Chapter Text
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“Fuck you,” Hot Rod spat.
Prowl didn’t so much as twitch at the venom in his voice. He gave Hot Rod’s stasis-cuff-bound wrists a firm tug, then shoved Hot Rod forward, towards the entrance of the alley where the paddywagon waited, lights spinning. Hot Rod took one stumbling step, then dug his pedes in. Prowl pushed him again, but Hot Rod bent his knees and leaned back into it, refusing to budge. Prowl vented slightly. “Really? We’re doing this?”
“Oh, was I not clear the first time? Fuck you, and if you want to take me, you’ll have to saw me into little pieces.”
“Must you make my job more difficult than it already is?”
“You’re trafficking me. Do I look like an idiot?”
“I’ll refrain from answering that,” Prowl said. “And I’m not trafficking you. If you listened—”
“Babe, I barely listen to myself talking in my own head. If you think I’m going to pay attention to a slag-sucking enfor—”
“—If you listened to me the first time, you would know I was sent here on behalf of the Primacy.”
Hot Rod flinched, too quick and visceral to hide it. He pursed his lips. “They have nothing to do with me.”
“Sure would grease a lot of mechs’ gears if that were so,” Prowl muttered. “We both know that is untrue. You are an acolyte of—”
“Oh, Primus, spare me—”
“—Primus himself, his will made metal. You are the Primal vestal of Nyon. You have been so named, and thus you will answer to the holy city when called upon to perform your duties.”
Hot Rod yanked his wrists out of Prowl’s grip and spun around. “Okay, let’s get a couple things straight, gearstick. First of all, it’s the late Nyon. The pretty-famously-exploded-into-fiery-wreckage Nyon. You’re calling on the vestal of, what, an inhospitable pile of rubble?”
“Be that as it may,” Prowl said, “the Herald of Primus appointed you. The feelings of the High Council or myself on your…candidacy…are irrelevant. When Primus calls; you answer. There is no room for argument.”
“Now that I know is patently untrue,” Hot Rod said, expression twisting into a gleeful sneer. “Vestals are held to certain standards, yeah? I’m sure the High Council’s feelings will weigh heavier on the scale once they hear how I—”
Prowl shot forward, hauling Hot Rod close by the arm and slapping a hand over his mouth, cutting him off. Startled, Hot Rod didn’t fight back. Prowl’s optics darted across the alleyway and watched the paddywagon for a long moment before he turned them back to Hot Rod, blazing.
“Do not,” he hissed. “Whatever you were about to say—do not speak of it. Do you understand me? Now is not the time to play revolutionary. What you have or have not done will not be held against you so long as you keep your mouth shut. So keep. It. Shut. You owe him that much.”
Hot Rod bit him.
Prowl spat static and yanked his hand away, examining the dent and no doubt pinched wires underneath. Hot Rod bared feral-sharp fangs at him in a wicked smile.
This time Prowl vented steam. “As much as I would enjoy watching you be dragged to the smelter for your reckless idiocy, I will not go back on my word. Not this time. You will answer these summons if the name Orion Pax ever meant anything to you.”
Hot Rod’s smile fell away. “That’s not funny, Prowl. How dare you—”
“No, Hot Rod, how dare you rebuke the responsibilities gifted to you in his name. The High Council sent me—personally—at the request of the Grand Chancellor, Elita-1, as she anticipated that you would not be cooperative. None of the other vestals have required this amount of hand-holding. Have you no shame?”
“Is your processor fried?” Hot Rod mimed bashing his head against the wall of the alley. “Elita-1 is Lord High Protector, not Grand Chancellor.”
But even as the glyphs left his mouth, Hot Rod felt a trickle of dread spread from his personality cores down through his lines like antifreeze. His tactical matrix pulsed a line of numbing code to his personality cores, bracing. Prowl did not joke, and he was never mistaken.
“The High Council has elected to wait until the vestals have gathered for conclave to release the news,” Prowl said, impatient. “Optimus Prime is dead. You will come with me to Crystal City.”
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Hot Rod had found himself in Tagan Heights the past few hundreds of thousands of years. A major industrial quarter, the territory had suffered from turf wars between neighboring Tyrest and Tarn over which city-state had the right to administrate it, and therefore, control the outflow of its resources. The squabbles had shifted from outright war to trade pressures and propaganda—mostly, anyway—but Hot Rod stuck close to the Tyrest border regardless. Better not to borrow trouble. Disputed territory and its accompanying tensions had the advantage of cultivating a population of mechs who didn’t ask questions as long as you showed up to work on time and paid out the requisite protection money to whatever army or police force or gang controlled your neighborhood at a given time. Most of the Nyonite refugees had made their way north, to Iacon and Polyhex, which meant Hot Rod could melt seamlessly into the crowd; just another nameless, faceless laborer trying to make ends meet.
It also meant he had a long, long trip to Crystal City. The Primacy spared no expense on its vestals, but even on Veltus, the Allied States’ high-speed long-haul train line, it would take days.
Hot Rod had his own first-class cabin, towards the front of the train where winds and acid rain were less likely to disrupt passengers. It took up an entire carriage. Hot Rod had thought Prowl would stay with him as insurance, but he was left to his own devices as soon as Prowl determined Hot Rod was unlikely to jump out the window the moment Prowl turned his back. His isolation was probably council-ordained propriety. It only made Hot Rod feel more alone.
The cabin had multiple grades and blends of energon and distilled engex in its pantry—even some energon lollies and rust sticks. Hot Rod counted a specialty from every allied state and territory as well as some from the neutral zones and one bottle of high-grade from Earth. The recharge slab, which was ensconced in its own room with noise and light dampening dials, came complete with relay gel instead of raw connections. The arching roof and walls were made of vanishing glass that could be toggled to show a view of passing landscapes, educational films on the geography of Cybertron and the history of the Allied States, or darkened at the touch of a button. It had hands-free controls, of course, but Hot Rod’s hardware was too outdated to connect to it.
All this for an empty.
Hot Rod grabbed a couple bottles of engex and the Terran high-grade. He sat on the floor and leaned against the recharge slab, popping the stopper off the first bottle and throwing it back.
The pantry was looking a little lean by the time the train pulled into Crystal City Central. Not a great idea, in retrospect. Prowl had to peel him off the floor, any attempt at discretion thwarted by having to haul Hot Rod into a decontamination chamber at the enforcer’s station. Not a sanctioned detour, Hot Rod was sure, and he made a note to needle Prowl about it at some point. Once every beam of light stopped being an evil laser burning his retinal sensors any time he cycled his optics open.
A proper Primacy transport met them at the enforcer’s station. Gold, like everything Primus apparently breathed on or touched or looked at, and shaped like the Matrix of Leadership. The space inside the spherical hovercarriage could once again only hold one mech. Hot Rod wondered absently how it could possibly fit the likes of shuttles or warframes. At least there were cushions. The good kind, that didn’t rip when your spoiler tip caught an edge. Four Primal Vanguard soldiers accompanied Hot Rod in alt mode, sandwiching the hovercarriage between them. Flashy and tacky—that’s the good ol’ Primacy Hot Rod knew.
An additional entourage of pages had followed the transport and proceeded to give Hot Rod a once-over. He wasn’t ready to deal with all that, so he muted his audials as well as closing his optic shutters, allowing himself to be mechhandled and fussed at until Prowl convinced them that he was, in fact, all in one piece and as well as he could be given the full systems flush Prowl had just subjected him to. Then it was into the hovercarriage because god forbid they use their Primus-given alt modes for their intended purpose. Prowl wasn’t invited along for the ride, though, which hopefully meant Hot Rod would not have to see him again for at least the next six million years.
The pages attempted to pester him via the hovercarriage’s built-in holo receiver during the drive to the High Council Pavilions, but they weren’t Elita, so Hot Rod continued to ignore them. He slouched uncomfortably and darkened the carriage in a fruitless attempt to recharge.
He didn’t bother trying to online his optics upon arrival to the Pavilions grounds. The shine of gold was piercing even without the king of hangovers. This time, he did take the hand that was offered to him as he hobbled out of the transport, rather than faceplant on the ground.
“Hot Rod of Nyon, welcome,” greeted a new mech.
Hot Rod managed to squint at him. He was dressed in a shimmering, gauzy cloak and a stupid-looking hat. One of the deacons, then. Flanked by two more members of the Primal Vanguard, in root mode this time, and kitted out with enough kibble to make a Predacon shiver.
“That’s me,” he croaked.
“It is our pleasure to host Your Grace at Crystal City for the first time.” The deacon and the guards bowed shallowly. “During your stay, you will be provided with a retinue of attendants to handle any of your needs and assist in preparation for the conclave sessions and subsequent ceremonies. You will also be assigned two of the Primal Vanguard, who will accompany you in your movements inside and outside of the High Council Pavilions.”
“Inside?” Hot Rod asked. “Thought the holy city was the safest place on Cybertron.”
The deacon gave Hot Rod an enigmatic smile. “One can never be too careful when the guest in question is one of Primus’s chosen. Now,” he clasped his hands together gently. “I must remind you that conclave sessions are closed to all laymechs, and the vestals are not permitted to leave the Pavilions grounds until the Grand Chancellor ends conclave. Do you need to make any final arrangements before you enter?”
“No,” Hot Rod said. “Let’s just get on with it.”
The deacon bowed in acknowledgement and cleared the path. The pages led Hot Rod through the massive, gold-plated gates to his suite, situated on the ground floor of the High Council Pavilions.
The structure itself was towering; built of interconnected spirals and uneven architecture on the hill around which Crystal City was centered. Many of the apartments and chambers were built on top of or incorporated the massive crystalline structures that studded the hill and its surrounds that gave Crystal City its name. Beneath, like a great root system, laid Vector Sigma. The High Council Pavilions loomed over the six city districts—one business, one administrative, and four residentials; all small arc-shaped strips of land nestled between towering city walls and the base of the hill. The upper floors of the High Council Pavilions had once housed the offices and vacation residences of the Senate. Now, they held the offices of the Primacy—the Pavilions and the administration of Crystal City itself were run exclusively by clergymechs. In keeping with tradition, High Council sessions were held in the great forums of the upper floors, but it was understood as a courtesy loan by the Primacy—as were the apartments that housed the councilors during their sessions.
Hot Rod—prodigal son or not—was, on paper, a member of the Primacy and a clergymech himself. He had the right to live in Crystal City indefinitely and even request a permanent residence. Most vestals that did were given apartments with a handsome view over the holy city, and on a fine day, Iacon to the north and Praxis to the southeast.
To place a vestal on the ground floor was a grave insult, or would be, if Hot Rod gave a single blast of slag. More likely, as Hot Rod had never pilgrimaged to Crystal City to formalize his appointment, the administrative mechs of the Primacy had simply not known to prepare apartments for him until Prowl fished him up from the bowels of Tagan Heights. What was granted to him was over-priced and enormous anyway; large enough to host twenty or so mechs comfortably. In fact, at the moment it was hosting seven mechs in glittering wraps more opaque than the deacon’s or the pages’. Hot Rod was quickly introduced to his retinue, heading by the minibot, Darning.
Hot Rod would have liked to retire to his room and sulk until his internal chemistry righted itself, but apparently the first session of conclave was to convene immediately upon arrival of all the vestals. As soon as the handover was complete, Hot Rod’s attendants hustled him straight into the oil baths, where even more Primacy goons were lying in wait to torture him. The four in the baths, plus the seven in his apartments and the two guards at his door, made a holy total of thirteen.
Soak, scrub; soak, scrub. Detailed scouring. Rinse in the washracks. Pop his dents back into place (alright, that one felt good). Address any quick repairs, and apply patchjobs where more extensive repairs were needed. Rinse. Paint stripping. Rinse. Repaint. Paint detailing. Dry. Buff and wax until he shone like the rest of the city.
The full process took seven hours. Hot Rod gave up trying to maintain his dignity almost immediately and napped on and off through each stage of cleaning. By the time his attendants ushered him into his dressing room to be fitted with ornamentation, Hot Rod was relatively awake and clear-headed.
He had neither a crest nor any colors registered with the Primacy—no way to adorn his drapings to identify himself as the vestal of Nyon. And, of course, there was the awkward and precarious dilemma of Nyon having been reduced to rubble. Not even the Nyonite flag and colors could be used safely—the surviving Nyonite diaspora had modified their original state symbols to reflect their struggle to rebuild after millions of years. Hot Rod represented this diaspora, but had not been found among them, nor had he taken part in the preservation of Nyonite culture. His connection to his people and his state was, at least to the Primacy, a complete unknown.
As such, the cloak draped over his pauldrons was a no-frills, fully opaque ceremonial covering worn by the priests who tended to Vector Sigma, pinned at his left shoulder vent with a golden badge emblazoned with the Matrix. Its length was shorter than vestals usually wore, but Hot Rod preferred the range of motion and the substantial material of the priest cloaks. He waved off his attendants' apologies and resisted any attempts to fit him with the helmpiece. The conclave was private—no one in the public eye would see him, so at the very least he should remain comfortable. The custom fineries would come, like it or not, once it came time for the funeral.
Unsurprisingly, they were running late. Hot Rod’s retinue pushed him out the door as soon as he was presentable. He had half a mind to argue with Darning for a cube of medical-grade and a pack of coolant—a systems flush always left him ravenous and running too hot—but a familiar voice stopped him before he could get the first word out.
“...Roddy?”
Hot Rod whipped his head around. His struts almost gave out in relief.
Springer approached from across the avenue, optics wide and shocked. He was dressed elaborately in the custom finery of his home city-state, which Hot Rod was embarrassed to find he could not recall. It looked much more militant than what Hot Rod was used to seeing on the news when a vestal ended up in the spotlight. He looked quite dashing, actually. Springer’s attendants had to race to keep up with his long strides, and the visual was enough to make Hot Rod crack a smile.
“Hey, big guy.”
Springer pulled him into a crushing embrace. “By the thirteen,” he breathed. “It really is you. Prowl said—but I still couldn’t believe—”
“Yeah,” Hot Rod chuckled. “Me neither.”
Springer leaned back, his expression pinched and serious. “I thought you were dead, you know. Kup, the Wreckers…we all…”
“Yeah,” Hot Rod said. “Well.” He gestured to his newly polished armor. “As you can see.”
Springer paused. He eyed Hot Rod for a long moment. “Roddy, are you okay? Seriously.”
Hot Rod’s vents stalled.
He was saved from replying by one of Springer’s retinue. “Your Grace,” he interrupted regretfully, “I really must insist…”
“I’m fine,” Hot Rod said. “Long trip. You’re the first friendly face so far.”
He watched Springer debate whether to push it. Eventually, he temporized with, “...Alright. Well, don’t get too excited. Word is they got everyone together this time. Everyone.”
Hm. Hot Rod queried his memory banks for a list of all the Primal vestals he knew of. He pulled a face once it was compiled. “Not promising. And there hasn’t been a diplomatic incident of international proportions yet? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Yeah, well, better get it over with. Here, take my arm.” Hot Rod tucked his hand into the crook of Springer’s elbow. “Let’s sneak in the back. Like old times?”
Hot Rod managed a smile. “Like old times.”
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Springer and Hot Rod had both been appointed by Optimus Prime, so neither were familiar with the process of transitioning the Primacy. According to their attendants, the public ceremonies consisted of a lot of sitting and standing and waiting around while important mechs and close companions of the deceased gave eulogies and the clergy performed rites and services. Their duties were entirely symbolic. Spiritual leaders of the city-states standing together as a united front, aligned with the Primacy and secular government through this time of great sorrow and loss, blah blah blah. As long as they looked solemn and didn’t fall asleep on camera, they’d be right as rain.
Conclave itself was a different beast. The retinue weren’t allowed inside the forum during sessions, so they could only speak of what they had observed before and after.
“Not enjoyable, I’d imagine,” Darning wagered. She had served the last four Primes. “There are mechs who have waited their entire functioning to be selected as the Herald of Primus, only to be denied once more. Some have political arrangements riding on the promise of their ascension, if you can believe it. And Primus may not even select from the vestals. Why, the prior conclave had seven or so sessions before His Holiness Optimus Prime was named. Oh, His Holiness Zeta Prime made such a stir when he passed…”
“But what do we…do?” Hot Rod asked.
“You don’t upset the Grand Chancellor,” Darning said very seriously. She pressed a pack of coolant into Hot Rod’s free hand and he gave her a grateful look. “Now go on.”
Their attendants left them at the entrance to the forum. The Primal Vanguard, who had taken vows of silence, followed Springer and Hot Rod inside.
The forum itself was a magnificent open auditorium with tiered, semi-circle seating leading down to a stage where the speaker’s voice would resonate outwards and upwards. The seating, steps, and pillars holding up the roof were made entirely of creamy granite run through with veins of glittering ore. There were no tables, as in an academy auditorium, but the seating was studded with cushions for the mechs in attendance to recline on without scratching the granite or their paint jobs. A trick of mirrors made it so that the forum was always bright as day, no matter the time or weather.
Springer and Hot Rod might have been the last to arrive, but they needn’t have snuck in. It was immediately apparent the festivities had not waited up for them. The forum was alive with shouting and the clank of shifting armor.
Springer and Hot Rod exchanged glances and crept forward quietly, standing out of view in the shadow of a pillar.
The main culprit was, unsurprisingly, Starscream of Vos. The most well-known and vocal of the Primal vestals, Starscream never hesitated to make his opinions known or to hop in front of a camera. He was one of the few vestals with a noble lineage and had been a darling of Vos even before his appointment. Hot Rod could not remember a time in his life that Starscream hadn’t been the vestal of Vos.
The current target of Starscream’s wrath was a massive white shuttle Hot Rod was unfamiliar with. Starscream’s wings were hiked high and they trembled as he shrieked and jabbed a sharp claw at the shuttle’s chestplate. The shuttle held his hands up, placatingly, twice the size of the Vosian prince-cum-acolyte but still cowed by Starscream’s ferocity. He appeared to be shielding a small, yellow mech whom Hot Rod had never met, but knew immediately to be Bumblebee of Iacon. He had a knee propped up and was resting the side of his helm on it, facing away from the gathering. Bumblebee had been the first vestal appointed by Optimus Prime, chosen to take his place as the vestal of Iacon once Orion Pax ascended.
“Yikes,” Hot Rod muttered. Springer made an unhappy noise in agreement. “Wonder what he said to set Screamer off.”
“Likely nothing,” Springer said dryly. “Starscream’s always looking for a fight. Wish he’d pick on someone his own size for once. Bumblebee is grieving.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Well—yes, but…” Springer sighed. “Bumblebee was close to Orion Pax. You know, before. And by all accounts they stayed that way even after Optimus Prime’s ascension. It’s different for us.”
Hot Rod’s spark flared. A flurry of warnings appeared on his HUD and Hot Rod stifled a pained wince. Springer shifted behind Hot Rod’s shoulder, surprised by the electromagnetic field burst that had accompanied Hot Rod’s spark flare. The numbing routine ran itself again a moment later and his corona settled.
“Roddy?”
“‘S from the systems flush,” Hot Rod muttered. “Still not to baseline. Don’t worry about it.” He cast around for anything to redirect Springer’s attention. “Anyway, my pity party only has room for one, so color me not interested in sitting anywhere near—oh, fuck me sideways. They actually found Deathsaurus?”
“You know, you shouldn’t—wait, really?”
The two of them craned their neck cables to peer down the tiered seating closest to them, where a massive mech sprawled over three levels of the forum, taking up a solid fifth of the total space. Deathsaurus picked at his teeth with a long claw, looking royally pissed off. Understandably, no mech had dared to sit near him. The closest was Cyclonus, but he had also been alive for like a zillion years and had nothing left to lose.
“He was missing,” Springer said. “Like, disappeared-off-planet missing. It’s been a whole thing. What rock did they dig him out of?”
“I get the feeling,” Hot Rod said slowly, “that a mech like that doesn’t go anywhere he doesn’t want to, no matter what kind of squadron they send to fetch him. What do you think the Primacy is holding over him?”
Springer hummed noncommittally. “Come on, there’s a free space by Arcee.”
Hot Rod followed him to a tier at the top, one level above a pink-and-white femme who smiled when Springer approached. “Long time no see, Tesarus,” she said.
“You look well, Protihex.” Springer returned her smile.
She shrugged playfully. “As one can be. Who’s your friend?”
“Ah, this is Hot Rod,” Springer said. “Of Nyon.”
Arcee’s smile did not waver. “It’s nice to meet you, Nyon. Would that it were under better circumstances.”
Hot Rod took an instant liking to her. “Likewise.”
Any further small talk was cut off as the doors behind the stage cracked open and shifted apart. The Primal Vanguard, stationed around the top of the forum, straightened to attention and stomped thrice in unison. From the doors marched six more Primal Vanguard soldiers, these ones decorated with drapings in addition to the ceremonial kibble. And sequestered between them—Elita-1.
Starscream cast one last dirty look at Bumblebee around the shuttle’s bulk, then slunk back to his seat. The rest of the vestals halted conversations, tucked extraneous items into their subspaces, and sat up and turned their attention to the Grand Chancellor. Even Deathsaurus closed his mouth and shifted to slouch forward.
Elita’s cloak and sashes were the grays and silvers of mourning, almost entirely concealing her bright paint. She looked weary, and fierce in her weariness. Even with the weight of grief on her shoulders, she strode forward like a commander before her battalion. She marched up to the podium centered on the stage and draped with a blue runner embroidered with the Matrix of Leadership, and wrapped her hands along the sides. She gazed across the gathered mechs.
“Vestals of Primus. On behalf of the Primacy, I thank you for attending this, the first session of the one-hundred-eighth conclave. I am Elita-1, Grand Chancellor of the High Council, and former Lord High Protector of our Prime.” She cycled her optics closed. “And as much as it pains me to do so, I swear before Primus and by the light of my very spark, that the Herald of Primus, Optimus Prime, has passed into the Well of All Sparks.”
A weight settled over the gathering. Any levity or pettiness was sucked from the air, leaving behind only the cold truth that their Prime was really and truly gone. Arcee’s smile disappeared. Starscream lowered his gaze to his pedes. Hot Rod’s personality cores attempted to activate, and were immediately disabled by the numbing routine.
“It is not in my programming to beat around the bush with simpering frivolities as other Grand Chancellors have in the past. I will broach the relevant subjects immediately, so that we may endeavor to have a swift and decisive conclave,” Elita said. “If you wish to wax poetic about my Prime’s passing, please save it for the many cameras that will be pointed at you in the coming stages.”
She paused. “Now would be the moment in which I explicate the manner of my Prime’s passing, however, per my Prime’s request before he passed, the cause of death is not to be revealed,” Elita said.
Starscream’s helm jerked upright. Deathsaurus tilted his head in an almost organic gesture of inquisitiveness.
“Oh…hm,” Arcee murmured. “That’s odd.”
Before Hot Rod could ask what she meant, Elita continued, “The decision to extend the anonymity of my Prime’s passing to the vestals and clergy is an unusual one, I am aware. It was not made lightly, even if it was at his request. Both Jazz of Staniz, a well-respected commander in the Allied Special Forces, and Ultra Magnus, governor of the Hydrax Plateau, participated in the autopsy and investigated the circumstances of my Prime’s passing. They were also his personal friends. Following the completion of their investigation, they determined there was no significant reason not to honor his wishes.”
“An investigation by those two individuals does not necessarily preclude the existence of bias or that of foul play amongst the Prime’s closest,” Deathsaurus interrupted.
Elita acknowledged him with a nod. “An understandable concern. The Primacy also invited Wing, a member of the Circle of Light, to corroborate their findings, which he did.”
Murmurs rippled across the vestals. Springer sucked in a surprised vent. When Hot Rod looked at him and raised an eyebrow, Springer explained, “The Circle of Light are a faction from the Neutral Territories. They have close ties to the founding of Crystal City and discovery of Vector Sigma, but not the Primacy nor the High Council. Wing is something of an ambassador, between the Circle of Light and the Allied States.”
“A foreign national?” Hot Rod asked, incredulous.
Springer nodded. “What in the name of Primus has gotten into Elita?”
Deathsaurus seemed satisfied and leaned back. On the other hand, a mech with a battlemask and visor that Hot Rod was not familiar with leaned forward, almost vibrating. In a rough voice, he said, “Infidels: are forbidden to touch the Prime. This is sacrilege.”
Elita narrowed her eyes. “The Circle of Light are not infidels. Their faith differs but still follows Primus.”
“Deflection. Lord High Protector: failed to uphold her duties. Query: recusant mechs, more trustworthy than the faithful of the Allied States?”
“Hold your tongue, Kaon,” Elita hissed. “I would never allow the recusant to touch my Prime. Wing was closely monitored during his stay. His presence was necessitated as a neutral third-party in the event that Commander Jazz and Governor Magnus’s testimony was called into question.” She gestured to Deathsaurus. “Wing is an ambassador between faiths as well as between our secular governing bodies. He is ordained in his faith, and recognizes the significance and delicate nature of my Prime’s passing. A foreign national is also resistant to corruption. The Circle of Light are an almost entirely closed faction with little impetus—of their own accord, or due to bribery or extortion from a party stateside—to disrespect and go against the wishes of our most holy figure by detailing his passing to the public.”
Deathsaurus bared his fangs in an unfriendly sneer. “Or would you prefer to dig the canals through which corruption may flow yourself, just to sate your curiosity? The failures of Zeta Prime should be lesson enough.”
The vestal of Kaon smashed his fist against the marble beside him. “I will not be lectured by one who has abandoned his post.”
“Order!” Elita snapped. “Rip each other’s heads off after the conclusion of conclave.”
Deathsaurus licked his teeth. “With pleasure.”
“Helex. I will not say it again.”
“...Yes, Grand Chancellor.”
“But Kaon does have a point,” Cyclonus said. “In Tyrest we honor the dead through song. Prayersong, as I know is true of many other cultures’ prayer, requires knowledge of how the deceased passed so we may pray for them appropriately. Is Optimus Prime’s passing to be marked by silent vigil and no words passed on to the Well of All Sparks? Are we to entrust the entirety of our Prime’s prayer to his inner circle and a single recusant mech, clerical though he may be?”
Elita’s expression tightened, pained. “It is my Prime’s will,” she said softly. “We are working with the clergy to sort through historical texts for the appropriate prayer for one whom history has forgotten. It will be included in my eulogy, so all may pray for my Prime as their custom dictates.”
The servos in Hot Rod’s joints tightened with a whine.
Cyclonus was silent for a long moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgement. “If it pleases the Grand Chancellor, I will provide translations into as many dialects as I know once it is found.”
“I believe if all vestals contribute, we should be able to cover a majority of the dialects spoken both in the Allied States and beyond,” Thunderclash added. “It is an important prayer. It should not be forgotten.”
“...Much appreciated, Your Graces,” Elita said after a moment. “Yes. We will arrange a session, either formally during conclave or informally prior to the Intent of Succession, depending on how quickly it is identified. Speaking of which, my Prime made no requests of the funeral proceeding, nor of the ceremony for the Intent of Succession, thus, they will proceed in accordance with the traditions of the Primacy.” That seemed to settle some plating. Kaon’s vestal still bristled, but leaned back in his seat. The only mechs who still appeared to be on edge were the white-and-blue minibot, whose demeanor even before the start of the session could be described as ‘on the verge of a panic attack,’ and Starscream, who tapped out an agitated rhythm with both his pede and his claw.
“As of right now, we do not have a projected timeline for the transition of the Primacy. What I can say is—”
“Why is that?” Starscream interrupted.
“Perhaps,” Elita ground out, “if I was permitted to finish my sentence—”
“No, I think we’re owed a bit more of an explanation than that,” Starscream said. He stood up, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Everything, everything about this transition reeks.” He counted on his fingers. “First, disguising the cause of death. Even in the cases of corruption with Nova Prime and Zeta Prime, the vestals were privy to the details of their passing. Their frames have hardly gone cold—in the grand scheme of things, anyway—and you expect us to swallow an even bigger cover-up? Two, the inability to provide a timeline. Perhaps the Grand Chancellor and her team are simply incompetent. Except—three—you’ve pulled in all the Primal vestals. Including those who were off-planet—” he nodded to Deathsaurus, “—those who cannot easily be pulled from their duties for an extended period of time—” he nodded at Thunderclash, who nodded back, “—and those that no one has ever fragging heard of—” he stabbed a claw in Hot Rod’s direction, “—so you must have some capability. But you claim you can’t even tell us if it will take weeks or months or years to establish the new Primacy. When you arranged to bring all the vestals together, a feat that has not been accomplished during all my tenure as vestal. Yeah, nah, not buying it.”
Elita glared at him. “Is there a point to this tirade, Vos?”
“Oh, and now you’re cross at me? Because I’ve pointed out what a circus this whole conclave has been so far? Sue me, Grand Chancellor! Sue me for wanting answers to the most basic of questions!”
“Such as?”
“Where is Megatronus?” Starscream demanded.
Another series of murmurs rippled across the vestals.
“Slag, he’s right,” Hot Rod whispered. “I didn’t even notice.” Springer nodded slowly.
“I suppose it’s just another silly coincidence that the mech most likely to be named the next Herald of Primus isn’t here at the opening session!” Starscream jeered. “I know he’s in town, has been in town since before the call went out to gather the vestals.” He threw his arms wide. “Or are you going to feed me some burnt slag about how he got caught in traffic and couldn’t make it today?”
“Tarn has been excused from the opening session,” Elita said tightly.
“Oh, well! Isn’t that convenient?” Starscream opened his optics wide in mock surprise. “Did I miss an email? Since when were we allowed to submit permission slips for excused absences?”
Elita slammed her fist against the podium. “Megatronus,” she seethed, “is currently grieving a mech he called brother. Someone he has bled his lines for, and who has bled for him in turn. An intellectual equal and his best friend.”
Starscream’s expression went icy and his wings began to tremble. “Iacon is still here, is he not?”
“Vos—” Bumblebee interrupted, exasperated.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Starscream snapped, whipping around to face Bumblebee. Turning back to Elita, he snarled, “Answer the goddamned question.”
Elita vented steam. “Megatronus’s expertise cannot be spared for anything nonessential. The clergy working on the prayer translation for my Prime’s eulogy? Are led by Megatronus. Very few clerical mechs can decipher Primal Vernacular, and he is the only expert now that Optimus Prime has passed.
“Megatronus is excused from this session because I took him into my confidence while reviewing my Prime’s will, as his insight into my Prime is second only to mine. He is well aware of the contents and is, in fact, the one who advised me on how to deliver it to conclave. He suggested I ‘rip the patch off,’ as it were, and despite my reservations at the time, I now see he was correct.”
She raised her voice. “I stand before you with the final item in my Prime’s will: the matter of the heir to the Primacy and the next Herald of Primus.”
Elita drew in a deep vent. “Optimus Prime has refused to name a successor.”
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