Orbital cycle-1 day
Two ruby spheres of fire gradually scanned the horizon as blackened shapes licked the rusty metal surface; dawn. Not only was it the dawn of a new orbital cycle, but the dawn of a new era, one that was to be filled with peace and tranquility. An era that was to drown out the seemingly never-ending silence, which slashed deep lacerations into many. Including himself…
Despite the "glorious" and long awaited revival of the robotic planet, it did nothing notable or significant to him. For once again it appeared that he had become the lesser of his race, an aimless wanderer, scavenger, in search of his next meager refuge.
He'd never liked that damned word. It left a foul taste to slither off his glossa and into his innards. They were for the high castes; egotistic and haughty Cybertronians who had cared very little for his welfare, so much so that the welfare system was virtually non-existent. In the end, the richer you were, the swifter you fell, no matter your age.
Age determined nothing. It was a negligible number and created boundaries and limitations upon a person. Of course, age had never stopped him from slaying mechs and femmes in the pits, nor did it stop him from drinking in the enchanting whimpers of an Autobot soldier attempting to weakly dislodge his mighty blade from their very spark chambers. Rivers of the bright blue liquid would pool over his retractable sword and stir his inner monstrous desires from their slumber. His victim would've then noticed that sickly and repulsive glint in those vermillion orbs and then…
His intakes stalled and wheezed as he tried to eradicate those lingering thoughts as well as the small amount of energon that threatened to erupt from his intake. The past was no longer relevant, but it would never leave. Reminders would be plentiful and they would latch onto him and ultimately drag him down until he could no longer function with their nagging presence.
Those ruby spheres of fire flickered where once they had flared as they fell upon the destruction before him. Misty hallucinations of the past danced in front of his mangled frame in a taunting manner. Screams of grief and wails of distress swarmed his audio receptors.
He did not believe in spirits
Growling in a flurry of disbelief, the large mech trudged forward while paying no mind to the transparent forms glaring icily at his newfangled frame. Even with the hideous transformation that had befallen his physique, the apparitions looked on at him as their yells became mute. It was now that the realisation of the entire circumstance hit him, hard. The past wanted him to remember. Every meaningless repugnant life that had ended upon his very servos, they were all to become the chains to his downfall.
He halted his motion, letting the scale of the calamity sink deeply into his processor. Above him, lengthy clouds littered the pale blue sky and they observed the lone mech before them. Even the roaring sun was eager to see the following unfolding events and rapidly pierced its way through the clouds for a better view. The potent mech felt the sun's rays glide swiftly across his frame, a comforting gesture, and in any other circumstance perhaps such a gesture would have been genuinely welcomed.
But not here
For before the clouds and the sun stood a miner, the lowest of the low. Where his voice went unheard and unacknowledged. Where every orbital cycle he managed to endure was spent avoiding the unforgiving grasp of the mines' watchmen and the mine owners. Where he became fully aware of the horrifying punishments that his fellow miners had to withstand if they "stepped out of line".
His optics, those fearsome unfaltering vermillion balls of rage, had seen more devastation, destruction and delirium in one diun than any higher caste Cybertronian had seen in a lifetime.
Before the clouds and the sun stood a gladiator, a bloodthirsty warrior who slaughtered conceited combatants and reduced them to a whimpering mess. Where he entered the dreaded pits of Kaon to die a honourable death, but instead gained a sudden understanding to value and appreciate his life. Where he earned his name and identity for the very first time. He finally became someone rather than a mere shadow. Where he became acquainted with a higher caste mech who had sought out his presence for longer than he would ever know.
Those bewitching aqua optics, inviting and warm, made him question not only himself but also why he had caught the smaller mechs' vigilant optic. Why had he felt the need to saunter up to the very Pits of Kaon and demand his presence? Perhaps demand was a marginal overstatement. Orion Pax was not a mech to make demands, to give out neither orders nor decrees. He didn't think it possible to feel so out of place next to the tiny mech but yet so gravitated towards him. Never had he encountered someone so full of knowledge that he could simply sit for joors and listen as Orion educated him on a given topic.
But the majority of the time it was not the education that made his processor twirl in thought, as a matter of fact, it had been Orion himself. They both had shared a common aspiration to change the world, and drain the injustice, which had spread itself out into every corner of the once glorious planet.
However, Orion Pax could be at times exceedingly credulous towards him. It was almost as if the archivist forgot what a gladiator of Kaon was capable of. How easily he could have caused great harm upon Orion, the chances of that had always been too high.
Then came the betrayal, that painful treachery, that left him appearing like a fool before the High Council. They glared at him; those forbidding optics bore intensely into his frame. In a whirlwind of humiliation and rage, he revealed his then new goals and ambitions for Cybertron and left, his handful of underlings that had somehow managed to squeeze into the building, trailing obediently behind him.
The sorrow and wistfulness that was etched deeply on Orion's faceplates would be forever embedded into his processor.
"You carry the weight of many long slain soldiers"
His lengthy train of thought swiftly "de-railed" as his optics went wide in a perplexed fashion.
Was this the beginning of the torment, the ominous suffering that was, so he believed, to ultimately shred his sanity? A shiver snaked its way down his spinal strut, leaving behind an icy residue. It was here where the once fearsome warlord "wavered", debating intensely whether to ignore the rumbling murmur and treat it as a mere figment of his imagination or rotate himself around to behold the "sight" before him.
Whatever that sight might have been…
"Why do you hesitate?" The voice re-established itself, the rumbling murmur reduced marginally to a more gentle tone. The mangled mech took a step back within inside himself, the question and tone catching him off guard. However, the tone, that cursed sweet-tempered statement, ignited a flame of vengeance in his spark chamber and for moment, he prepared to swivel around and charge blindly at the beholder of the voice. But he couldn't…he wouldn't. His pedes appeared locked to the rust covered ground below him and his ability to move gilt-edge, suddenly ceased. Gladiators, though barbaric and wayward, never turned their backs upon another Cybertronian they saw as intimidating or a threat and despite the fact he had yet to observe the others' faceplates, he did not doubt that they could sense his indecisive attitude.
Be that as it may, he was also cunning and being cunning was an exemplary trait within the Pits' walls.
He wasn't out for the count yet…
"I experience no such qualm towards you but am merely in a perplexed state of mind"
The reply was swift.
"Even in exile your wits are as sharp as ever…Megatron".