She took pains to not be underfoot, as bubbling beakers of liquid filled the air with stark chemical stenches. Adrestia was rather young, but also rather precocious for her years. She read when she was able to, dusty books full of knowledge like viscous honey. The laboratory was rather unlike that dirty library she loved, shiny clean surfaces and odorless sanitized air. It was her father’s space within Kolkular, and she was only allowed in by invitation. He was the master here, as with so many other things. “What a brilliant piece of work are we, Cybertronians!” She quoted from the Bard of Polyhex, whisper-like. The pomp and circumstance of the stage almost echoed in her movements, proud and precise waving of her manipulators. “In action, like a almighty god, in faculties - “ It was then that Ephemeris, her distant father, interrupted her in his booming tenor. He’d heard her quote the play. He always heard, for his abilities were beyond most. “If Cybertronians are gods, they’re destroying gods. Gods of tumultuous times. Gods of rebirth from the ashes. Changers, re-arrangers, smashers, transformers. Even destruction is a change made to an object.” His eyes were firmly set in place towards her, slicing her open with the scalpels of his gaze. Then, he turned away. Ephemeris was a creature of order, at his deepest core. He’d been a devout adherent of an unusual religio-philosophical sect called the Patterners in his youth. As Primus was known to be a god of order and creator of the universe, they reasoned, the universe could be expected to follow orderly rules. As such, they had sought to define those rules, poking and prodding its fabric, learning what could be manipulated by them and what could not. He did not say things without reason, for he was a child of such practices. “Vhater?” She whined back, like a stricken dog, in Kaoner. “I have seen what an age of balance has brought Cybertron. Homeostasis. Stagnation. We are creatures of creative forces, of destructive forces. Far from protecting us, Guard Convoy has brought that to a grinding halt on the cliff’s edge. I can preserve the old ways of warriors and weapons in Kaon by my force of will, but the rest of the species suffers under his heel. Untold trillions are slaves to an uncaring regime that gives them only what they need to survive, not to thrive. Something has to happen.” “And?” Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. He never said anything without reason. To her, these strong statements - these bold declarations - struck against the core of what the ‘mech believed for himself and the universe. “Do you not see the contradiction, vhater? We are creatures of formless and ever-changing chaos, but you want to impose order?” Ephemeris thought for a second, neural relays blasting the sum total of information and contradictory thoughts through his brain. “I can never cut out the beating, pumping heart of the Cybertronian species. That is beyond me, out of my reach. It would be an awful sin, as black a sin as the one that stains the Convoy line, to try. I can redirect it, turn it to better aims.” “Not merely conquest,” Ephemeris answered her. “But heroism. Bravery. Self-sacrifice. Might for right, rather than might that makes right.” --- --- --- --- --- --- The present day was a strange one. A rack of borosilicate beakers, containing inert cybermatter, had shattered some time ago. He’d hardly noticed in the upheaval of the past few cycles. Ephemeris wasn’t quite sure when it’d happened, but now, it affected him. He felt a great many things in the space of a few seconds, all from a yearning that was faltering and failing. His dream was dying. More than any worldly power or possession, Ephemeris wanted to be free of his lot in life. He’d seen it all too often. His thoughts raced to his youth, hardscrabble years, hard-bitten ones. Kaon hadn’t been the acropolis it now was, back then, more a large town. Kolkular, the mighty canopy of rock, was the only large building. It was a testament to his mother’s iron nature that it was the strongest fortress on the planet. Even it was dwarfed by slate-black mountains. From the mouth of Dei Atlas, from the scattered writings of Arrius, he had drawn truth. Black truth. Black deeds. He ran his hand over the shattered glass. A thin drop of Energon plopped onto the stone counter. The Overlord grimaced, but did not cry out or curse. Still mortal, he thought to himself. Their people were trapped betwixt their chaotic nature of change and the solid, orderly reality of things. The center could not hold, and charism trampled good governance underfoot. Nothing more terrible can befall your people, Arrius had written, than to fall into the hands of a hero. Surprisingly introspective words for a priest of Prima. Yet, what was he, this mighty Technomancer, this autocratic leader of Kaon? He was a hero. How he despised the very thought! There, in the shattered glass, Ephemeris gazed upon his reflection. Lines of energy arced across his face, leaving deep chasms and pits in his metal visage. Lips turned downwards. Worse still, he had made heroes. He had betrayed his own Patterner values, the steely covenant of Arrius. The golems of Ephemeris had cost him his bond with Azimuth. He’d loved her, he realized too late. He’d loved her. Yet...his golem was noble, bright, and good. What was once, it had come again. He could no more raise his hand against Adrestia than any righteous father, tall and defiant to the world, could against his child. He would continue on, then. The next Age was not his to scrawl on pages of metal velum, with ink glowing a deep blue. He'd flattered himself to think such thoughts. It never had been his chapter to write.
