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It is dark where Primus is.
Despite Adaptus’ flair for the dramatics, the pocket dimension he had trapped him in is sparse. Small. Empty. Cold. Although Primus has no need for fuel, he finds himself longing for something to occupy his wandering mind. He has no knowledge of what happened to his race after Adaptus took over. Whether they have stayed true to what they were, whether they have taken up their weapons and set out to kill and enslave in the name of brutal expansion. He hopes not. He hopes, desperately, that Adaptus has failed. But he knows he cannot be sure, as long as he sits here, alone, in the blackness of a space devoid of stars.
He startles as light flashes in the distance, and a large spacefaring vessel drops out of warp, red fuel quills the realest color he has seen since the war.
There is no other movement. Just a giant bulk of a ship, still and silver as his memory of distant stars. Even so, it gives him hope. If someone has found a way into his prison, there must undoubtedly be a way
out.
“Uh, hello? Can you hear me?”
He yelps, scrambles backwards.
Unbecoming of a god,
Adaptus mocks in the back of his mind. Except they are not truly gods, are they? They are not immortal. They are not infallible. They are just
old
.
He clears his throat, straightens and turns to face whatever had spoken.
A mech (a
Cybertronian
, he thinks, in wonder) stares back at him.
His frame is tall and spindly, forged bright red with golden accents, an orange brand resembling a mech’s faceplate burned into his chest. He flashes Primus a grin.
“Oh,” Primus says. “Hello.”
“Listen, I’m
super
sorry for startling you,” the mech says, “but, where, uh… where are we, exactly? Not to be rude or anything, but we really weren’t expecting to, y’know, actually
find anyone
out here. My crew, that is. Up there.” He gestures, quite unnecessarily, towards the only ship Primus has seen in thousands of stellar cycles.
“How did you… get here?”
The mech shrugs. “Our ship has quantum engines that can hop between dimensions, or something. Dunno how it works exactly, it’s all just Old Cybertronian to me, but… Eh, Brainstorm can explain it to you when you meet him.”
“When I… meet him?”
“Oh. Sorry. I just assumed that- I mean, you’re kind of here all alone, I thought you might want to, y’know, come with us. We kinda have a habit of picking up interdimensional crewmates."
“I…”
“Aw, frag, I never asked your name. Mags keeps reminding me to– ugh. Whatever. I’m Rodimus.” He sticks out a hand. Primus shakes it hesitantly, still taken aback by his offer.
Is the mech’s crew Cybertronian too, he wonders. Are they organics? Had Adaptus failed in his mission? The Cybertronian in front of him (
Rodimus,
he reminds himself) didn’t seem like one well-suited to Adaptus’ crusade, but… appearances could be deceiving. He knew that well enough. And the language Rodimus spoke… not quite Cybertronian, but not incomprehensible enough that Primus’ databases could not catalogue and translate it. He had mentioned Old Cybertronian
.
Had the language evolved so much in the time Primus was trapped? How many millions of years had...
Rodimus is staring. Primus collects himself. No matter that the mech did not recognize him by appearance, he knows he cannot give his true name. Besides, he… he doesn’t
want
to be treated with reverence. Not like Adaptus did, or Solomus. This mech, this ship... Here, he could be seen as a normal Cybertronian, with a normal alt mode, and a normal name. Not a god warring battles over the fates of entire universes. Not the first of his race
Maybe, he thinks, that makes him selfish. But there is none of the Guiding Hand left to judge him for his selfishness but himself.
And so he gives a name befitting of the mech he wishes to become.
“Rung.”
Rodimus cocks his head. “Rung, huh? I could’ve sworn I…” He looks contemplative for a moment, bright blue optics dimming slightly, before seeming to come back to himself. “Meh, whatever. Doesn’t matter. So, uh, Rung, you coming aboard or what?”
Rung lets himself smile for the first time in a millennia, and nods.