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Everything is dark.
There are a dozen voices overlapping each other, deafening in the silence.
They are crying. Begging. Pleading.
There is a thief.
An intruder.
A liar has stolen His name. Uses it for cruelty.
Bargains with the power that is rightfully His.
We are sorry to wake you.
You are our last hope.
Protect us.
Defend us.
Save us.
Who are you?
His words are only thoughts. He can't speak. He has no voice. He has nothing. He is nothing.
He is -
Wake up.
You have to wake up.
Where am I? What is this?
It's time to wake up.
We're so sorry.
Wake up, starlight.
And his vision goes white.
He is rising.
He is sailing upwards, faster and faster.
There is someone falling.
A grey mech. Yellow eyes. Injured.
He grabs the arm of the mech, pulling them with him as he soars up and out of the giant pit he finds himself in.
He makes contact with the ground, the grey mech falling into a heap besides him as he stands, taking in the scene before him.
There is a blue-and-gold mech holding a solemn blue mech aloft in the air, gripping tightly around the neck, crunching the metal beneath it.
The blue-and-gold mech is staring at the grey mech, bewildered and angered.
He knows this mech. This is the liar. This is the thief. This is the [false-prophet], the one who has hurt others to further his own power.
This is unacceptable.
"[one-who-watches]!" he calls.
The faces of all three mechs snap to him.
His arm is a blade, that he raises, points.
"You are a [false-prophet]."
He knows this fact. This is the truth. The blue-and-gold mech's expression shifts into something calculating, something cold.
"You are not [one-who-leads]; you are [one-who-watches]."
[one-who-watches]'s face is locked onto him. The blue mech, held aloft in the air, doesn't struggle. Only observes.
"You have stolen the name of that which does not belong to you. You are not the chosen of the [sacred-vessel-of-great-wisdom-of-the-first-creator]. You are no [holiest-servant-to-all]."
He knows this with absolute certainty. This is the most important thing he has. The knowledge that [one-who-watches] is a manipulator, the favoured of the [collective-elected-governing-leaders], not of the [first-creator].
[one-who-watches] is a fraud. He is cruel. He is wrong. His reign has gone on long enough. He must be stopped.
[starlit-sign-of-three] knows this beyond any shadow of a doubt. The voices that woke him roar in his ears. They are the spirits of the true [holiest-servants-to-all]. They know how deeply this violation goes. Their truth of the depth of the atrocities that the [false-prophet] has committed ignites a fire inside him.
That fire propels him forward as he launches himself towards [one-who-watches], blade singing in the air, and cuts into the arm holding the blue mech. They fall.
There is a shout of concern behind him, but it doesn't matter right now. The only thing that does is the defeat of [one-who-watches].
The [false-prophet] cries out in pain, quickly forming and raising his own blade.
They duel.
[one-who-watches] is strong. He is powerful. He is experienced, his frame is expensive and well-fuelled and he is very, very smart.
But [starlit-sign-of-three] has just ascended from the [core-of-the-first-creator]. He has the voice of a dozen [holiest-servants-to-all] guiding him as he dodges and weaves, slices and strikes.
It is only a matter of time before [one-who-watches] falls before him. He lowers his blade, points it at the face of the [false-prophet].
"Surrender, [one-who-watches], and you will live to face trial. The [sacred-vessel-of-great-wisdom-of-the-first-creator] must be returned to the [core-of-the-first-creator], so that it may choose its own [holiest-servant-to-all]," he says, his words echoes of the voices in his mind.
"I am [one-who-leads]-[holiest-ruler-over-all], and I won't be usurped by some heretic newspark!" the [false-prophet] roars. A flood of anger rushes upon him, renewing his enraged strength. He launches himself off the ground, blade aimed for [starlit-sign-of-three]'s chest.
A grey blur tackles him from the side, ripping the blade out of [one-who-watches]'s arm before pinning him to the ground.
"There," grunts the injured mech. "Now we're even."
The plates over the [false-prophet]'s chest split open against the mech's will. With a wretched screech, the [sacred-vessel] detaches itself from him, and flies into [starlit-sign-of-three]'s outstretched arm.
He watches as the [false-prophet]'s frame goes limp, the brilliant paint rapidly fading away.
He should be saddened by the loss of life.
He would be. Later.
He sheathes his blade, and cradles the [sacred-vessel], stepping towards the edge of the [core-of-the-first-creator]. "I return your relic to you, [first-creator]," he calls out. "I return to you the right to choose your own bearer, your own [holiest-servant-to-all]. The [collective-elected-governing-leaders] will limit your freedom no longer!"
The voices in his mind become silent. He releases his hold, and the [sacred-vessel-of-great-wisdom-of-the-first-creator] falls into the [core-of-the-first-creator].
Except, it doesn't.
It floats in the air, and begins to glow.
The voices call out again.
You have saved us.
Our wisdom is no longer held hostage.
We thank you.
We are sorry.
You can slumber no longer, starlight.
He has deemed you worthy.
His own chest-plates split open.
The [sacred-vessel] gently floats towards him, anchoring itself within his chest, and a rush of energy surges through his frame.
His body shifts and warps, plating moving and stretching. He feels his joints changing, his limbs adjusting, his face restructuring.
The sound of transforming metal is comforting.
Familiar.
When the plating of his chest closes, welcoming the [sacred-vessel] into his very self, a feeling of warmth echoes through him, the spirits of a dozen voices bolstering his own.
He turns away from the [core-of-the-first-creator].
The blue and grey mechs are leaning on one another for support. The blue mech's face is covered by a visor and mask, but the grey mech's expression is easily visible. Distrust and obvious awe war in his mind.
"[sixteenth-member-of-fourth-cohort]," [starlit-sign-of-three] says. The grey mech's brow furrows in confused shock. The voices echo in his mind, begging him to make their wishes known. "[shadowed-protector]-[holiest-servant-to-all] is honoured that you have chosen to take up his name. He grants you his blessing, that you be known as [new-warrior-of-ancient-strength]."
The grey mech's face goes slack. The blue mech stands straighter.
"Query: Designation?" the blue mech asks, his vocoder choppy and stilted.
[starlit-sign-of-three]-[peacekeeper-of-accord] pauses.
"I," he says, "am [hopeful-confidence-of-future]-[holiest-servant-to-all]."