A little to his left, two thick translucent lines looped down. Optimus supposed it was up to him whether they were predatory coils, or the world's most comfortable hammock. The servos in his shoulders whined. "All right," he said. He settled into the sling, one loop under his knees, one under his arms and back. "Here I am."

Cocooned in luminosity, plugged into a planet, Optimus braced himself to be stripped bare beneath the uncompromising bulb of a single great Eye. He was not looking forward to the rebuke he deserved for his recent fall into melancholia. Yet there was no hint of reproach or of praise. All his actions and reactions, failures and successes, all were all simply known and accepted - and in some cases, categorized in ways which surprised his archivist's sensibilities. His first triumph at Hydrax classed as prideful destruction? His retreat at Tarn an act of mercy? Confused and just a little scared, he surrendered to a power greater than himself, closed his mouth around the proffered tiny, living light, and waited for his headframe to explode.

But there was no explosion. Instead, a gentleness he'd never even felt within Elita's arms enfolded him, accepted him, and even - his intakes choked up in surprised emotion - honored him with unexpected (and in his opinion, undeserved) gratitude. Orion Pax, the Autobot who had become Optimus Prime, was washed clean in a baptism of fire and light and love. The deluge of uncorrupted programming coursed through him, loosing old viruses within his code, defragging the bits of resentment he still carried, realigning thought-patterns too crusted-up with age that he no longer noticed just how crooked they'd become.

What do you want most, child?

Optimus blinked. "Wait- what?" He felt stupid. He might as well have grunted like some half-grammed voiceless thug before the god-spark.

Take your time in answering, the voice encouraged. Warmth flowed into him through the connection in his chest.

"I want..." He scrolled through the endless litany of all his battles, all the bots he'd killed (he tried not to forget a single one, but there were so very many), all the times he'd destroyed something precious to prevent it from becoming Megatron's newest plaything...

He shook his head. He'd never wanted any of those things.

"I want..." Optimus wanted to be a mech who built things up instead of tearing them down; a mech who strengthened those around him, rather than running them through with an energon axe. He wanted (Primus, how he wanted!) to heal rather than to make new wounds. He wished the Matrix hadn't died, that he could spread its wisdom out across this new Cybertron and its inhabitants, could somehow heal all the oldest hurts and help the mechs he led emerge from the long darkness. In spite of everything he had done in the long war, he'd always loved these bots - blabbermouths, psychopaths, and all. He wished he could somehow transmute that love into something that made a difference in the real world.

Granted, said the voice.

"What?" Optimus repeated. "I'm sorry - I don't understand."

Receive your matrix, said the voice. And something terribly familiar was placed into the empty space inside his open chest.

Prime knew it as he knew the weight of his weapon, the cadence of his transformation, the rumble of his tires on smooth roadway. The broken casing he had brought up here was filled - and now he felt its new light coursing outward from his center to the very tips of his fingers, the spines of his helm, the soles of his boots. Some indescribable magnetic energy shot out from his body, out to all the lonely, scared, uncertain sparks of all the mechs and femmes whom Prime had long ago promised to love and lead. He felt as if he were stretched impossibly thin across the sky, a hundred-thousand toes and fingers touching every one of Cybertron's children. He saw and knew each one of them, and his spark swelled with the love he felt for them all.

And then the straining, gasping light snapped back into his spark.

And Optimus Prime knew who he was, and all he could do.

He stumbled, finding himself once again upon the floor, and met the steadying blue optics of his bondmate. She put out a hand to touch him.

And she smiled.

Not one to ever let Optimus Prime outshine him for more than a nanosecond, Megatron steeled himself and climbed up the wall, determined to beat his bond-brother's time. He was doing his best not to think about what might await him at the top. And he was not sure he would accept the Gift, if such it was, with the alacrity that Optimus had shown.

What do you want, child of light and of darkness? asked the voice.

"You know, you've asked me that before," said Megatron. "Or is your memory not as omniscient as it once was?"

The great voice laughed. You amuse us, small one.

Into his spark, there came an echo of words Megatron had said once, long ago: "I don't want to be a murderer anymore. I'll be a soldier. I'll be an enforcer. Slag, I'll even be an executioner. But I don't want to be a murderer ever again."

We remember, said the voice. But is this your only desire? The Megatron we know would never stop at wanting only one thing.

Something out of the ancient universe was laughing at him; Megatron was sure of it. "I want to be a good leader," he whispered in his silent heart. Then, lest he be thought cowardly, he shouted, "I want to be a good leader! You know, the kind of leader I would want to follow. I want..." his voice sank. "I want to be more like Optimus... on his good days..." He threw in that last aside in a vain attempt to recover some shreds of his dignity. But there was no possibility of anything but plain truth here, not with a light-filled conduit tapped into his spark-core.

That is a good desire, said the voice.

"Slag off," said Megatron. "I know it is."

Receive it then, said the voice gently. Receive your matrix, Megatron (he could feel Primacron smiling in the faint pause): a 'matrix of leadership,' if you will.

Megatron held out his hands, trying to control his eagerness. Something was placed onto his palms.

It was a pretty little thing: silver, a delicate S-curve that tapered to points from a crystal enclosed at the center by a filigree of rare metal. Megatron thought at first that it might be some new kind of throwing weapon. But the weight of it, the feel of its texture, and above all the almost-unheard hum coming from the crystal inside was like the barest taste of all the things he'd ever tried to do and be but failed - a lifeline to the vision of himself on a lightening-lit cliff, standing over all of Cybertron and watching as it prospered under his wise guidance. Megatron wanted that matrix. But it was dark.

It won't be fully functional until you are upgraded, the voice told him gently. As his fingers closed intently around the small silver artifact, something flickered in his other hand, and drew his attention.

A little globule of light that wriggled like a happy fish was nestled in the hollow of his palm. He stared at it.

Megatron knew what he was being offered. Life and death and all he'd ever wanted all-in-one.

"You slaggers," he whispered. But he opened his mouth, and popped the bright thing in.

New strength coursed through him, and new patience, too. And where he had always kept a sense of worthlessness hidden behind the barbed-wire of his spark, there flamed instead a feeling of great joy in all he had accomplished, and in all he could still do. The fingers of his empty hand curled to a fist - not of anger, but of determination. And although he could not see it, the gilt glints upon his crest shone with an inner fire.

The stone in the curved thing he'd been given flared to life.

After a eleven million years or so of living, not even a conversation with the gods could throw Optimus Prime or Megatron much off their stride. But core-deep reprogramming was still a big deal. Standing so closely together they were damaging their paint, they spoke over one another in hushed whispers:

"Did you get-?"

"Yes." Optimus touched his chest in awe. "And...you?"

Megatron held out the beautiful thing he'd been given.

Elita asked him with a glance; then loosed one hand from around Optimus's side, and reached out a cautious hand to touch it.

She gave a long, aching sigh. "My turn?"

"If you wish, dear one," replied Prime, pulling her close.

"Wait for me."

"As if we'd find anywhere else to go!" Optimus cupped a hand against her cheekplate. "Good luck, Ari. I love you."

"I know," she replied, with that particular half-smile that was her own and no one else's. Hand-over-hand, Elita climbed.

Thank you for coming, daughter.

"Of course," said Elita.

And we are glad you have accepted our gift.

Elita smiled a little. "It is a relief. I never wanted to live forever." Light had exploded through her systems when she'd taken the bright thing into her mouth. But it had cleared out all the dark and hidden corners in her spark, and Elita-One felt new, unbowed, unbroken.

You have borne your trials with patience, even in the absence of so many of your sisters. We are sorry they were taken from you.

"They weren't all killed." Elita shrugged. "A great many of the early femmes left - some before I even knew their names. Some survived, I hope." She sighed, dropping the pretense. "But yes. It has been hard being one of the few femmes who came through the Great War. I feel like a creature in a zoo, the way the mechs look at me nowadays."

Do you wish there were more like you?

"Yes and no," Elita said. "I mean, the newlings are nice and all, but they are so unlike myself and my little band of survivors. They've never seen the War. They know nothing of life. They're more like children than like sisters. I wish..." She paused.

Yes?

"I just wish that I could have gotten to know Strika and the others better. Before they left us."

You may yet have that chance, daughter.

Elita hesitated. "You mean, in the after-spark?"

The voice laughed. Possibly much sooner. We shall see.

Elita was flabbergasted. Were they still alive? Might some of them return? And how-? She stifled her questions, and pondered possibilities in her spark.

"I will need-"

Yes, daugher?

Elita felt her way forward. "I will need an extra measure of wisdom in order to guide the femmes in this new world, er... Primacron."

Granted, the voice declared. And she could hear the smile in it. Elita held out her hands. A tiny golden key fell into them. And as it touched her palms, she felt its power flow like electricity down through her body, into the metal of this new planet, and up out into the distant stars. Elita-One was grounded.

A new world takes time getting used to. There were mountains where the Rust Sea had once been; a featureless plain where Iacon had stood; a vast silver lake of mercury split the Altihex province almost in two. Roadmaps were useless; none of the old highways still remained. But (thanks mostly to Ratchet) no one perished from missing an unexpected curve as they sped too-heedlessly along sparkling spans of virgin roadway lifted up out of the living planet. Slowly, bots grew used to finding New Kaon in the Helex Quadrant, and Pax Cybertronia on the plateau just the other side of the (new) Sonic Canyons. After a while, they grew tired of adding the prefix "New" to everything, and just built up cities and explored terrain without reference to the things of old. It felt good, some said, to slough off the crusted old life; though each bot tried to recreate in this new world their best memories from the old version. Macaddam's Old Oil House (not one bot suggested they rename it "New") was one of the first buildings constructed.

The heart of the planet was the Audience Chamber - where any bot who wished might come and commune with the Source that had formed them. Some came back changed in processor and core: receivers of the Gift of Primacron, they went about their lives with new intent, knowing their time was limited. Others returned without tasting the white fire; but all visitors to the Source were better for it. Freer.

New Kaon was home to the Great Forge, where bots of all factions could come together in the most solemn of creative efforts. In several quartex of hard, careful labors, they could construct the body of a newling Cybertronian.

This form the creators would then transport down through tunnel-shafts to the Creation Matrix: an orb of white light housed in a round room not unlike the Chamber of Vector Sigma, where newlings could receive a living spark, and where, sometimes, bots with no known creators had their strange genesis. (Perceptor and Double-A were steadfastly researching this phenomenon.)

The planet was breathing again, interacting with its citizens, and traveling with joy across the universe for the first time since its inception. Primacron was content, and there was peace.

For all those who were not yet ready to accept the Gift, Optimus Prime became something between high priest and father. It was in his power to listen with an unjudgemental heart, to see beneath the surface grime and clutter to the source of the old pain, the kink in the old programming, and to cleanse and straighten any bot's hunched soul. His love for his people could penetrate even the most hate-crusted spark. They'd always followed him because they held him in esteem. Now, the bots of New Cybertron followed their Prime in adoration.

Megatron still struggled to keep his temper in check, but it was noted by mechs in both factions that he seemed to have settled into his station beside the Prime like clay that finally fit in the mold. It was his vision and prudence that made possible the orderly building up of beautiful new cities, and established the first fair court system since the Golden Age. His word was law; but his word was also just and merciful. To the surprise of many, Megatron was learning to be kind.

Elita was waiting for something - her co-Commanders could both sense it. But she didn't say what it might be, and they did not press her. But as she looked up to the skies, more often than not Optimus was with her, smiling.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked her, late one night as they stood on a tower balcony that overlooked the sparkling lights and happy bustlings of New Kaon.

She scanned the shimmering white arm of a nearby galaxy that spooled across the sky. She pointed. "That way I think, dearest."

"All right then," he said.

He opened his comm-link. "Megatron, my old nemesis," he said. "I know you've been wanting to do this for a long, long time. We're all set topside. Throw the switch. Let's see where those engines can take us!"

At the bottom of a tunnel running to the planetary core, Megatron's mouth split into a wide, toothy grin. "Right then. Throwing the switch in 3... 2... 1..."

A subharmonic rumble coursed up through the metal soles of 75,000 Cybertronian feet. Gravity shifted slightly to the left. At the heart of the planet, Megatron's shout of triumph was lost in a shuddering burst of primal power as the pistons of Primacron's great engines gave a first joyous chug-chug-CHUG! then settled into a contented pumping. Outside, as Elita and Prime watched, the stars in the night sky began to wheel ever so slowly round.

Prime's voice was giddy; not unlike the young Orion Pax on his first trip to the Archives. "Well done, old man!" he called, as the sky slid into a blur of motion. He kept the comm-line open, waiting for his bond-brother's reply. But all he heard was Megatron's exultant roar of laughter. The sky thundered in a burst of Wheeljack's best fireworks, and every single flying mech took to the skies in loop-de-loops of triumph. The cheer rising up from the streets was deafening.

"We're off, my love," Optimus whispered. And Elita met his gaze and smiled.

Author's Note:

Thanks to everyone's who's read this. The tale is finished as such, but I'm leaving it as it is: flawed, repetitive in theme, and structurally-unsound, because I need to take what I have learned from this experience and move on. This story exists to lay the groundwork for the future. I needed to establish some of how New Cybertron works. But yeah - slogged and slogged through this, and I'm ready to be done.

Stay tuned for RainbowSparkle and the Courtship of Megatron, into which I look forward to pouring all the reams of knowledge I have gleaned from the stacks of "How to Write More Gooder" books that I've been sucking up like cocaine lately. (Not that I have any idea what sucking up cocaine is like, thankfully.)

I HAS PLANNZZZ!

Till then,

-Prime out.