Transformers © Hasbro.

Not a songfic, but based off the song This Is War by 30 Seconds To Mars.

The People

This is Cybertron.

This is a planet made of metal, populated by robotic organisms with a history longer than the existence of most planets. It's a rarity, much like humans imagine the planet Earth to be. Circumstances must be exact for a planet made completely of metals to evolve, even more precise for the evolution of energon. There have been many theories as to how the robotic organisms got there, but none of those are important. They are here, on Cybertron now, and have been for millions of years.

After millions of years, societies collapse.

This is a society based on a caste system. Most humans would recognize this as a failure waiting to happen, seeing as they've tried it before, but the system was developed long before the first primates ever started walking upright on Earth – and it crashed about the same time those primates learned to make fire.

This is the story of that crash.

There is only one way a revolution can take place. By definition, revolutions are bloody, because they involve change, and not everyone wants change. Those who profit from the status quo will fight to maintain it, and because these individuals are in the positions of power, they can fight hard.

The people who get screwed, however, tend to fight harder, dirtier, and longer.

Cybertron is a beautiful planet. The cities are magnificent and consequently become centers of different aspects of Cybertronian life. Iacon is the capital of politics. Kaon home of the gladiator pits. Praxus center of the arts. Tyger Pax land of musicians and entertainment. Any native can tell you all about their individual city, what makes it unique and special compared to other cities. There's a pride that's almost admirable.

Pride can only take you so far.

Look closer and you'll see Cybertron isn't quite as beautiful as it looks. The gladiator pits are full of death and cosmic rust from injuries left untreated. The streets are kept clean and immaculate, but the mechs and femmes who clean them always have intake problems because they don't get paid enough to visit the medics and have their intakes properly cleaned. Give them a few decades and they start to fade out. A century and their frames overheat, killing them instantly.

Once a mech is sparked into a caste, there they remain forever. For a mech whose existence can span thousands of years, this can be a terrifying thought. Organic beings can hardly stand the thought of doing the same thing for an entire week. It's more than just boredom, though – doing something you truly enjoy never gets boring.

What if you don't enjoy it? What if you aren't even talented at it? Or what if being in that caste screws you over so badly that, no matter how talented you are or enjoyable it is, you are condemned to a slow death because you can't afford medics or rent or food? That happens.

These are the people. These are their stories. They walk through their lives, trying to live one day at a time, knowing that somehow, something has to change.

How do you start a revolution? It's a question that can get you imprisoned on Cybertron, if not executed. Still, some kick it around, discussing the issue in dark bars or quiet street corners, places where the Enforcers can't arrest you – that is, if the Enforcers aren't standing right beside you, trying to figure it out themselves.

Revolution is not bloodless, but no one wants to shed blood. How do you affect change? How do you make it to where the politicians can no longer ignore you? Do you need numbers, picket signs, or guns? No one really knows. Until someone figures it out, no one is going to step up and try.

Cybertron is on the brink. It's a system about to crash, because it takes up more energy than it produces. It's an inefficient machine. It won't take much, everyone knows, to make that system tip. Already the politicians have split themselves into two groups – the Autobots and the Decepticons. It is rightly feared that any attempt at revolution will start a war between the two groups.

What if that war is what it takes to create the change? That's a question no one wants to answer. Saying yes will mean admitting that some mechs will have to die for the greater good, and that is simply too cruel. It's what the caste system says, and that's what they're trying to fight. Saying no means that everything will continue on until its inevitable destruction.

Neither option is appealing.

Unknown to most of Cybertron, the first inklings of a rebellion are already being seen. One mech uses an FM broadcasting station to stir up anyone who will listen. His ideas are blasphemous, dangerous, but no one can track an FM station. It's too low-tech – able to transmit to every comm link within the station's range, be recorded, and transmitted to the next station where the transmission can begin again, all without leaving a single ID mark to tell where it came from. In this way, his message is spreading across Cybertron.

He comes from Praxus.

In Tyger Pax, another mech hears his second-hand broadcast and smiles.

Their messiah is rising.

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AN: The first few chapters will be short. I'm experimenting with a different writing style, and I think it'll work fine for the idea I have, but let me know if it's too hard to understand.