Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"If you place a file and something that could eliminate the file in a room and sealed it, you would not know if the file were there or not there until you opened the room, so until the room was opened, the file was both "there or not there".

You see, the most important part of starting a story is certainly establishing the sequence of events.  
Not very simple if you have no idea at all about the story you want to write, don't even have a character in mind, and simply need to write something by today because your brain is in a creative phase and you can't waste a single moment or the inspiration will fly away like the wind and the writer's block will come back armed with a crowbar to mess things up.  
Not to mention the anxiety that builds up because the deadline is approaching and you absolutely have to send something to your publisher by tomorrow afternoon, otherwise you could lose your contract with the publishing house.  

The procrastination monkey is a nasty beast, and finding yourself with less than 24 hours to write a successful plot draft is not exactly the best idea I've ever had, but you know how it is, you can't have everything in life, right?
The Word page staring back at you, white like your face in panic, the cursor bar staring at you menacingly as if it wanted to hit you on the head for your stupidity. 

Who says the pen is mightier than the sword? 
I say it’s definitely worse when the blank page stares at you angrily, judging because it knows perfectly well that you should have started earlier, but no! 
That new game you’d wanted for so long was released, then there were new chapters of your favorite fanfic and scrolling on Instagram, the YouTube videos…

The procrastination monkey was giggling, banging the plates with joy. 
That bastard was having fun as if it were carnival, damn it! But he wouldn’t let it win! Screw the monkey and its neon pink hat! He would manage to complete his draft and submit it on time, no matter the amount of caffeine needed, the cramps in his hands, or the honestly ridiculous amount of swearing, he would win!

Rubbing his fingers, he reached out toward the keyboard.  
One of his favorites, honestly, with the tall keys that made a hell of a noise every time you pressed them. Unusable in an office but extremely relaxing and cathartic; when typing, you felt like a typist pounding out an old manuscript, an invaluable feeling.  

Ah, how wonderful it was to work from home, where no one could complain about noises.  

Yes, he could start exactly with that! A 1950s typist who, tired of working in court transcribing word by word what was said, decides to use his skills to write a detective novel inspired by the cases he had transcribed!  
It would be a huge success!

Ignoring the little monkey, he began to write.  
The words seemed to flow like water from his fingers as he immersed himself in the life of that weary typist who lived alone in a small, gray apartment in New York with his gray cat Leo.  

It seemed that everything was finally starting to go the right way, until Leo decided to jump onto his desk.  
Leo was a bit of a chubby cat, with beautiful gray tabby fur and very cute pink paw pads; his only flaw was that he was a bit clumsy.
Jumping onto the desk, in fact, he had slipped on some papers that had knocked over the pen holder, which had rolled over, moving the computer speakers that had destabilized the coffee cup he had been sipping from until that moment.

Thinking about it carefully, he should have written it earlier for the continuity of the text and as foreshadowing, but that would have taken away the element of surprise that was about to come.

In fact, the coffee cup had been poorly placed near the edge of the table, and, to save it from a disastrous fall that would probably have broken the cup and spilled coffee everywhere, he moved clumsily to try to save it. 
Catching it on the fly, he let out a sigh of relief, but, for some strange reason, the little monkey kept giggling, banging those damn plates as if witnessing the funniest thing in the world.

It was only while trying to pull himself up that he realized why the little monkey was laughing. 

Note for kids at home: always and very frequently save Word documents, especially if you have to draft a plot to send to your editor in less than 24 hours so you don't lose your work.

You see, he had managed to write a full 10 pages before that fatso of a cat caused that disastrous domino, which ended in that stalemate situation. 
Moving to grab the coffee cup, triggered by the computer speakers, because of the fallen pen holder, caused by his fat cat's butt slipping on some papers, had trapped the chair in the computer power cables. His current situation could easily be summarized by Erwin Rudolf Josef Alexander Schrödinger with one of his most famous experiments: Schrödinger's file.

Except that, in this case, the dilemma did not depend on a box, but on the wobbly chair, wrapped like a sausage around the tangled bundle of wires that included the computer's power supply. 
In fact, the file with the draft of his work, which, of course, he had not saved before the coffee cup situation arose, both existed and did not exist at the same time, just like his future as an author. If he moved the wrong way, he could fall, unplug the power cable, spill coffee on the wires or, even worse, all three.

The dilemma of choice was paralyzing, a primal terror driven by survival that battled logic to get out of that unhealthy experiment while that damn little monkey kept laughing.

Featuring in the next chapter:

Tall majestic golden buildings reflect multicolor lights on their surface through the metallic city, a beacon of light in a world of darkness, with refined architecture and the superfine decorations surrounding the passers-by who crossed the centre of the city.
The roar of engines resonating through the metal combines with the screech of transformation gears with a constant background melody, a sweet music, rhythmic like the heartbeat, which seems to want to envelop everything around it in a tender embrace.

[...]

Damn Primus and his fucking 13 knock-off apostles!

What in the actual fuck?

Chapter Text

"Anything that can go wrong will go wrong."

Wait… something is missing here!

Even if he fell he should see his bedroom roof, not whatever this metallic ambiance shit is!

And metallic it was, everywhere, in every corner of his field of vision.
From the bare metallic walls rising upward like a narrow corridor surrounded by dozens of towering buildings that seemed to stretch infinitely toward the sky, which was no sky. There were no clouds or stars, nor blue or any other color that ought to be there, strange alien structures of a thousand colors descended like crystals in an ancient cave.

Sometimes I honestly wonder if the universe is trying to fuck me over... Because, even if you look for it in the most fucking hidden corners of creation, it becomes difficult to find a logical explanation for this situation!

Bright side?
It seems that damn monkey has finally stopped laughing, so he at least has the mental silence to be able to compose a series of meaningful thoughts

Downside?
This whole situation…

What in the actual, most sincere fuck is all of this?
Is he dreaming? Hallucinating?
Honestly, I doubt it, mostly because, if I were having hallucinations, I would have them properly, without plot holes or doubts that confuse a poor reader who is just trying to read a story.

So wtf is this?

Some kind of transmigration plot hole shit?

It still wouldn’t make any fucking sense!
Usually there is always some sort of reason that goes to justify a multidimensional journey with the choice of a specific individual among billions…
But nothing, absolutely fucking nothing!

No System, no pact with gods, no soul seeking revenge or a prophecy to fulfill, literally nothing!

One moment he was there, nice, comfy and teetering in his apartment
In the other he was here, in this generic metallic somewhere.

Solution?  
Just stay there, on the ground, empty inside like a deflated balloon, with the world above him continuing to move, indifferent to his useless existence…

Tall majestic golden buildings that reflect multicolor lights on their surface through the metallic city, a beacon of light in a world of darkness, with refined architecture and the superfine decorations surrounding the passers-by who crossed the centre of the city.

The roar of engines resonating through the metal combines with the screech of transformation gears with a constant background melody…

Ok, thinking about it, maybe this is not some generic metallic somewhere..

As if wanting to tease him, a flying vehicle passes overhead, slowing down before transforming into a bipedal form and landing on the third building to his right in order of height.

Yes, he's definitely fucked.  

Fragged, staying on theme. 

But let's stay calm!

He shuts off his brain, allowing his mind to expand and wander in a futile attempt to rationalize everything while letting out a sigh he's been holding in for who knows how long.  

Thinking about that… I do wonder how many respiratory acts a transformer has…

Why the hell do they even need to breathe? 

What the hell do they breathe, since they’re made of metal?

Following his line of thought, he feels as if he is losing something in his reasoning…
Some sort of detail that at first glance seems irrelevant but, in the end, ends up completely changing your view of the world with a revelation that opens new doors for the narrative...  

In hindsight, the amount of time it took him to realize that something was off is honestly embarrassing…  

The revelation comes like a flash, while the worm of doubt was digging into his reasoning.  

Mentally, there is a second of silence… For a brief, tiny instant, pure silence.  

Then, like a sudden shower of icy water, he can feel every part of his body freezing; his fingers seem to freeze, immobilized as if in ice.

Wait a fucking second…
Geography isn't exactly my strong subject but I am sure of one thing: I’m definitely not on Earth!

So, how in the Holy Primus am I fucking breathing?

Calm down, if we've survived until now it shouldn't be toxic, in theory, right?
He forces himself to release the breath that had been stuck in his nose, letting in the air that smells of electricity and metal.

Ozone? 

Iron?

For the first time, he decides to move, bringing his hand to the mouth, too bad the hand that’s moving is made of shiny metal. 
Upon realizing this, the hand stops halfway, still suspended in the air, slowly bending the fingers following the commands from his brain.

Logically, the next immediate move is to check that the middle finger works. 

It does.

Ok, now he has nice metal hands, how about the rest?

The metal he's lying on is cold to the touch, but his skin is warm, with a texture vaguely reminiscent of mouse pads, creating an interesting contrast between metals to which he might return to wander later.  

The tips of his fingers glide in exploration along his cheeks, like explorers searching for a new world, tracing his alien yet familiar features.  

His glasses have been replaced with a visor that covers the scar on his robotic nose, and his beard has been replaced with... a metallic beard?  

Okay, here’s yet another point to add to the 'think about it later' box.  

Letting out a sigh of relief at the partial familiarity, despite the absurdity of the situation, he is surprised to notice how warm his breath is.  

Logically, it makes sense; after all, it should more or less be like the air coming out of a computer, right?

But let's not get lost in technicalities, let's stay focused and, above all, calm.

Damn Primus and his fucking 13 knock-off apostles!!!

What in the actual fuck?

No, we just said to stay calm…  

Getting back to us, after making sure that yes, we can breathe holy Primus I am a fucking space alien robot!, the first step should be to do a proper secondary head-to-toe assessment.  
This is because we are lying on the ground somewhere(possible spinal trauma) and have no idea where, how, why, what we are or why the hell we are there (possible sign of head trauma).

The most ridiculous thing about all this is that I have absolutely no idea if an alien robot can even suffer from such injuries!

But let's stay calm!

Exventing slowly the first focus on his sight.
There are things that float in his vision like small, unidentifiable writings and icons in a strange font he can’t comprehend. The letters look blocky and all attached one to the other without many spaces in between and reminds him a bit of hieroglyphics.

They are red and multiuniversally that’s usually a bad sight!
So, let's get this over and see if we can get ourselves up without creating more of these!

First the head or helm if you want to be accurate

It’s in its place

Above the visor he can feel a crest with clearly semi-movable parts, similar to eyebrows and behind them, on both sides of the head, there are some kind of antennas connected to hemispherical boxes on the sides of the head, probably for sound processing. 

The occipital part of the head seems to be made up of a series of overlapping plates similar to armadillos or roly-poly. 

No pain, but strangely metallic and movable. 

Fuuuuuuck 

We'll think about that later…

Then there’s the neck and the shoulder. What do they call it? 

To the touch, it has a structure more rigid than the facial derma, still overlapping plates but more flexible, no identifiable damage. Trying to tilt the head doesn’t seem to cause any pain 

Do robots also get spinal injuries????

We’ve said later…

Touching the chest/chassis with hands it has a fucking metal chest doesn’t seem to show anything that hurts or exposed wires

His abdomen (Mid-section plating?) it's in the same material as the neck. 

It’s metal and it doesn’t hurt, yay.

Finishing all with his very robotic limbs we can now officially say that they move and are also made of metal!

Perfect, we are alive, sentient robots from the planet Cybertron, we don’t seem to have any new alien notification in our field of vision and everything is perfectly fine!

No, nothing is fine at all.. But let's not panic!

Yes, we are in an unknown place but, fortunately, it seems we are not injured! Or at least nothing really hurts!

And yes, I use the Pluralis Majestatis when I talk to myself, any problems?

So it could be worse, right?

In retrospect, it would have been better to stay silent…

Because, evidently, Murphy's law applies on a multiuniversal level:

No matter what form or place you are in,
if something can go wrong, it will!

A scream, a male voice that seems to be approaching.

A voice that seems to be approaching very, very quickly from above.

He barely has time to raise his eyes to see a red and blue screaming metal guy before falling again the sweet embrace of unconsciousness

Fuck, again?

Feels like now he has become like Dante*

Featuring, in the next chapter:

If that was supposed to be a flashback, it totally sucked!  
What in the Unicron was that crappy knockoff of King Arthur and the round table?  
And don’t even get me started on that tentacle hentai nightmare…  

[...]

Oh, frag!

Scrapping frag!!

Holy Primus frag!!!

Wasn’t that shadow-shit in IDW!?!?!?!

Chapter Text

" A phenomenon where a significant number of people remember an event or detail differently from how it actually occurred, 
often leading to shared false memories."

A tower of gold, where thirteen figures of pure light sit at a round table. 

Sparks of a thousand colors illuminate the sky, the music echoing in the air along with joyful energy.  

A friendly pat on the shoulder, a blurred figure at the edge of your field of vision.  

Blades of grass standing out against the warm colors of the sunset, alien in an alien world.  

The smell of decay assaults his olfactory receptors, the organic matter decomposing and contaminating the planet.  

A slimy shadow moves in the darkness; you cannot turn on a light, it would find you, you can only hope it doesn’t notice you.
Something is moving but it’s not you, nor the rescuers who might never arrive. It crushes and tightens, wrapping itself around everything it finds, disgusting, slimy, damp organic matter.

It ends in an instant just as it began.
The details vanish into nothingness, much like when one awakens after a long night. 

After all, it is only a dream, is it not?

If that was supposed to be a flashback, it totally sucked!  

What in the Unicron was that crappy knockoff of King Arthur and the round table?  
And don’t even get me started on that tentacle hentai nightmare…  

A void darkness and soulless emptiness enveloped everything
No sound or noise to be heard, no color to be seen

Then light, a deep voice calling for him for the distance

-Scrap, can you hear me? Are you online?-

Definitely not Primus, then…
Opening his optics, something feels different… More centered, there is the right glyph.  
His HUD is clean, without the traces of errors that he can only now recognize from his memories. An icon at margin blinks insistently, signaling an expired memo while his internal chronometer seems to be in calibration mode.  
He remembers the panic, the dysphoria between his human body and the metallic one, the subtle differences in perception and the red and blue bot that flew at him.
And yet he felt oddly calm and quite comfortable, like a pea in its pod.
Exvent
Invent

Now he sees them. There are two bots hovering over him from the end of his bed.
They do look vaguely familiar, probably side characters.
Some kind of menacingly looking bots with flyer alt mode accompanied by a complete mask-visor set that would be envied in the 2019 era. It must be said that Gold-yellow-visor-bot and Dark-red- visor-bot both look pretty nervous…

-See? I told you not to play with the miner… -

Ok, perfect, I understand the language, that would have been the last drop. 
Wait a click, miner? 

-Ssssh, someone might hear you! I absolutely cannot afford to lose my job!-

Awesome, he should start keeping a diary: Day 1
Guy-bot covers up a work accident by blaming a minor
Just great!
The room is nice, though

Actually, lying down as he is, he can't exactly fully discern the details of the room, but at least the beth is comfortable. The camber is simple yet both elegant and sober, with light metallic walls and minimalist furniture that vaguely reminded him of a human hospital. Something is slowly dropping outside is sightrange but he is too comfy in that position, so surely is not that important.
The two bots continue their worried japping without even noticing the fact that he's awake, rude.
Next time don’t drop people on other people!
The doors slide open and a new bot enters the room
It’s one of the girl one, femmes, i think there called
She has a beautiful aqua green paintjob, a color he thinks kinda of resembles a human nurse's uniform and kind, warm blue optics that immediately light up noticing that he’s awake.

 -Happy to see that you got out of stasis! My denomination is Lifeline, your medi-bot, pleasure to finally get to know you! -

Frag, I hope Cybertronian healthcare doesn’t need some sort of insurance…
On a different note, I do wonder if they use the equivalent of WD40 spray for a sore throat…

The other two immediately stand up, realizing only now that he is awake and that he has probably been eavesdropping on all their conversations for who knows how long.

- How do you feel? You took quite a hit.-

Hit? Technically i would say crushed, but those are details

- I would say I'm a little sore but I think I'm good to go! -

Ok, she really doesn't have a particularly convinced expression.  
Indeed, her gaze was scrutinizing him with doubt, then turned to scrutinize the two bots in the room with an exasperated look.  

-For the love of Primus, you two are still here? This is a hospital, not the enforcers' headquarters! He is still recovering and I have no intention of discussing private health information with agents present. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until he is discharged from the hospital to request your formal deposition. Now I would kindly ask you to leave the clinic!-

Well, at least they have the decency to look sorry!
The two leave without making too much of a fuss, with the rear spoiler between their legs

-Please excuse me, but these are matters that fall under the doctor-patient confidentiality. I preferred to avoid discussing them with the agents present… -

The shift in tone between 'annoying bot' and 'patient' is something that should be studied in depth.  

-Could you tell me your designation? -

He sounds sweet, with a trace of worry lighting up his eyes, a shame he's too caught up in panic to notice. Yet, as his excuses and nervousness increase, her smile becomes increasingly sad, as if she already knows the answer. 

- I'm very sorry, unfortunately we didn't arrive in time. The degradation process of the databases was far too extensive and advanced; even stopping the infection, the files have been permanently corrupted. -

A moment of silence

-No, I am sorry… What? -

It's unclear whether she didn't hear me or is looking for the quickest and least painful way to rip off the weld allowing the med-bot to refocus its attention on its patient, who certainly wished for nothing more than to find himself in that situation.

- Luckily we were able to preserve the basic motor functions and, most importantly, your personality core is unhaltered. While you were unconscious we run a major diagnostic and reinstalled all of the main secondary function programs -

This clarifies absolutely fucking nothing! What in the fucking Primus is she talking about?

- What in the fucking Primus are you talking about?-

In her defense, it honestly seems like she is trying her best.

-I'm sorry I know this doesn't really explain anything right now but I hope I can help you understand in a click…From our records, it appears that your denomination is REA-2907. You have been infected by a powerful virus that has attacked the logical-neuronal pathways of your processor, causing severe degradation of memory files...-

-What? How?-

Since fragging when??

-This is a virus created by the Quintessentials during the war.  
It causes a slow deterioration of files in long-term memory databases, managing to erase even backup files. It works gradually, like a poison: at first, you forget trivial things, and gradually it worsens to the point of total loss of identity and the deletion of basic self-preservation files.  
One forgets how to read and write, walk, move, and speak, until even the spark can no longer sustain life. Only empty, gray shells remained.-

As the story progressed, the light in her eyes seemed to fade, as if she was lost in distant memories.
Her shoulders would slump in defeat, only to recover with the continuation of the narration of those events that had occurred many cycles ago.

-Fortunately, Chromedome, a brilliant mnenosurgeon, succeeded in creating an effective antivirus that could halt this deterioration process. Thanks to his invention, thousands of lives have been saved from the cruelty of the Quintessentials! -

Wait a nanoclick… 

Chromedome?
That name does sound oddly familiar... Where did I hear that before?
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t in TFO
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmh, something is metal fishy here…

-But, the war is over, isn’t it? How did I get this virus then?-

She remained silent for a moment, thinking about it, tapping the point of her digit over the datapad’s cover

-It could come from the surface… It’s one of the reasons why I wanted to discuss it with you in private. Only Sentinel Prime and his guards are allowed to go there and, since the virus doesn’t have any known means of transmission between mechs and it can only be transmitted from organic matter to non-organic… Do perhaps you remember working or coming in contact with any kind of surface-related material? -
He shakes his head in denial

-I don’t really remember …-

If we don’t consider my stasis induced hallucination 

-A pity… I think it is best for you to rest a bit more, the antivirus work can be a little tiring and consuming. I’ll come back with your ration later, ok?

Oh, good, privacy 
Lets dot the i and cross the t

1

• Since when does this kind of extremely convenient in-universe reason exist for my “amnesia”?
• Why did nobody talked about the virus in the film?
• Does it not work on miners? 

2

• Who the frag is this Chromedrome guy?
• What the hell is a mnemosurgeon?

3

• Why did the quintessos not make the virus transmittable between mechs?
• How stupid are they?
• What if they made it work like COVID? Bam, all Transformers dead!

Primus its almost like they did it so bad on purpose

No, wait a click… It doen't add up!

Oh, frag!
Scrapping frag!!
Holy Primus frag!!!

I connected the dots and I really don't like what comes out...

Wasn’t that shadow-shit in IDW!?!?!?!
I wouldn't know, haven read that yet so, you could say that… idk idw, XD

Yes, we are now officialy pretty much fragged!

This is Transformers One continuity, right?

Right?

Featuring, in the next chapter:

“A guide in 25 simple steps to have your finish shiny like Sentinel Prime”  

I swear by Primus, who may sit upon me if I lie, that it does exist.

[...]

There’s actually a fine line between classy and tacky, and clearly, the Primes used it for bungee jumping.

Chapter Text

" The amount of energy needed to refute bullshit is an order of magnitude bigger than that needed to produce it. "

"At the dawn of time there was our gracious and powerful creator, Primus.

To protect our universe he sacrificed his life force, transforming himself into our planet, Cybertron.

From within Cybertron core Primus birthed the first Transformers, known as the Primes…

The most powerful transformers, appointed to lead and protect future generations.

To assist them, Primus created an entity with great power, the Matrix of Leadership.

With the Matrix in the Primes possession, Cybertron’s natural power source, Energon, flowed in abundance, sustaining life across the planet.

For generations, there was peace and prosperity, until the Matrix of Leadership was lost, causing Energon to no longer flow.

Our leader and last remaining Prime, Sentinel Prime, is tirelessly searching for the lost Matrix on the dangerous and poisoned surface of Cybertron in hope of restoring the natural balance and bringing back the flow on Energon. "

Glyphs that fade into the semitransparent surface of the datapad, empty words, virtually identical to hundreds of others. Even here, surrounded by seemingly endless shelves that stretch as far as the eye can see, filled with datapads containing ancient knowledge that seems to permeate those ancient halls built many cycles ago, you can't find a damn thing!
I'm not asking for “A 10-step guide if you get turned into an alien robot and end up on a planet under a totalitarian regime”, but at least one, just one fragging source that's not just Sentinel propaganda?
Did they manage to alter or erase all records from before his rise?
I don't think so. But they sure made it nearly impossible to find anything!
Who the hell manages this file organization system?
Because there's literally politics on every shelf, including body care manuals! 
“A 25-step guide to keep your finish sparkling like a Prime” 
I swear on Primus, may they sit on me if I'm lying, it does exist!

But we are forgetting a piece of the story in all of this.
Yes, he got officially discharged and now he is free to explore not all of Cybertron. So he basically got a few thousand shanix from the “Shadowplay fund” and a kick up is aft.
We are officially back on the job market!
Hey! Just another day on fragging Cybertron! Hey, hey, hey! Frag my life…

But, considering the average cost per day of the less-price Energon ratione and the soon to be change in leadership, I am not completely sure I should invest time and money on the job market.
Better to be prepared for the worst and actually learn something of this world (even just discovering which continuity is this would be nice)
So he ended up in the only place he could think of to find the information he was looking for: the Iacon's Archives.  
Magnificent, majestic, huge, and full of junk.  
At least I can say that the reading program Lifeline gave me works, even if right now I need a tank full of mental bleach.

Speaking seriously, one might wonder whether this is a brilliant manipulative strategy to control the information available to citizens or sheer incompetence in file management.
In very rare cases, once every three thousand years, these two phenomena merge during the alignment of the Kicaan stars, opening a portal to another dimension… Oops, wrong fandom!

It is probably a rare combination of both incompetence and manipulation that, inadvertently, pushes the narrative even more in favor of the regime.
All of this can be determined simply by looking at the average competence of government employees (see: enforcers that blame a miner while dropping it themself on my head).
And yeah, I'm still pissed about it!

Since we didn’t find absolutely any cosmic shit of use, we move on to the next section.  
Thanks to the Iacon archives for giving us a handy holographic map in IKEA style with the classic red dot and the words “you are here”… Cybertronians, after all, are a highly advanced alien race, I would like to remind readers at home.  
According to our map, the next step in our probably futile search for information is to visit the holographic archives on the upper floor.

Footsteps echoes across the golden surfaces of the archives, and as one glances from one shelf to another, it becomes apparent that, with the exception of a few small support droids assigned to place datapads on their respective shelves, the building is practically empty.  
It makes sense.  

Knowledge is power, and the best way to control others is through ignorance.  
If no one ever asks questions, no one will ever uncover Sentinel's lies, and the status quo will remain unchanged.  

However, there is something good about this whole situation…
The architecture!
Because, let’s be honest, Sentinel may be a self-centered, egocentric, treacherous, turncoat bastard, but at least he doesn’t construct buildings out of solid gold.
His tower, which is destroyed at the end of the film? It also existed in Alpha Trion’s memories, meaning it had already been there! Just like the Archives.
And do you want to know what these two buildings have in common? An honestly embarrassing amount of gold!
There is, in fact, a thin line between regal and tacky, and apparently, the Primes used it for bungee jumping.  
Can you realize that even the elevator is fucking gold? Who the hell is the Prime responsible for the architecture? Solus?  
Okay, we get that your spouse is emo, but this is overcompensating!

The elevator doors open, and he is genuinely surprised to notice the absence of the goldness he had complained about just a moment before.  
The lower floor was welcoming, constantly bathed in golden light, with large windows and lofty decorated vaults that inspired confidence and tranquility.  
Now, the impression given by the archives is entirely different.  

The environment is dark and confined, with bare and cold metal that seems to want to fold inward. The few visible shelves hold datapads and video chips arranged in a random, disorderly manner, covered with a thick layer of dust that he never thought could exist in this metallic world.
A series of distant sounds break the silence, a vaguely familiar voice pierced by glitches, like a compromised and corrupted recording to the point of making it impossible to discern any words. Even before managing to pinpoint its exact origin, it stops.

There are a few moments of silence; nothing seems to move in that room shrouded in dim light. Then the voice starts speaking again. This time stable with clear words, some kind of record, projected from afar by a holoterminal whose blue light seems to illuminate the dusty shelves as if it were daylight.

It is difficult to understand exactly what he is talking about.
The voice is warm and deep, yet at the same time distant, and one is compelled to move closer, though even walking is difficult in that room. Boxes are arranged randomly on the floor, which does not even appear to be completely finished. It is as if someone needed to hurriedly take away these datapad and hide them in such an inhospitable place that no one would ever find them. Gradually, as he slowly approaches, the voice grows stronger and certain words become discernible, while the ancient voice continues its narration, speaking of Prime, Energon, and the Matrix.

Step by step in the darkness softened by the bluish light of the holo, a tingling begins to itch the back of his processor, an annoying and sharp sensation that circulates through his databases, tickling his memory files.  
A Deja-vu, a glitch in the matrix…  
Ok, maybe I'm getting a bit carried away with quotes.

A groan, a kind exasperated voice 

-Why does every legend about the Matrix end right here? one of these has to say what happened…

It would be enough to turn the corner to see what it was, but a strange buzzing stops him before taking the last step. He retreats into the shadow, guided by pure instinct, a visceral sense of danger running through his processor.  

There was something else in that room…

-Halt criminal! prepare to be detained!

It's just a security drone, the voice electric and monotone, a machine without emotions or empathy addressing the bot hidden from its view.  
The relief is brief. A series of metallic noises indicating a brief scuffle, the alarm echoing in the darkness, footsteps that seem to want to retreat before a door opens a short distance away, illuminating the nearby shelves with white light.  
Heavy footsteps come out of the elevator, a high-powered flashlight beam illuminating the gray room, highlighting the twisted shadows of the naked, cold bare metal. The two new arrivals tower over the messy shelves as they march determinedly toward the mysterious bot passionate about holovideo.

-Freeze! Get down!
Instinct tells him to check what they are doing, so he crouches down, crawling along the shelves to get closer, being careful not to knock anything over.

-Well, hello, guys! I’m glad you’re here!-

You see? That's the voice of someone about to spout a bunch of gobbledygook

-Which way is the exit? I must have taken the wrong turn…-

Called it…

-Is that defective miner bot, Oreo Pex!

Oh, ok

-Orion Pax-

Wait what?
Peeking from behind the shelf, he can see a small blue and red figure slowly retreating toward an inevitable dead end, trying to appease the two significantly larger bots in front of him.
Oh frag!

-Who cares? We told you to never come back!-

Two brainless, enraged bots with wings approaching the protagonist threateningly, cornering him
Is this the fragging beginning of the film?

-Why are we yelling? I’m gonna smash him!-

From behind and against the light, he can't see any particular distinguishing features between the two, but they still appear fairly menacing...

Yap, it’s definetly the beginning of the film!

-Hold on! Whoa, whoa, hold on! No need for violence!-

Our protagonist is officially trapped… Should I do something about this? 

-How about this: I run, you chase me. We play that game, huh?-

I mean, it’s not like he’s going to be hurt by this… We wouldn't want to ruin the course of history, don’t we?

-Come on! You're bigger, faster! It’ll be fun!-

I mean... It's a little mean no do nothing, but I'd risk changing things later on…

-Why not? It’s not like he can transform! Just be careful not to drop him this time-

Drop him?
Are those those carrierfragging* mindless brutes? Gold-yellow-visor-bot and Dark-red-visor-bot?
Frag the story and frag the universe! I’m going to make those two suffer!

-Officers! Where were you, for the love of Primus?-

At the sudden noise, the two spin around abruptly in your direction as you slowly approach, cutting off the escape route planned by the miner, who looks very confused. 

-Uhm…-

At the sight of him, the two enforcers freeze for a moment, then exchange worried glances.
Fear me, you butterfingered bastards!
A tiny seed of evil takes root in his processor, growing with every step he takes until it blooms into a beautiful flower of pure cruelty and malevolence. Is there perhaps a worse punishment for inattentive and incompetent functionalist racists?
Karma is a bitch! You should have known better!

-Uhm… What? Did the turbofox eat your tongue? I asked where were you two?-

He’s going to have sooo much fun with them…

-Just outside sir…

The first to answer me is Dark-red-visor-bot, who tries to smooth things over. Too bad I absolutely don’t want things smoothed over.

-Liar! If you really were “Just outside” it shouldn't have taken you this long to get here! 5.7 nanoclicks is an embarrassing amount of time! Is this how you enforcers are supposed to protect our city and its citizens?

Perfectly in character, I start to gesture animatedly, increasingly drawing the attention of the two enforcers.

-We were in our break time sir..

I can't believe it…

-Break time? What kind of pathetic excuse is that? “Oh, the quintessos returned but we didn’t notice because we were on our break time…” I’m going to file a complaint! Call me Karen, because I want to speak with your manager! -

The two bots, large and big as they are, seem to shrink at my words, filled with terror.
I suppose some things never change...

-No, no, it’s just…

He tries to justify himself but nothing is going to work!
There's no peace in this world, and above all, no one ever drops the main character on my head!

-And don’t get me started with the incident! You two are really lucky I got away with a minor injury! I wonder what would happen if I should drop the matter on your supervisor… -

Just a couple of inflections in the right spot are enough to have them practically at my feet, terrified, begging with varying degrees of pity for me not to tell their supervisor the details of the incident. All of this unfolds through the cyan and increasingly confused optics of our protagonist, who seems almost paralyzed by the dementia of the events he is witnessing. Not good.

-If an opportunity comes your way, you really should take it on the run! -

Fortunately, Orion catches my hint before the two state employees of questionable usefulness, and, in an instant, slips away to freedom. It takes a moment before the two enforcers start the chase, allowing Orion to gain a few precious moments of advantage over his pursuers. A few clicks and he was already out of the archives, hanging on the security droid he had stunned earlier.  

Oh... ok...and to think I had even prepared a nice little speech… I suppose our meeting with the protagonist will have to wait.  

Whistling in a completely non-suspicious way, he then decides to leave that section of the archives alone, at least for today. After all, we wouldn’t want those two to come back pissed off for letting the fish slip right under their noses, would we?

The elevator’s return journey is calm.
Despite the semi-transparent surface of the shaft, he can’t see the pursuit so Orion must have gotten away.
A feeling of heaviness presses on his chest, anxiety crackling beneath his plating like a discharge of latent electricity. A strange feeling of urgency screaming subtly from nothing saying that he needs to get away immediately!
The ground floor, with all its gold and light and a welcoming view, after the events upstairs. Silence fills the empty halls as he crosses them, the only audible sounds being the hum of maintenance drones and his footsteps echoing through the vacant rooms.
Step by step, he approaches the large doors leading to the archives exit. Anxiety rises, urging him to hurry, to get the hell out as soon as possible, but to do so without drawing too much attention…
Who says maintenance drones aren’t equipped with cameras?
Who says someone isn’t watching him right this minute?

The logical part of his processor says that it's nonsense and that he's paranoid. There's no reason to have such worries; after all, everything is calm.
The instinctive part of his brain screams at him to remain constantly vigilant. So, mentally whistling, he walks down the road toward the exit without hurry, trying not to show the urgency that was gripping his spark. Everything was going well.

-Thank you for choosing the Icon Archives, were you able to find anything of your interest?-

If I was a dishonest bot, I would say that I wasn't surprised by the appearance of that mysterious voice coming from a short distance away, which had gone unnoticed in his scan of the surrounding environment given its size.
But, since he is an honest bot, I admit I almost had a spark attack.
Primus hates me, doesn’t he?
It’s a small-sized bot, very small… Probably a minicon. The fact that they’ve never appeared on screen in TFO doesn’t mean they can’t exist, right?
A yellow reflective visor covers its optics, and the mask covers the face from the light, almost white helmet with small lights and reddish details. Purely from appearance and body language, it seems to have a fairly friendly demeanor… ...

-Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you! My name is Rewind, can I help you in any way?

Actually, he has the name tag on his chest, my bad for not thinking about it earlier! Of course the Transformers have name tags like Walmart employees!!

- Not at the moment, thanks for the thought

- No problem! After all, it’s my job!

Wasn’t he also an IDW character? The one who records everything who’s like Chromedome’s husband?
It’s actually kind of weird how he’s running into all these IDW characters…

Exiting the archives, one is greeted by the crisp and lively air of Iacon. Its inhabitants live their lives peacefully today as they did yesterday, in the quiet monotony of daily life. Unaware of the lies they live in and the falsehoods they are told every day. Some go to work, others go shopping, some meet friends, and others can’t wait to return home to their hab for a bit of well-deserved rest.
The train heading towards the mines screeches against the rails, deliberately ignored by those who live off the work of others without caring, and step by step one ends up getting lost in the crowd.
His hab is not too far from the station.
A small temporary accommodation kindly provided by Sentinel Prime as part of the “thanks for no longer being a problem for my regime” fund.

The automatic doors open onto the empty, bare apartment. Gray on gray, a void in his spark that clashes as if he senses that something is not as it should be. The day is still young, yet his steps are heavy, and he can't wait to close the optics and let himself drift into unconsciousness.
He slumps into his only chair, turning on the holographic projector that starts to broadcast some sort of recreational program. Normally, he would be excited to try even the most mundane thing in this alien and unknown world, but no matter how hard he tries to focus, his processor seems unable to register even a fragment of what he sees.
It's nothing more than another method of propaganda and control.
Give them something else to think about, keep their processors busy so they don't ask questions.

One, two, three, four programs scroll before his eyes like in an eternal instant stretched to infinity, a sensation of lethargy that seems to wrap around him like a weighted blanket impossible to remove. Three days have passed since he woke up and he still hasn't managed to do anything useful at all…
Damn, he's really useless!
The projector lights up with a brighter tone and a new voice, a terrible and familiar voice, officially signaling the beginning of everything.

- Is it on? Okay, thank you. Hello, my friends! Hello, Iacon City! Hello to our saviors, the industrious miners who toil selflessly to maintain our Energon reserves! I celebrate you!-

You son of a pleasure-bot, useless secretary with delusions of grandeur! 

-Once again, I have narrowly returned with my fleet after another treacherous expedition across the desolate, dangerous surface of our planet...
I departed with hopes of finding the Matrix of Leadership, the key to bringing balance to Cybertron!

I regret to inform you that we've returned empty-handed...
This is a setback, but not a failure! Rest assured, I will find the Matrix of Leadership, so that Energon can flow again! But that's in the future... Right now, I think we all deserve a little fun! Tomorrow, there will be no work! All shifts off because tomorrow is the Iacon 5000!! -

Frag, it started

-My favorite event! A high-octane race all across Iacon City! Let's all see which competitor can prove they are truly more than meets the eye... -

Really, couldn't the producers resist quoting themselves?

Featuring, in the next chapter:

THEY WON!

They won!

They… won?

How the frag could they have won?

[...]

I'm sure I can handle basic math!
So, if one plus one equals two and there are four Transformers in front of me, I am pretty sure we also have one big problem!