#tiris

they call me AAAAAA (Aromantic Asexual Agender Autistic ADHD Asthmatic)

Recent reports have come back with images of new structures --small, basic outposts and bunkers -- appearing on the surface near the entrance to Iacon. They're clearly Iaconian-make, not Quintesson, but new ones crop up every couple of weeks, spreading further and further out from the underground city. It's a clear encroachment on what Megatron has deemed his; Optimus has claimed the underworld, and so the surface by default belongs to Megatron.

" yet you keep coming back for more. what's THAT about? "

" sir? " apollo is watching him curiously, datapad held close to his chassis. " is this troubling you? "

“Only in that he shares my likeness. But, his proclamations and thus backlash, are wholly his own”

The Matrix of Leadership now resides within him.

Half of it, at least. It reached him abruptly. One moment, Hot Rod was focused on the task at hand: beat Deception afts, secure the energon supply the ship sensors had picked up on while orbiting a planet that seemingly lacked sentient life; then a blinding light, something crashing straight into him, a ringing in his audials. Then, nothing.

When Rodimus Prime woke up, he was back on the ship. Kup hovered over him, concern twisting the old mech's face into something ugly. He warned Hot Rod Rodimus to take it easy, to give himself time to 'get used to the change' and, of course, Rodimus didn't listen. That simple sentence freaked him out enough to make him overcome the dizziness, make his way to a mirror.

The face that stared back at him was... new. Unfamiliar yet, something deep inside told him it was his— that it would be his from now on.

It took him a few days to truly get used to the feeling. The changes. Upgrades upon upgrades that were not just cosmetic, but also internal: software that hadn't been there before, and more upgrades. Kup told him that is how the Matrix works in the stories: choosing a mech to become its host, changing them inside and out to be more befitting of it. Rodimus was pretty sure that Kup was as old as those stories —if not as old as the half-matrix currently inside Rodimus—, so he was inclined to believe him.

As it turned out, not even the legendary matrix of leadership could stop Rodimus from making sudden decisions.

Especially not after one night, while Rodimus lied in his berth, finally achieving sleep after a day of dealing with overextended joints, it decided to plague his dreams with memories that weren't his own: a planet he hadn't ever seen, a great battle against the one they call Megatron, autobots– Arcee.

How long had it been since Arcee and Cliffjumper left? Rodimus had thought them lost forever. The last he'd heard from her, she reported that they'd received a signal from some far away planet and they were going to answer it. Then, nothing. A lot of nothing for cycles. But there she was, as alive as the last time he'd seen her.

The smaller vessels couldn't travel as fast as the main ship, but Rodimus made due. He said his goodbyes, left Kup in charge, didn't listen to anyone's protests, and set out on his own. Determined to find his friends. Half tracking their last known position, half following this broken relic inside him that pulled him forward, towards the unknown, like a magnet.

Nearly three months after one half of the matrix of leadership simply disappeared, agent Fowler walked into the Omega One Outpost. "We had a deal, Prime!" he called out. "You were supposed to inform me of any newcomers! Tell me WHY I just received a call from the Appalachians about an unidentified flying object that came apart upon entering the atmosphere, crashed somewhere, and left THIS behind."

He opened the folder he was holding, revealing images of a large chunk of metal with what looked like half the autobot sigil still intact.

calmly points his sword at the god's throat. " you will NOT sow seeds of discord into my intended's mind. "

( UNICRON IS DOUBT. IT INSTILLS DOUBT AND MALCONTENT IN ALL THINGS. SUCH IS ITS NATURE. )

A brief creep back, as if to flee, only for it to set its teeth delicately upon the blade. Like a dog, barely daring to rebel.