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“You are now a Cityspeaker,” the Mistress of Flame says to her one solar cycle. “You are valuable to both the world and Titan of Caminus. It is only right that you have a bodyguard.”
Windblade protests, of course. But only for a short time, and then weakly. The words of the Mistress carry far too much weight to be brushed aside; by Solus Prime, to be addressed so personally, so early in her career, she wonders why she did not immediately acquiesce. Perhaps that is why, when she agrees, and the Mistress asks if she has anybody in particular in mind, she does not put forward any suggestions, letting authority and old wisdom run its course.
Well. Perhaps there is that. But also there is the slight problem that she really has no idea. She has few bots she would really call ‘friends’, none she would call amica endura, none she would feel good about asking to be her guard - how did she even become a Cityspeaker with a personal life like this, come to think of it? Nautica is far smarter than she can ever hope to be, but she’s no fighter - and even if she were, Windblade thinks with a shudder, she has her hands full with Firestar. Velocity, dear Lotty, nobody’s kinder than her, but she’s already beating herself up every cycle with worries about her future; let her figure out her own problems first.
So may the wisdom of the Primes guide her, much as it has done on all her bizarre life so far. When a representative of the Mistress contacts her, saying that a prospective candidate has been found, she goes to the meeting with more trepidation than the day she sat her final examinations. She has absolutely no idea what to expect.
Is she really that important, now, to need a protector?
The meeting place turns out to be one of the training halls, squat and utilitarian. Transforming out of her alt-mode, Windblade touches down into a morning silence she is suddenly very conscious of - the streets are deserted this early. The inside of the complex is likewise silent, the only noise the clicking of her feet. The only sign of activity are the red arrows glowing amidst the floor panelling. If she had booked herself into the training hall for a routine session, these arrows would have tuned into a pre-set wavelength, visible only to her optics, guiding her to the right room. The fact that she can see them now, then, without taking any action - is unsettling.
Is the Mistress of Flame so concerned about her future that she goes this far? She cannot complain, since the Mistress acts in the name of the Primes - but she does wonder if she can match those expectations.
She finds the right room, palms the door open, steps inside.
The weak pale light of Caminus’s dwarf sun illuminates the bot who is waiting for her. Not one Windblade has ever seen, and yet she knows the type - tall, broad-shouldered, sturdy build. Ground alt-mode of some sort, clearly, with those wheels in her shoulder blocks; a warrior’s helm with two tall fins. Processing all these, before realising that the stranger is the most beautiful shade of blue she has ever seen, and that she is already armed with axe and shield.
“Cityspeaker,” the stranger says, in a deep voice, “it’s good to see you are early.”
Windblade nods, trying to conceal the sudden feelings rushing up from her spark - she’s felt attractions before, of course, but rarely has somebody looked so very appealing and so very intimidating at the first glance. Despite her own alt-mode being a jet, she’s always admired those who were forged to drive - perhaps, by staying in greater touch with the surface of Caminus, they gained more of his beauty. She has observed some of that beauty for herself, delving into his thoughts during her studies; thus, she knows it when she sees it.
“Solus Prime’s teaching do emphasise the importance of being industrious,” she says. “Unfortunately, she also mentioned that being observant was key, but I don’t believe I know you.”
“Name of Chromia. I have heard about you, though, Cityspeaker - or should I address you by your name?”
“Just Windblade will be fine. So. What are we doing today? The Mistress of Flame sent you, right?”
“Correct. I used to work on security for the Forgefire Parliament.” Chromia hefts her axe, apparently testing the weight. “Don’t see much point in talking, though. You are armed?”
Wordlessly, Windblade draws her own blade. The Stormfall Sword is the weapon granted to her upon her accession to the rank of Cityspeaker, but she has not had the chance to train with it much since that appointment.
Chromia steps closer, eying the purple sword with appreciation. “Nice colour, that. Who crafted it for you?”
“I do not know. I suspect one of the best, however.”
“I don’t know a lot of the details about the lives of Cityspeakers,” says Chromia as she approaches, “but I do remember this - that your weapons were considered gifts from Solus Prime herself. Guessing it’s impolite to ask for more than that, eh?”
“If you put it like that - then yes. I’d say so.”
“And those lines on your face,” says Chromia. She gives off a faint odour of oil, Windblade realises. “You put those on to remember Caminus the Titan.”
“Yes.”
Why is she saying all these obvious things? Like Windblade, she was forged on this world, raised in its culture and customs from beginning. They should be as natural and clear as pure energon.
“You know,” Chromia replies, “I’ve always wondered - they’re red lines, but what would they look like in pink?”
Before Windblade realises what’s happening, she sees the axe swinging down. It takes all her natural reflexes as a flier to raise her sword and parry the blow, springing back as she does so. Crouching into a fighting stance, she narrows her optics.
Chromia twirls her axe. “Nice. You’re fast.”
It’s a duel, then. Windblade feels the pulse of her spark pick up once more - just as Caminus once waged war in his fractured memories, so too does she prepare for battle. Yet even as she adjusts her body for combat as her masters taught her, she finds herself looking at the flexing of Chromia’s arms as she returns her axe to her side.
“Not exactly fair,” she feels the need to point out, “you’ve got a shield and a longer weapon than I do.”
Chromia cocks her brow, a wry smile twisting the edges of her mouth, lending confidence to her face. “And you are Windblade, one of Caminus’s chosen. Surely you won’t let something like that get in your way?”
There it is, the challenge. Windblade’s gaze sharpens. Her entire life’s been like this, one hurdle to another, constantly straining to be better even if it meant never living how a normal Camien might have had. What else was she expecting now? That once she became a herald her life would just straighten out?
And here she sees the wisdom of the Mistress of Flame. How fitting to select as her bodyguard one who will challenge her like never before, by setting an example in the one area she has neglected thus far - the strength of her own body. She suddenly feels affinity and warmth, such as she has never felt before - this pleasure at a return to basics, at the unveiling of the path she should take, as if straight from the wisdom of Caminus himself, is both utterly alien, and extremely gratifying.
This is the life she is used to, and she will face it with all her usual vigour. So she smiles in return, relaxing, embracing her reality - here she is, in another trial, only this time the advantage is that the source of the trial is singularly attractive. “I guess so. Well. Tell me, Chromia - you know what colour I think goes well with pink?”
“Which one?”
Windblade lunges forward, kicking off the floor with the full strength of her wind turbines. Hurtling forward, her sword extended, she barely misses Chromia’s chest - the other bot side-stepping neatly, and retaliating with shield brought high. Quickly, Windblade kicks off the barrier, flipping back through the air, and land neatly.
“Blue.”
And while Nautica might have berated her with a peer-reviewed study on the nature of colour complementarity, she’s very relieved to see Chromia just grin.
“Go easy on me, will you?” says the bot, with ironic good humour. “It’s only our first meeting.”
“That scared?”
“Tease.”
“Oh, if you insist - I’ll only give you a scratch.”
For the first time in a long while, Windblade realises with rising glee, she is having fun - and she has found not just a protector, but an amica.