#religious fanatic

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

"Mother Teresa's techniques were all about indoctrination, all about making the people in her charge more accepting of their lot, more accepting of their poverty, and more accepting of the humiliations that went with it." -- Christopher Hitchens

-

"There is something beautiful in seeing the poor accept their lot, to suffer it like Christ’s Passion. The world gains much from their suffering." -- Mother Teresa

[stardustpinkart]

"Repeat your lessons girl".

Poor Luz. If Belos caught her, I could imagine a number of Esmeralda Frollo situations. Didja know in the original book Esmeralda was only 14 for one thing? We know Belos/Phillip is a monster, he has no heart, and even still hes obsessed with saving her. During there battle just before the Collector appears he implores her to see sense.

I honestly wouldent put it past him to be obessed with her. The guy is CRAZY, religious fanatics are often two faced and cruel, and many of them harm children and women. Even NOW you get child brides in places like AMERICA, not to mention abuse covered up by the church. Females are second class citizens at best, the are to be submissive to men, that men are the head of women just as god is the head of the church. In Phillip's timeline she would be considered a woman also. Then theres fanfics which have Phillip see her as a gift from god, a beautiful reward for doing the lords work. In the Bioling Isles I suppose he would say its the "Titans Will" that she be his empress, much like christian fanatics, now and hundreds of years ago, would say to justify his vile actions. Some may question it, but, if thats what the Titan wills, it must be a good thing?

I can imagine she would be utterly horrified at the notion.

[clandestinewhore]

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

[sistersatan]

[maddie-grove]

It really is amazing that people think there had to be some kind of unusual explanation for the Salem Witch Trials (like ergot poisoning or, even worse, actual witchcraft) when the Satanic Panic happened in the last quarter of the twentieth century.

[twink-with-an-agenda]

I'm not going to hurt you, I'm going to make you a Saint

[sexualsportswear]

“The Red Sowing” dir. Loni Peristere

The dragon named Vermithor is the largest in the world after Vhagar and, perhaps, the most fierce. He’s called the Bronze Fury. We will go to him now. And…may the gods bless you.

[bounded-accuracy]

lmao at the preview where Porter is trying to convince them that their school isn’t worth saving

my dude, you sent literal dragons to their polling location. they may not be able to fix everything, but you clearly think they can fix something

[acornsinmypocket]

The Iranian missile attack on Israel last week consisted of about 200 missiles. Each of those cost about a million dollars to produce. This means that the Iranian government thinks **200 million dollars** would do more good exploding over the sky somewhere else than being used for welfare, education and infrastructure inside Iran. I wonder how many Iranian lives that is in car accidents and cancer medicine. Every rocket shot by Hamas costs about 800$ to produce. By a very conservative estimate they averaged spending about 700,000$ a year between 2001-2021 just on rockets. They also spend about 300 thousand dollars for a kilometer of underground tunnels. They likely have about 800km. That's 240 million dollars. I'm not even counting other war spendings right now. I wonder how many parents wouldn't have had to wait for permits getting their children heart surgeries in israeli hospitals. I wonder how many impoverished young people could have received scholarships to become engineers and musicians and climate leaders and architects. I wonder what relations of mutual growth a thriving Gaza could have built with both Israel and Egypt. I also wonder how many disabled people won't receive financial aid, how many schools would go underfunded, how many people will die in understaffed hospital wards in israel this year because some rabid militarist decided this money is better spent killing people abroad to perpetuate the pointless cycle of retaliations. I'm also furious at all of this. And so fucking tired.

[jollmaster]

once married, thrice divorced, still love each other

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Nickolaus Hines

Published: Oct 18, 2021

In 2016, the famous nun Mother Teresa was declared a saint by Pope Francis — but many people say she doesn't deserve it.

Ever since the Vatican made Mother Teresa a saint in 2016, the response has been controversial and polarizing.

In order for Mother Teresa to achieve sainthood, the Vatican had to recognize two miracles that the famous nun performed after her death. Pope John Paul II recognized the first miracle in 2003, just six years after she died in 1997. And Pope Francis recognized the second miracle in 2015.

The popes claimed that Mother Teresa performed miracles when she cured one woman and then one man of their respective tumors. However, these “miracles” have been disputed by some — especially since a doctor who worked on the woman’s case said that she had been treated with drugs.

But debates over Mother Teresa’s miracles didn’t dissuade the Vatican from moving forward with its plans. Pope Francis officially proclaimed Mother Teresa a saint on September 4, 2016. But the decision remains controversial, and the dispute over her miracles is just one small part of it.

Of course, Mother Teresa’s sainthood may seem well-deserved to some. After all, she cultivated a mostly sparkling reputation as a selfless humanitarian while she was alive. But in recent years, her image has lost its luster. And when you take a closer look at her story, it’s not hard to see why.

Inside Mother Teresa’s “Selfless” Intentions

Mother Teresa was intent on converting as many people to Catholicism as possible, even at the expense of the poor and sick.

No one builds a church purely for the love of God — especially in places like India where critical services, like hospitals, are lacking. Religious groups that erect churches in these areas do so not just out of the kindness of their hearts, but to increase the number of people who believe in their faith.

Like those missionaries, conversion — the Church’s key to survival — was Mother Teresa’s primary goal. And in the context of the Catholic Church, charity can be viewed as a self-interested act.

“It’s good to work for a cause with selfless intentions,” said Mohan Bhagwat, the head of a Hindu nationalist group. “But Mother Teresa’s work had ulterior motive, which was to convert the person who was being served to Christianity. In the name of service, religious conversions were made.”

And when The New York Times reviewed the British documentary Hell’s Angel, a film that highlighted some of Mother Teresa’s flaws, the paper concluded that she was “less interested in helping the poor than in using them as an indefatigable source of wretchedness on which to fuel the expansion of her fundamentalist Roman Catholic beliefs.”

Still, some argue that even if Mother Teresa had ulterior motives, at least the people she cared for were better off for it. But others who have actually visited and worked in her medical centers wholeheartedly disagree.

The Horrific Conditions At Mother Teresa’s Medical Centers And Missions

Though Mother Teresa’s medical centers were meant to heal people, her patients were often subjected to conditions that made them even sicker. In the same documentary, an Indian journalist compared Mother Teresa’s flagship location for “Missionaries of Charity” to photographs that he had seen of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in Nazi Germany.

“Workers washed needles under tap water and then reused them. Medicine and other vital items were stored for months on end, expiring and still applied sporadically to patients,” said Hemley Gonzalez, a noted humanitarian who briefly volunteered at Missionaries of Charity.

Gonzalez continued, “Volunteers with little or no training carried out dangerous work on patients with highly contagious cases of tuberculosis and other life-threatening illnesses. The individuals who operated the charity refused to accept and implement medical equipment and machinery that would have safely automated processes and saved lives.”

It wasn’t just volunteers who criticized Mother Teresa’s treatment of patients, either. In her hospice care centers, Mother Teresa practiced her belief that patients only needed to feel wanted and die at peace with God — not receive proper medical care — and medical experts went after her for it.

In 1994, the British medical journal The Lancet reported that medicine was scarce in her centers and that patients received nothing close to the treatment that they needed to relieve their pain.

Meanwhile, some doctors took to calling her missions “homes for the dying” since her Calcutta home for the sick had a mortality rate of more than 40 percent. But in her view, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

In response to all the criticism, Mother Teresa allegedly said, “There is something beautiful in seeing the poor accept their lot, to suffer it like Christ’s Passion. The world gains much from their suffering.”

However, when it came to her own suffering, Mother Teresa apparently took a different stance. When she began experiencing severe heart problems, she received care in a modern American hospital.

The Questionable Company That Mother Teresa Kept Throughout Her Life

While neglecting the needs of the sick, Mother Teresa was also called out for rubbing elbows with several wealthy — and corrupt — world leaders.

This included Haitian dictator Jean-Claude Duvalier, who was eventually charged with crimes against humanity for his abuse of his fellow Haitians.

At one point, 60 Minutes released footage that showed Mother Teresa praising Duvalier’s wife Michele. In the footage, Mother Teresa said that she had “never seen the poor people being so familiar with their head of state as they were with her. It was a beautiful lesson for me.”

That wasn’t the only friendship that raised eyebrows. Mother Teresa also received $1.25 million from her friend Charles Keating.

Keating was one of the key figures behind the 1980s savings and loan crisis, brought about by housing market and loan speculation, which cost American taxpayers $124 billion. And while he was on trial, Mother Teresa wrote to the judge presiding over his case — seeking clemency for him.

“I do not know anything about Mr. Charles Keating’s work or his business or the matters you are dealing with,” she said. “I only know that he has always been kind and generous to God’s poor and always ready to help whenever there was a need. It is for this reason that I do not want to forget him now while he and his family are suffering.”

Though a co-prosecutor of Keating actually responded to Mother Teresa after his conviction — and pointed out that one of the people Keating stole from was a poor carpenter — he never got a response from her.

And that wasn’t the only issue related to Mother Teresa’s finances.

The Enduring Mystery Of Where Mother Teresa’s Money Went

Countless well-meaning Catholics gave money to Mother Teresa’s charitable organizations throughout the years, but many of them would never see their generous donations go toward good works.

Keating’s $1.25 million donation alone would seem large enough to lift all of those in her care out of poverty, but one volunteer said that “even when bread was over at the soup kitchens, none was bought unless donated.”

Once, after running up an $800 tab at a grocery store to feed people at her charity, Mother Teresa refused to get out of line until someone else paid.

A 1991 report in the German magazine Stern also estimated that only seven percent of the millions of dollars she received were used for charity.

But seven percent of what total figure, exactly? The world will never know. Nirmala Joshi, the leader of Missionaries of Charity who succeeded Mother Teresa, said the donations were “countless,” and there was only one person with the actual numbers. “God knows,” Joshi said. “He is our banker.”

One is left to wonder where all of that money was actually going — and what happened to it after Mother Teresa’s death.

Mother Teresa’s Views On Reproductive Rights

Though it’s not surprising that a Catholic nun would be against abortion, Mother Teresa still raised eyebrows when she discussed her stance while she was accepting the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979.

In reference to Bosnian women who had been raped by Serbs and who were seeking abortions for their unwanted pregnancies, Mother Teresa said, “I feel the greatest destroyer of peace today is abortion, because it is a direct war, a direct killing — direct murder by the mother herself.”

She also rallied against birth control, claiming that “natural family planning” would solve the woes of women who were not ready for a child.

What Mother Teresa did promote in the realm of family planning — like abstinence — didn’t help anyone, either. And despite abstinence-only education being proven ineffective, she still stuck by her claims.

But even though she gained some critics for views like these, Mother Teresa was mostly successful at avoiding controversy while she was alive. However, a glimpse of her “dark side” would slip through the cracks every so often — especially when it came to her infamous homes for the sick. 

In hindsight, these issues are hard to ignore today. And it’s also difficult to understand why the Catholic Church decided to make Mother Teresa a saint. She may have been revered for helping the poor and the sick, but her practices ensured that they were mired in pain until their final moments.

==

Reminder: Mother Teresa was a sadistic fundamentalist.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I'm behind because you posted this like 6 days ago (when I write this ask) but when you asked if someone was asking you to make Smokescreen angst... I'm asking.

Idea: Cortical Psychic Patch. Screw with his mind and drive him insane. You may take that as you will.

Please and thank you

I know it took me like three months to answer this, but here is a 10K or so long fic to make up for the wait :D

Seriously be wary if you click read more because this is LONNNNNNG

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

He shouldn't have tried to play the hero. 

Strapped down to a medical berth with harsh clasps and half blinded by the lights above, Smokescreen regretted every decision leading up to the present moment. That wasn't to say he wasn't proud of himself for getting as far as he had, but he really should have listened to Arcee and Ratchet more. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't have rushed to get the Omega Keys on the Nemesis of all places and promptly gotten himself caught at the last possible moment.

His plan had been to jump and use the phase shifter to escape certain death. But one wrong move later, and Megatron had him by the arm with no room for Smokescreen to squirm away. That was how he found himself in what he could only assume was either Shockwave or Knockout's workspace, strapped down and ready to be tortured, picked apart, or whatever Cons did to their prisoners.

He'd heard more than a few grizzly tales, so he was really putting his shanix on the hope that they would go for verbal interrogation over straight-up killing him. He'd gone through some basic interrogation training with the Elite Guard. He could probably hold out until the team found a way to get him out, or barring that, he might be able to squirm enough to escape. The clasps weren't impossible to worm his way out of. Sure, he would probably have to snap his thumbs to make it happen, but that's why it was a last resort.

What he was really concerned about was Megatron doing something to him. He could probably deal with Shockwave. Probably, at least if he made himself interesting. But Megatron? He doubted he would hold out longer than a few cycles. If he had to pick someone to torture and interrogate him, he was really, really hoping Starscream ended up in the same room as him. The Screamer was easy to rile up and just as simple to calm down with insults and compliments, respectively. 

He could hear pedesteps coming closer. He couldn't really see because of the light, but he prayed to Primus that it wasn't the warlord.

"Smokescreen, that is your designation, is it not?" Slag it all. His luck was the worst. 

A familiar, scarred face showed itself through the blinding light. Bright red optics bore down on Smokescreen with maliciousness and venom so strong it practically permeated the very air. If he lacked the training he'd gone through as a youth, Smokescreen would have crumbled under that gaze. As it was, he forced himself to frown, pushing up against his bindings in a show of rebellion and strength. He would not falter, not because of Megatron.

"What's it to you? Aren't you going to kill me now that you've caught me?" Bearing a bitter smile, Smokescreen sneered. Megatron was quick to grab his face, his cold and dangerous claws threatening to crush his jaw with strength hardly contained. Smokescreen tensed on instinct, and his well hidden fear only grew as the light was removed, allowing him to see just where he was.

Cords ran along the ground and up the cold steel walls. Purple lights flared periodically as a mech Smokescreen, recognized as Shockwave, prepared something on the other side of the room. Smokescreen was bound at a slanted vertical angle, giving him a solid view of the room while also keeping him from being able to work up the strength to snap his bindings. It was a minor form of physiological warfare that Smokescreen was familiar with. 

Give a prisoner a taste of potential freedom, but keep them held on the edge, forever unable to escape but still hopeful enough to have some fight left in them. It was a method used to exhaust prisoners, keeping them more docile over long periods of time. Smokescreen was not  thrilled to think about the possibility of being held captive for any length of time. But from the looks of it, Megatron had plans.

"I considered the idea, even indulging in the thought. But I believe I've found a better use for you." Megatron smiled, and by Primus, that set Smokescreen on edge. It was hard to keep up his rebellious outward appearance when the scourge of Cybertron was grinning like he'd just won a million shanix.

"You aren't well trained enough to bother recruiting. And unfortunately for you, the value you hold as an Autobot has proven less than spectacular. Optimus won't act as quickly because he knows that I know you aren't worth killing." Smokescreen wanted to be bitter over the statement, but logically, he was well aware Megatron wasn't wrong. Smokescreen was a rookie, and as it stood, his usefulness was limited. When push came to shove, he wasn't as valuable as the other members of the team, at least on the surface. Knowing Optimus, the Prime would be quick to try and get him back, regardless of his value.

"I could hand you back over in exchange for the relics I know your Autobots house. But I think this opportunity would prove far more valuable.” Smokescreen watched Megatron like a cornered animal.  It took all his strength to not tense up or flare his plating as the warlord finally released his jaw, instead opting to stand with his slag eating grin proudly displayed.

“You can’t make me talk.” His voice wavered slightly, despite his best effort. The warlord in front of him merely grinned wider, his optics bright with mania. 

“I don’t need to. In fact, I don’t want you to.” Smokescreen's fuel lines practically froze as Megatron chuckled, standing back to his full height with all the regality of a monarch. If he weren't the leader of the Decepticons, Smokescreen might have been able to find it in himself to appreciate the stance the warlord had.

“Shockwave. Begin preparations for the cortical psychic patch.” Fear roared in his spark as he tugged on his bindings. He didn't know everything about the patch, but he'd heard rumors. He wouldn't allow himself to give Megatron any information. He'd rather take his chances leaping off the edge of the Nemesis than let his mind be tampered with.

“You bucket helmed piece of slag! I won’t give you anything!” He struggles against his bindings, his wrists and ankles burning with the effort. He fought with all his might, trying to thrash. All it earned him were a few scuffs that ached with every movement. 

“Good. Then you will have more to give to your new master.” No, no, no. He wouldn't serve the Decepticons. He wouldn't give them anything, not even the color scheme of Optimus's windshield. 

“What?” His voice shook and his door wings, pressed awkwardly as they were against the slab, twitched in response to his growing fear. This wasn't what he was trained to handle. How could he fight against someone tampering with his processor? That sort of thing only happened before the war with the old Council of Cybertron.

“Optimus Prime, my ancient nemesis. He claimed he had no interest in accepting the Matrix. I remember quite vividly how he denied any desire to take it.” Megatron met his terrified gaze with a smirk worthy of Liege Maximo himself. Smokescreen could only watch in horror as Shockwave, now visible at the far corner of the room, prepared a series of needles and cords.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Keep him talking. If he could just keep Megatron talking, maybe he could still get out of this.

“Optimus claims he does not want to be seen as a god. He preaches that he is a mere mech, despite the relic he carries. He despises the worship of the faithful. Truly a humble mech to the bitter end.” Megatron's gaze felt like a hot iron against his plating. Smokescreen wanted to run, he wanted to phase through the walls and into the ground, where it was safe. And yet, he could do nothing except shake faintly as Megatron circled him, his clawed digits running along the slab that bound Smokescreen in a threatening manner.

“And yet, he took the Matrix anyway. He never even considered stepping aside so that real change could be enacted. We all would have been so much better off if he’d put down his arrogance and allowed those more suitable to step up.” The screech of Megatron's claws tearing through metal assaulted Smokescreen's audials along with the sheer venom in his captor's voice. For a moment, he couldn't vent. He expected white hot pain to overwhelm him, but when he worked up the courage to look, he saw that Megatron's claws were dug into his slab, not his plating.

“He took on a role he was never meant to fill, and now he heralds himself as a leader, a commander, and a vessel for ancient wisdom. And yet, he refuses to take responsibility for all he’s brought upon himself. He won’t accept the praise of the faithful like a good puppet-Prime. But he also refuses to silence the whispers about his supposed divinity.” One by one, those claws pulled out of the slab, leaving terrifying gashes in their wake. Smokescreen had to fight back the urge to cry out in terror as Megatron's voice edged into something even darker. He was practically seething as he ranted. Smokescreen could hardly understand all of it.

“He stole a station he was never meant to take. Maybe he did it to spite me and is now too devoted to back down. Perhaps he truly thought, in his naivety, that he was better suited for the role. Whatever the case, I will abuse his humility. I will make him pay for taking the place that was rightfully mine.” Megatron's arms rose to the skies, almost as though he were preaching to a crowd. His back was to Smokescreen, but his words were still just as cruel and wicked. He spoke Iaconian common for Smokescreen's sake, but it was so heavily layered with Kaoni subglyphs that Smokescreen could sense every last iota of emotion.

Megatron was truly bitter. It had been generations since the start of the war, and still Megatron was clinging to an ancient conflict. Smokescreen wouldn't dare claim to understand it all, but he knew for a fact that Optimus was a better Prime than the crazed warlord ranting before him. It didn't matter if Optimus got the Matrix through underhanded means, he'd long proven himself worthy of the title in Smokescreen's mind. The fact that Optimus refused worship merely showed his humility and devotion to the cause. He expected nothing, save for the cooperation of those around him.

A true Prime did not enslave. A true Prime was kind and commanded respect through actions, not words. Optimus didn't need to be worshiped. He had long since become a mech worthy of respect far exceeding the bounds of religious bindings.

“He will become the thing he sought to escape, and you, guardsmech, will be the key to all of it.” Smokescreen gawked as Shockwave began to gather up the cords he was working with. Megatron grinned in a convoluted fashion, almost as if he'd already won. What were they planning? What could they possibly want, if not information?

“I won’t do anything for you! Never!” He thrashed against his bonds again. It did nothing but prompt Megatron to laugh.

“Struggle as much as you want. It will yield you nothing. In the end, you will make Optimus squirm and drown in his guilt.” Megatron stood like royalty, but to Smokescreen, he looked like nothing more than a mad ghoul eager for its next hunt. Smokescreen would rather die than betray his team and Prime. Whatever Megatron had planned, it could not be allowed to succeed.

“The patch is prepared, Lord Megatron.” Shockwave approached the Lord of the Decepticons, a threatening series of cables in his servo. Smokescreen could see a needle on the end of one, likely meant to stab directly into his processor. 

“Excellent. Begin uploading the simulation schematics. I want him fully engrossed in it until Optimus agrees to a conference.” A simulation? Were they going to try and turn him into a Con or something?

“Optimus won’t ever surrender to you!” He flailed, fighting desperately enough to tear his armor around his wrists as he fought to be free. He wouldn't become a weapon. He refused to become a tool for Megatron to use.

Despite how hard he tried to get away, it wasn't long before part of his slab was removed, leaving his helm exposed from the back. He tried to move, but he could do nothing except bite back a scream as something sharp and painful jabbed directly into the back of his helm. Coolant threatened to gather in his optics as his systems were thrown into overdrive, trying to find the source of the problem to little avail. All the while, Megatron continued his mad monologue.

“The Primes of old were heralded as gods. The Primacy was devoted to their every wish and fancy.” The warlord paced, his sickening smile still ever present. Smokescreen could feel a faint buzz at the back of his mind—the beginnings of the patch's work, no doubt.

“It is ancient history now, but before the war began, every Prime was given devotees who were meant to serve them.” Smokescreen's optics trailed the leader of the Decepticons, observing with growing horror how much emphasis Megatron put on the word, 'serve'. Just what was Megatron hoping to make him into?

“Mecha personally trained to meet their Prime’s fancies.” No. No, Megatron couldn't be trying to change him. Information fishing was one thing. But changing his mind? 

“Warriors brought low through humiliation and submission so that their will could become an extension of their Prime.” This couldn't be happening. He wouldn't succumb to Megatron's twisted will. He had to keep himself composed. 

“The most loyal and submissive servants. Just the kind of subordinate Optimus fears and despises in equal measure.” Megatron loomed over him, his gaze knowing and expectant. Smokescreen wanted to spit curses, but everything was starting to feel fuzzy, almost as though he were drifting into recharge.

“He fears becoming corrupt if given such devotion.” Twisted laughter bubbled in Megatron's vocalizer. His amusement rang out in the air as Smokescreen frantically tried to keep coolant from gathering in his optics. He couldn't show how scared he was, even though his shaking door wings betrayed him.

“Let’s see if his fears become reality.” Red optics glared down at him, demanding results. Smokescreen wanted to cry. Torture, interrogation, and suffering of all kinds—he could endure those. But changing his very core? His mind and his beliefs? How was he able to withstand that?

“The processor is a delicate organ. Despite how firmly sentient species claim to be unchangeable, a certain degree of stimulus can alter the very core of a Cybertronian’s personality.” Shockwave's clinical voice echoed in the space as Smokescreen's vision began to fade. He wanted to scream, to do anything. But his frame was sluggish, and darkness threatened to overwhelm him.

“I intend to test a few hypotheses and see how long you can withstand the conditioning I’ve prepared.” Shockwave's sickening statement was the last thing he heard before the world faded away, leaving Smokescreen in darkness.

----

“Smokescreen, wake up.” A gentle voice called out to him in the darkness. Deep, but soothing. Amidst the sensation of slow wakefulness, Smokescreen could hear what sounded like a choir, singing in Ancient Cybertronian. Their words were strange, but they worked with such skill that they sounded almost exactly how old recordings of the Primacy Temples made the priests out to be during services.

"Wake, my chosen." Smokescreen's optics began to come online, a cold stone floor greeting his frame as he groaned and pushed himself up. His processor ached, but he paid it little mind as he started to come to awareness.

He was... in a Temple. He'd never had the chance to go into one before coming to Earth. The Temples had long since fallen, leaving nothing but their ruins as a stark reminder of the glory of the old world. But this place was not in disrepair. If anything, it looked as though it had just been built. Blue and gold walls arched around him, grafting into shapes he could hardly comprehend as they turned into a domed roof. Pillars covered in ancient crystal growths towered high into a ceiling that faded into a sea of stars. It could have been painted, but Smokescreen honestly couldn't tell.

The entire place was warm, with light coming from stained glass windows along every wall. Each depicted a Prime, every one of them  holding the Matrix with solemn expressions. Despite the gloom of the ceiling, the Temple was not dark. Not in the slightest. Instead, it was lit by a great stained glass window that took up the entire front wall. The mighty work of art was stunning. Each piece of glass carefully placed to create an image of Optimus Prime himself held in Primus's servos, the chosen of their world's god.

"Come, my chosen. Let not the darkness of your thoughts distract you." The voice called out again, and this time, Smokescreen saw the speaker. Standing on a dias just below the great window was... Optimus. The Prime was stunning. His armor was perfectly polished and his plating tended to with expert precision. He looked healthy, no longer weary from war. His red and blue paint stood out like stars amidst the hues of the Temple, drawing Smokescreen's attention.

The Prime was covered in gold markings, the script of Ancient Cybertronian. He was adorned in similarly colored ornamental armor, with accents that ran along his audials to give him small angelic wing shaped attachments. More such pieces crept along his chassis, emphasizing his open spark chamber where the Matrix shone, pulsing faintly. A cape fell from Optimus's shoulders, segmented and made of precious metals much like Alpha Trion, before his fall.

Optimus looked like a god.

And for that reason alone, Smokescreen knew that this being was not his leader.

“I call upon you to serve.” The fake Optimus held out a servo, a pleasant smile upon his perfectly sculpted features. He looked so gentle and yet so stern all at once, truly the embodiment of Primus's chosen. The fake was nothing like the leader Smokescreen knew. Optimus bore scars just like everyone else. He was weary, just like them. He was still just a mech, no matter the origin of the relic he bore. He was not a god, nor did he parade himself like one.

“You aren’t real.” He spoke softly, almost afraid that the moment he uttered his thoughts aloud, Megatron's plan would leave him in agony. Whatever all this was, it was the work of the patch. It wasn't real, no matter how real the cool stone felt beneath him or how warm the gaze of the fake Prime seemed.

“You deny me?” Optimus tilted his helm ever so slightly, a sad frown upon his features as he slowly began to descend from his place. Light emanated from him in such a way that it almost seemed as though he had wings as he carefully made his way down each and every step leading to his dias. His pedesteps were feather light, nothing like the heavy treads of his leader. Yet another difference to focus on.

“You aren’t Optimus. You aren’t my Prime.” Smokescreen got to his pedes shakily, unintentionally shrinking back as the light of the fake Prime drew nearer. It was intoxicating, but so very foreign. He wanted to flee, and at the same time, he wanted to bask in it. What the frag was wrong with him? It wasn't real. None of it was.

“Retract your declaration and come to my light. You need not be punished by the divine.” Optimus, still appearing saddened, paused a few steps away, watching Smokescreen with optics that glowed both blue and white, the hidden essence of the divine. He seemed genuinely upset, not angry, just... sorrowful. 

Smokescreen bit his glossa softly, trying to give himself something to focus on aside from the being before him. The fake Prime wasn't threatening, if anything, he seemed loving. But that was what set Smokescreen on edge. It was so very wrong. All of it was wrong.

“You. Aren’t. Real.” He fought to force out the words, trying to not let the look of hurt on Optimus's face phase him. 

“My chosen, how can you not see the light before you? Does my divinity blind you so much that you are incapable of reason?” The fake Optimus held out his arms, his optics sad and pleading. His field extended, wrapping around Smokescreen in a comforting manner that merely served to make his plating crawl. 

"Stop it! You aren't, Optimus! He's like the rest of us! Not angelic or perfect! Optimus isn't a god!" Smokescreen screamed, desperately trying to step back but only managing a few steps as the fake Optimus allowed his arms to drop to his sides. The exposed fake Matrix pulsed, its light covering Smokescreen like some sort of mark. The chanting of the priests he hadn't even noticed began to die down as Optimus looked down to the ground, the winged audial attachments showing themselves as he did so.

"Of course I am not a god, I am merely a vessel for the one and only. How you see me now is only made possible through Primus's touch. Without him, I am made weaker, more weary." The fake Optimus traced his false Matrix lovingly, a faint smile on his face as the relic blazed with unnatural power. Smokescreen tried to activate his in-built blasters, but his frame would not obey him. He was trapped, watching as the fake Prime spread his arms wide, in a mockery of an embrace for all creation. 

"Primus suffers under Unicron's tainted blood, and for that reason, I bear the marks of mortality." The fake Prime's form shifted for a moment, showing the Prime Smokescreen knew. World weary, tired, and so very wise. For a klik, Optimus Prime, as he knew him, stood in the light of the great window, no longer basking in the strange innocence of the fake Prime's false divinity. This Prime was exhausted—an angel who'd long since had his wings cut away.

"But do not mistake my outward appearance for my true essence. This is what Primus intended for me, and my will is his. I desire only to protect his precious children and bring them home." The Prime spoke, and the illusion was broken as the fake returned to its previous form, glittering and without even the slightest imperfection. 

"Shut up! You are just a simulation!" Smokescreen tried to yell, raising his voice above the soothing buzz at the back of his mind demanding his submission. He shook, trying desperately to force himself to leave, to think, to do anything other than give in.

"Smokescreen, has the brokenness of my mortal frame deceived you so much?" Again, the fragging false Prime put on a facade of sorrow, his optics glittering with so much pain that Smokescreen could have momentarily believed that the fake truly did carry the weariness of an entire world. His servos were held out in a pleading manner, begging Smokescreen to return to him.

Smokescreen didn't so much as twitch. He glared. The false Prime sighed.

"Neverthematter, I will not abandon you, my dear chosen. Primus did not cast me away in my foolish unbelief, and I have no intention of leaving you to wallow in the shadow of lies woven by those of mortal make." The false Prime stepped back, allowing shadows to creep over the windows. The faint whipping of wind and the crash of thunder echoed throughout the Temple, all light dying, save for the glow the false Prime emitted. 

"See that which awaits you. See a world without my light." The false Prime raised his servos, cupping the Matrix and meeting Smokescreen's gaze as everything grew darker and darker, leaving only Optimus to light the way.

Then, with a sad smile, the Prime stepped into shadow, vanishing. 

Smokescreen was left in darkness, his optics were his only light. 

He took shaky vents, trying to stay calm and reminding himself that the whole scenario was fake. Megatron was just trying to mess with his mind. So long as he kept calm, he was going to be fine. He just had to vent and walk, keeping his focus on his mission.

Stay sane. Stay focused. And keep Megatron from winning long enough for the team to get him. Simple enough, right?

He walked carefully in the gloom, expecting to hit pews or to see even the barest hint of the Temple windows. Instead, he walked through rubble and destroyed structures. It was almost pitch black in many places, but in others, he caught sight of a world filled with gray. Not a hint of life was to be found anywhere, although more than once he saw what remained of corpses, long since left to rot.

He liked to think he had a firm resolve, but as he walked, he found himself growing more and more... lonely. It never seemed to end, the gloom just continued on and extended into the void. He almost purged when he came across the corpse of a youngling, perhaps no more than a deca-cycle old, crushed beneath a building. Their expression was agonizing, and Smokescreen was only able to continue walking along in growing unease. 

The dark was suffocating, and no matter where he wandered, it seemed to grow denser. Towering buildings lay in ruins. Great statues were brought low and left to be claimed by the shadows all around him. Smokescreen was the only living being left, and no matter how much he called out, nothing ever met his cries. More than once, he thought one of the corpses might have still been a living person, but each time, he was met with disappointment. 

He didn't know how long he wandered in the dark, moving through cities inhabited by the dead. But eventually, his limbs began to burn and his mind started to unravel. He was alone, so very alone. He knew it was fake, but there wasn't anything for him to cling to. No plants, no animals, not even stars. All he had was the gloom and the bodies of mecha long since left to be taken by time. 

Kliks, groons, cycles... he wasn't sure how long he wandered. He tried lighting a fire, but he had no kindling, and when he tried to cut his digit and use his own energon to create a temporary burst of flame, he found it wouldn't light. The energon glowed, taunting him as Smokescreen fell to his knees, clutching the ash and dust beneath his pedes. He hated to admit it, but he missed the fake Optimus's light. He missed the warmth and the kindness shown to him. He despised the creeping cold and the eternal gloom.

“Smokescreen, you need not linger here. Come with me, enter my light, and be free of this grim place." Light entered his vision, a blessed light breaking the never-ending darkness. The fake Prime stepped forward, glittering and perfect as always. His expression was soft, like a mentor looking upon their foolish student. He did not kneel, but he leaned down, offering his servo with a hint of a smile.

It was welcoming, almost like being brought home. But Smokescreen could not falter, he had to remind himself again and again that none of it was real. This fake was not his Prime, no matter how kind he seemed.

“You aren’t real!” Smokescreen covered his audials, not wanting to listen for fear that his resolve would crack. He could handle the darkness. He had to. Just until the team saved him from this wretched place...

“This you proclaim with such dedication. Why must you stay in this world of darkness and gloom? This place is for those who turn away from Primus. I know you are capable of returning to him. I know you can still change.” The fake Optimus reached out, cupping Smokescreen's face with servos so strong and yet so kind. It made him sick, but he didn't have the will to pull away. It was so warm, so bright and safe.

“Shut up.” His voice shook, his servos clutching his audials tighter to drown it all out. He couldn't succumb. He had to be strong.

“It will only get worse. Let me guide you. Come into my light, come unto the divine and I shall protect you from the darkness.” The fake Optimus leaned closer, his light wrapping around Smokescreen like a shield. He almost sobbed in relief as the chill of the dark, which he hadn't even noticed, began to flee his limbs. He wanted to beg the fake to stay with him, to keep him warm and away from the gloom.

But he couldn't. The fake wasn't real. None of this was real. There was no salvation to be found in Megatron's curated dystopia. 

“Leave me alone!” He tore himself away from the false Prime, throwing himself onto the ground in an attempt to keep from giving in. His body ached, the cold seeping back into his tired limbs. Looking back, the fake Optimus stood there sadly, his perfect face contorted into something worthy of tears if the false divine had the capacity to cry.

“Very well.” Turning away, the false Prime vanished into the gloom once more. Smokescreen was, once again, left alone. But before he could act, his vision faltered and the world fell into a mess of code and pixels.

-----

“The subject is showing surprising levels of resistance.” Smokescreen gagged, his helm ached and his optics couldn’t properly process the visual data around him as he was dragged from the world of dark he had come to know. Everything was hazy and his entire frame felt distant, not quite painful, instead like an unbearable itch was crawling along his plating in waves.

The light above him was blinding and cold as he struggled momentarily against his bindings. He tried to cycle his optics and see, but all he could pick up with the warped forms of Megatron and Shockwave working away on the other side of the room.

“Integrate an external threat. Some warriors can withstand solitude, but I doubt the guardsmech can endure being hunted while entirely alone.” Smokescreen could almost hear Megatron’s cackle in his words. He wanted to act, but everything felt sluggish and out of place, almost like he’d just woken up from stasis lock all over again.

“Very well. Artificial fear response protocols will be injected into the subject and the Prime simulation will continue when the subject shows sufficient mental weakness.” What was going on? Smokescreen’s optics burned and all he had the power to do was shutter them as he heard Megatron approaching. It was all a simulation. He had to keep being strong. He didn’t want to think, he only had to act.

“Fight as much as you like guardsmech. It will make your fall all the sweeter.” He didn’t see Megatron’s expression, but he could feel claws running along his chassis in a threatening manner. It took all his power to not cry in fear as his senses started to fade and the patch again activated.

-----

Smokescreen awoke with a gasp, his frame shaking as he frantically felt the ground. It was dark, with only his optics lighting the space around him. He tried to process what Megatron had said when he was momentarily pulled from his living nightmare, but the knowledge faded away like a distant dream as suddenly, he heard things in the gloom with him.

He heard creatures that scuttled in the dark, dozens of terrifying legs clattering over lifeless ground. He was no longer alone. Now... he was being hunted.

“It's not… real.” He tried to comfort himself as he walked, tripping and stumbling over obstacles as his exhausted frame struggled to keep going. Every time he faltered, the things in the dark drew closer. Even with the light of his optics, he could never see them for long, always obscured by the gloom.

He couldn't help it when coolant finally fell from his optics, rolling down his cheeks as he frantically tried to keep moving. The things kept getting closer and closer, sometimes so close he could feel them running past his pedes or caressing his legs as he stumbled along. He was terrified, and his terror only grew with every passing moment. 

It didn't feel fake anymore. He was scared and no matter how much he tried to remind himself to be strong, he couldn't help but sniffle and wish that the false Prime would come back and take him away from the things in the dark. He didn't dare utter his silent wishes aloud, at least not until the monsters in the gloom started to become more bold. 

He could never see them, but soon enough, they began to claw at his plating. It was never anything serious, a cut here, a scratch there. They whipped around him, hissing, growling, and laughing as they prodded at him, toying with his mind. Smokescreen tried to find high ground and activate his blasters. But no matter how hard he tried, the creatures always followed, and his frame refused to obey him. 

He cried in the darkness, finally tripping and falling to the ground shaking like a sheet of tin. The creatures crept closer, threatening to have their fun before even giving Smokescreen the mercy of death. He sobbed, clawing at the ground as he tried to pull himself along. He crawled, lighting his path with his coolant-hazed optics, as the creatures nipped and bit him. 

“Primus, Lord below, to you will give our sparks and sight. May our optics bring forth your light.” Desperation left him singing an old prayer from his time with the Elite Guard. He was never particularly faithful, but left alone in the dark with things that hunted him, he wanted to have faith; he wanted to believe. His helm buzzed and his mind felt like it was made of static. All he had was his terror and his frantic pleas to a god who may or may not have been listening.

"Primus, please, save me from this place." His words were choked as prayers made way for a desperate plea. He curled up, clutching his helm as he cried into the void, dust and ash seeping into his vents and seams. He wanted it all to be over. Why couldn't the team save him? Why weren't they faster?

“I am here, my chosen. You only needed to call for me.” A soft warmth entered his tired limbs. Light filled his vision, and the creatures of the dark fled before the divine glow of the Prime before him. 

“You aren’t real. None of this is real.” He murmured despite the relief that flooded him. His very spark seemed to ache as again, the false Prime offered a servo. Smokescreen could feel himself being lifted, held against divine armor and cradled like a youngling fresh from the Well. Despite his protests, it was comforting.

“Child, you cause yourself more pain this way. I carry Primus’s light. Let me share it with you.” Optimus carried him out of the darkness, back into the Temple so full of light that Smokescreen couldn’t help but sob in sheer relief for a moment. As he was deposited on the ground, he curled up, basking in the glow of the space.

“Stop. Don’t talk like that.” He covered his audials again, trying desperately to drown it all out. Why did it have to feel so nice basking in Optimus’s presence? Why did it all have to feel so real?

“You have seen the darkness in which you still suffer, and yet you refuse salvation?” The Prime stared at him, his optics showing nothing but pity. Smokescreen despised it, and yet he couldn’t pull away from Optimus’s light. He didn’t want to be cold or hunted. When Optimus was around, it was safe, even if that safety was fake.

“I don’t need any salvation.” His words sounded hollow even to his own audials. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t understand what was going on or what Megatron was trying to gain, or rather, what Optimus was attempting to gain. Why was Smokescreen forced to endure the dark? He didn’t understand…

“I hate to do this. I despise using suffering to showcase truth.” Optimus sighed, his angelic form comforting even as the Temple darkened again. Smokescreen prepared himself for the dark world he had been cast into, but somehow, what greeted him was far worse. The Temple was still alight, but the colors were all off. The golden morning light was replaced by the harsh light of dusk. The walls of the Temple shone, their biolights flashing red in warning. The painted sky above was dark and hollow, no longer comforting in the slightest. It was all the same, yet so different.

It frightened him, and looking at Optimus, he saw the Prime take no joy in his suffering.

“You have seen a vision of the doom that awaits you. And yet you reject Primus and his chosen.” Priests came forward from unseen halls, their frames covered in ceremonial robes. He saw each of their faces, but he couldn’t recognize or remember them as they hummed a haunting hymn. They circled around him, each watching Smokescreen with white, almost sickly optics.

“This cannot stand.” Optimus’s voice rang out clearly, sending a bolt of terror through Smokescreen’s frame. He looked at the Prime, seeing a true frown of displeasure for the very first time. It frightened him, so much so that he could hardly force himself to speak.

“What are you-?” He didn’t have time to speak before the priests forced him to his knees with strength they shouldn’t have had. One at a time, they began to pull on his plating. He tried to stifle his cries of pain as armor was forcefully removed, one small plate at a time. It burned it burned it burned-

-----

“The subject’s mind is threatening to fracture without sufficient intervention.” Smokescreen’s optics blazed as he came back online, he was gasping, thrashing against his bindings as he struggled to comprehend what was going on. Where was the Temple? Where were the priests? Where was he and why didn’t it hurt anymore?

“He’s a soldier. He should be able to handle a little pain.” Megatron? Yes that was Megatron’s voice. Was he in the Temple too? Where was Optimus? 

“Too much mental strain has been placed upon him. Too many new scenarios with too little time to adjust.” Through the blinding lights above him, Smokescreen could vaguely see Shockwave. He recognized that lone terrifying optic and the monotone voice. It didn’t frighten him, not nearly as much as the dark did at any rate.

“What do you suggest then?” He sensed Megatron near him. He still didn’t know how Megatron was near him, but he could feel the warlord nonetheless. It was unsettling, but it didn’t prompt panic, not anymore. The creatures of the gloom were far more frightening. At least Megatron had a face, a voice, and a presence Smokescreen could actually target.

“Reprogramming. I understand Lord Megatron wishes for the subject to break naturally, but we do not have enough time for such an outcome to take place successfully.” Smokescreen’s optics cycled, but they were out of sync. His vision was all over the place, but he could still pick out Shockwave holding up a set of strange looking needles. He’d mentioned something about time perhaps? It was hard to think.

“What would need to be altered?” Claws tapped against the back of his helm, right where the patch still connected to his processors. At that motion, Smokescreen did stiffen in terror. It was too close, far too close.

“A simple personality matrix realignment. Currently, the subject lacks sufficient religious inklination to take to the Prime simulation in such a short period of time. The subject will need to be reconfigured to be more susceptible to indoctrination.” Reconfigured? Smokescreen tried to focus on what was being said around him, but everything was so out of place. Looking over to his right, he momentarily wondered if it was because of the strange looking IVs hooked into his frame. The liquids didn’t seem right. Their colors were off.

“How long would that take?” The claws tapped again, freezing Smokescreen in place in silent terror. He almost couldn’t hear what was being said around him due to how sharp those claws seemed as they ran along the back of his helm.

“The adjustments can be made while the subject is undergoing the Prime simulation. They will be integrated as the scenario is playing out.” Shockwave’s lone optic blazed in the darkness beyond the overhead lights. To Smokescreen, it was a sign of doom to come. 

“Excellent. Send him back in, I have Optimus on the line eager to hear about the status of his new devotee.” Megatron laughed. Smokescreen flailed for only a moment before his vision failed and he was again cast into the Temple.

-----

When he woke once more, Optimus remained standing a ways off, his expression settled into a distinct frown. He only had a moment of respite before the priests descended on him like rapid cyber-hounds, pinning him and returning to their gruesome work of making him in their image.

He couldn’t flail, he couldn’t fight back. The priests held him there, digging their digits under his armor and pulling away anything that wasn’t vital or attached directly to his protoform. He tried to maintain his dignity, but they were so slow, and by the time the priests started to pull knuckle plates from his digits, he screamed without restraint. It all burned, his frame felt like it’d been cut into with a million knives and all he could do was wail as energon fell from new wounds, leaving his delicate protoform exposed to the elements and countless connectivity points bleeding and stinging. 

Logically, he knew it wouldn’t kill him. But every single plate torn away felt like fire was sent scorching across his very protoform. All the while, his Prime watched on, disappointed. 

He remembered babbling, begging for them to stop as the priests maneuvered him to keep prying armor off of him. Sometimes they tied him to the ground; other times they would hold his helm in place so that he could see exactly what they were doing to him or so that he could witness the sheer sorrow on his Prime’s face. Optimus didn’t want this, he didn’t like seeing his suffering. If Smokescreen had only listened, this wouldn’t be happening.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the pain started to ease, but eventually, Smokescreen was tenderly lowered to the ground, almost in a loving manner. The priests each touched his wounds, running their digits along them with hymns pouring from their vocalizers. They were the ones that tore away at him, and yet their touches were so caring. It was a blessed relief.

“None are hidden from Primus’s holy light. Your armor will not guard you, nor shall it disguise your sins.” His Prime’s voice reached him eventually, and while weakened, Smokescreen found the strength to force himself to his knees. He was laid bare before his Prime. His armor was stripped away, leaving him in protoform alone. Being like this, so open before his Prime, it felt… right. His processor screamed at him, saying that everything was a lie and that he was meant to fight. But it was all so fuzzy, like something in the back of his helm was blurring rational thought.

He didn’t mind it, not when his Prime’s light could infuse every part of his bare protoform. It was warm. So very warm…

“No longer are you shrouded in darkness. You see me for what I am. You are beginning to come unto my light.” His Prime did not smile, but he did reach out, touching Smokescreen for the very first time since he was carried out of the darkness. It felt like he’d passed a great trial, and as his Prime’s servo cupped his cheek, Smokescreen wanted to sob. Optimus’s touch filled his entire frame with warmth and a sweet buzzing sensation, almost as though he were inebriated but still more aware than ever. It was intoxicating. 

“But you do not yet see your shortcomings, your sins.” Smokescreen’s spark sank as his Prime pulled away. He reached out, trying to grasp Optimus’s servo but aborting the action halfway as those powerful blue optics met his own. It was not his place. He wasn’t allowed to touch. Every fiber of his being told him so. 

“Do not despair, my chosen, for at the end of the long road, you shall be ready to come unto me.” He couldn’t help the tears that fell from his optics as Optimus moved away from him, allowing priests to take Smokescreen away. Unlike when they took his plating though, they did not force him to stand; instead, they offered him the chance to move on his own.

He looked to his Prime, seeing that his frown had diminished. This was a choice, an opportunity, and a test all wrapped into one. He had to accept this trial, or be cast off. He didn’t want to endure the darkness again, especially not so exposed. Only his Prime could see him like this.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I did wrong.” His voice shook as he got to his pedes, exposed cables, and protoform tensing at the chill in the air now that he was so far from his Prime. Hearing him, Optimus smiled again. His arms spread out, as if to embrace him.

“Endure your trial, my chosen. Now that you have emerged from the dark, you must shed your impurities. Only then can you be made mine.” It sounded so very wrong, but Smokescreen nodded anyway. His mind screamed at him, but his spark flared in joy. The warmth that came from his Prime was beyond comprehension, and he would do anything to have it wrapped around him once more.

“I will do my best.” His words came out strange, almost as though he himself had not spoken them. Smokescreen didn’t care, he smiled as he followed the priests, rationality slowly being overridden by newfound purpose. He had to be clean. He had to be worthy of his Prime’s light.

He was taken to a dark room, one where only a symbol of the Primacy was carved into the wall. He was left there, alone in the gloom. But unlike the shadowed world he had been left to suffer in, this darkness instead felt defeatable. It edged in all around him as Smokescreen fell to his knees, but his optics bit back the encroaching darkness, and that gave him a sense of peace.

He prayed, his voice echoing as he struggled to recall the few songs he learned in the Guard. Whenever he stumbled, a priest would provide him with the words he was missing through the door, helping him complete the hymn. It was comforting, alone in the dark with nothing but his mind and his growing faith to shield him. Why had he feared this all so much? Once he was made better, he could serve and bask in holy light. All was going to be well. 

Time blended into a strange mess of experiences and songs. Prayers poured from his derma endlessly, his chanting never ceasing. His faltering grew less and less frequent, and while his knees and back ached from his submissive posture, Smokescreen ignored them. He ignored the screams of his mind, demanding he remember.

What was there to remember? He was undergoing a trial of purity. Nothing else mattered.

“Are you insane? This is fake! It’s a simulation designed by Megatron!” In the dark, he saw himself. His counterpart screamed, his plating flared, and his optics were wide and desperate. Smokescreen frowned, watching his wilder self try and reason with him. He could almost see scrips of code run along his and his counterpart’s plating as he looked both of them over. 

Smokescreen was in his protoform, open for the light of Primus to fill his very spark. His counterpart was armored, closed off, and unwilling. His voice was loud, and his temperament was unruly. He was unfitting. Seeing him, Smokescreen could almost feel the shift in his very being as those distasteful pieces of personality began to fade away. Was this truly who he was before his Prime came to him? It was no wonder Optimus had to drag him through the pits and back to make him see reason.

“Even if this place I find myself in is just a crack in reality, it has brought me to the light. Through this place, I am made whole.” He spoke simply; his glyphs layered with pure devotion as he continued to pray silently. His counterpart screamed, clutching his helm in agony, before moving closer, trying to reach out with tainted servos.

“It’s not real! Megatron is trying to turn you into a tool!” Smokescreen’s optics cycled down in distaste as his counterpart shrieked like some sort of dying animal. How undignified. His Prime would never stand for such dishonorable behavior. Optimus was his Prime, and it was only right that Smokescreen emulate him and keep such aggressive behavior to a minimum. If he was to die, he would do so in graceful silence. His counterpart should know that much.

“If a tool is what he seeks, then he shall find none here. I am devoted to my Prime.” He returned to his prayers, trying to block out all of the distasteful aspects of the mech before him. His counterpart screamed again, his form flickering. Faintly, Smokescreen could sense something changing in the back of his mind—an aspect of himself warping. Part of him wanted to fight the change, but he saw no need. 

“That’s what he wants! He wants us to hurt Optimus with our devotion! Optimus is just a mech! He’s not a god, and he doesn’t want to be treated like one!” His counterpart fell to his knees, and for the first time, Smokescreen stood up. He stared down at the creature before him, pitiful and desperate, wild and untempered. Was this how his Prime saw Smokescreen when he first arrived? If it were Smokescreen who was Prime, he would have cast such broken things aside long ago.

Such mercy from his Prime. To spare him and to heal him. It was beyond admirable; it was godly. 

“Our Prime is a humble being, one who is kind enough to walk among us without showing his true nature.” He remembered every instance where Optimus gave a speech to the public as the war dragged on. He’d only ever seen the videos, but looking back, his Prime was truely a merciful being. He stood before them all, wearing mortal protoform when he could shine as a true god among them. He bore pains and scars just so he could walk among them, easing them and bringing them back to him. 

They did not deserve their Prime. They had taken much from him and given little in return. Smokescreen’s devotion would do little to change that, but at least he could begin to carry some of the weight of his people and their collective sin. Even one small shift could bring forth a tidal wave of faith.

“Our Prime is merciful. Our Prime is an aspect of the divine. It is only right we worship him.” Approaching his counterpart, Smokescreen stared down at his mimic in distaste. There would be no saving this one. This shell of his prior self.

“He gives us his wisdom and offers us a direct connection to our god. He is all that matters in this grim reality plagued by war.” Smokescreen quickly pushed his counterpart down, straddling the pitiful creature to wrap his servos around the thing’s neck. His counterpart thrashed as Smokescreen held it down. The thing’s door wings cracked as they hit the ground and tears fell from its optics. Smokescreen’s spark cried out within him as his counterpart met his gaze pleadingly.

“Optimus doesn’t want this. You will only hurt him this way.” His counterpart spoke softly, and for a moment, Smokescreen considered halting. What if his counterpart was right? Something in his spark told him that all of this was… somehow wrong. But that couldn’t be right. He was becoming purer. It was only natural that he would feel discomfort becoming greater than what he once was.

“Our Prime is perfect, but trapped within mortal frame, he is weighed down by sorrow. I will carry that burden. I will make it so that our god may again speak through him.” His servos tightened their grip. The priests sang somewhere in the dark, urging him on. Smokescreen’s optics were wide, most likely wild from an outsider’s view. But as he cut off energon from his counterpart’s processor, watching the light bleed from his optics… Smokescreen felt nothing but sheer and complete satisfaction.

His Prime was burdened. But now that Smokescreen knew the light, he could help. And it all started with removing this thing, this tained echo from his life. No longer would he be foolish. No longer would he fight against the divine. He now knew his place.

“Please…” His counterpart’s vocalizer spit a plea in a mix of static and garbled glyphs. Smokescreen frowned, keeping his grip tight enough to crush cables in his counterpart’s neck. The thing before him gagged, coughing up energon, his optics wide and terrified. For a moment, Smokecreen found himself pitying the thing, enough to try and ease him as he was returned to his maker.

“Rest. Know that I will take care of him. Our Prime will never again walk this world alone.” His counterpart cried, his face contorted in anguish, before he, at last, fell still. Smokescreen maintained his grip a while longer before he finally stood, watching in distaste as the echo of his former self faded away into nothing.

It wasn’t right. Something in him told him that everything was wrong. 

Smokescreen silenced those thoughts the instant the door opened and he was led back to the main Temple where his Prime stood, smiling in greeting. He’d done well. He was worthy. 

-----

“Basic indoctrination has been completed. The subject likely will not reach the levels of fanaticism Lord Megatron desires at this rate.” Smokescreen’s winced, his voice coming out in a hiss that bordered on a growl as artificial light assaulted his optics. He was back on the Nemesis. He could sense it clearly now that his Prime’s light was not wrapped around him. This place was evil in the most despicable of ways.

“We have some time before Prime comes to collect his prize. Introduce a new scenario.” Smokescreen snarled, a ragged sound escaping him as he did so. Megatron no longer scared him, not nearly as much as he had before at any rate.

“The Prime simulation has largely run its course. What adjustments does Lord Megatron desire?” Shockwave seemed somewhat uncertain. Smokescreen watched him like a hawk, trying to see just what was going to be done to him. Now that his mind was clearer, he could understand what they were aiming to do. They were attempting to remake him.

Instead, all they had done was wake him up. 

“Show him some of Optimus’s history. Drive home his Prime’s ‘fallen’ state. I want the guardsmech willing to throw himself into the pits without being ordered.” Fallen? Smokescreen scoffed. His Prime was not fallen, merely burdened. He would ease that burden over time. 

“Lord Megatron wants the subject to feel superior to Optimus Prime?” Again, Smokescreen fought the urge to cringe in disgust at Shockwave’s commentary. How could he ever feel supreme when a shard of the divine called for him?

“No. He must worship and obey his Prime. But I want him to be willing to disobey when he thinks he knows what’s best for his Master. Let him sow discord among his Autobots in an attempt to ‘help’ his beloved leader.” Megatron put a certain emphasis on the glyph for ‘help’ that made Smokescreen distinctly enraged. He couldn’t act on it while bound, but he glared daggers at wherever he assumed Megatron was in the blinding light. 

“Very well. An additional simulation will be run for the subject and further social restriction coding will be implemented.” Smokescreen growled, words unable to form in his vocalizer despite how aware he was. Megatron smirked, he could sense it. Nonetheless, Smokescreen silently cursed the warlord as he was pulled back into the false reality that brought him to the light.

“My chosen, you have done well.” Smokescreen returned to awareness just in time to see his Prime waiting for him. No longer did his Prime or the Temple frighten him. This place was a holy one, even if it was just a string of codes. No program could replicate the glory of Primus’s chosen. Even if the scene was fake, Optimus was real. His Prime was real. And his Prime was pleased.

“I am honored by your mercy, my Lord Prime.” He fell to a knee, bowing his helm respectfully as he basked in the golden light of the divine. His protoform felt tingly in the best of ways, his frame was rejuvenated and his mind was more active than ever. Just being near his Prime made everything so much better. No longer did the world weigh him down. He was loyal, and that loyalty had earned him the cleansing praise of the most holy.

He wanted to reach out and touch his Prime as Optimus stepped closer, his winged audial attachments seemingly glowing as he did so. The Matrix shone within his exposed chassis, gold paint glittering like stars all over his frame. He was perfect, and Smokescreen meant that in a way that far exceeded any potential attractions of the frame. Everything Optimus was, everything he happened to be, all of it was perfect.

Optimus was his Prime. He could not disobey unless it was to protect him. A good guardsmech did not touch. A good devotee was forever near, ready to act. Always ready, always loyal, never questioning-

“It is my pleasure to grant you such an honor, my dearest chosen.” His thoughts came to a screeching halt as his Prime reached out to touch his helm. For the first time since he’d been lifted from the darkness, light radiated through his entire being, filling his spark with sheer euphoria. He didn’t have the strength to even so much as twitch, instead basking in the gift his Prime was bestowing upon him.

“The time has come for you to see your design now that you are freed of delusion and sin.” His Prime’s optics were almost blinding as Optimus met Smokescreen’s gaze. He couldn’t shy away, not when Optimus held his face so tenderly.

“Look and see all that was; see what I have been forced to become.” Those blue optics widened, almost comically, if not for the sheer power contained within them. Smokescreen gasped as his vision shifted, blue overtaking everything until scenes began to play out before him. Or rather, memories.

He saw Optimus, or rather, the mech he was before he took the Matrix. He watched as the Archivist became god born, his frame restructured, and his spark made pure through temporary agony. His awe with the scene quickly shattered when he saw his Prime be forced to war, pushed to slaughter. Energon coated his Prime’s frame and blade, dulling his divine glow and haunting him. Smokescreen could see the horror in his Prime’s optics, the sorrow at what he’d been forced to do in the name of protecting the good and the faithful.

He saw his Prime executing a whole battalion of Decepticon soldiers, his blaster raised to each one at a time. The Prime’s battlemask was in place, but Smokescreen saw the growing horror in his gaze. Optimus took no joy in his grim work. He hated what he had to become, and Smokescreen could see it in the faint tremor of his digits as he held the blaster to each and every soldier’s helm, murmuring faint reassurances that the victims had no time to process.

He saw his world weary leader, exhausted and battered, slaughtering his way across a battlefield to buy his people time to flee to their ships. Viscera and energon flew, coating the chosen of Primus and the ground in the remnants of vicious brutality. His Prime moved fluidly, but every action was desperate, with not a hint of divine light infusing them. It was the action of an angel with his wings torn off, a beast hunted until it could no longer run. His Prime had been forced to fight until his light had all but gone out, only dark cynical brutality evident in his actions.

“Never should a Prime sully his blade with the energon of his own people. A Prime is meant to protect, not to destroy.” Optimus’s voice rang out in his mind as countless depictions of violence flew across his vision. He saw wars, burning cities, and dead and dying mechs piled high as his Prime waded through it all. He witnessed ships fleeing to the stars, soldiers on the ground frantically fighting to buy them even the smallest amount of time.

“My spark is burdened by the cries of the sinful and innocent alike. I was never meant to raise a weapon of war against Primus’s precious children. It has damaged me, and my ability to commune with our god.” He could feel coolant gathering in his optics as he was given a final vision, one that showed his Prime standing still in the wastes of a devastated battlefield. There was no life, there wasn’t even the faintest hint of peace. It was a mess of weapons long discarded, corpses lacking proper funeral rites, and trenches abandoned for Primus knew how long. Optimus tood amidst it all, his expression stoney and his gaze haunted.

He looked dim, his plating worn, and every part of him battered and torn. There was none of the divinity Smokescreen witnessed when the Archivist became something more. 

Primus’s angel had fallen. His wings clipped by the weapons of mecha far beneath him.

“Forgive me for failing you. Forgive me for allowing you to be drenched in the sins of our people.” Smokescreen’s tears fell silently. He couldn’t make noise, that would be disgraceful for a follower of Primus’s chosen. But as the visions faded as his Prime’s touch again returned, Smokescreen lamented his very existence. How many vorns had he wasted with the guard sitting around doing nothing, when he could have been serving?

“You were lost in the darkness. You are not to blame for this. But my dearest chosen, I cannot continue on this path. The more lives I am forced to take, the further I fall.” Optimus’s touches were feather light, but Smokescreen leaned into them all the same as frantic determination surged in his spark. He could not allow this. He refused to be the one responsible for allowing his Prime to continue drowning in the sorrows of their tainted species. 

“Then let me be your blade! I will carry out your will so that you never again need to suffer like this!” He spoke with all the conviction in his spark, ignoring the faint buzz at the back of his mind that still screamed at him that something was very VERY wrong. He chalked it up to the visions. Of course, he would be unnerved by them. His Prime was hurting and he hadn’t even noticed until now.

“It is a heavy burden to bear. In times long gone by, you would have had brothers and sisters by your side to aid you. But in this age of war, you are my only devotee.” Optimus dropped to a knee, prompting Smokescreen to all but scramble to fall to his knees properly, his helm bowed and back exposed. He could never stand taller than his Prime, that was beyond heretical.

“I understand, and I accept the burden. Even if my impact is small, I will help you. I will not allow Primus’s chosen to be tainted any longer.” He meant every single glyph he uttered as he clawed at the pristine stone floor beneath him. Anger bloomed within him, righteous and hot in a way he’d never experienced before. It was so sudden, it hurt.

Optimus was hurt because of his inaction. He could no longer allow it. Good devotees died for their divine.

“I am in awe of your growth. So short was our time together in this place of glory, and already you are a worthy devotee.” Against all expectations, Optimus lifted him from his prostrate position, urging Smokescreen to sit upright. He almost didn’t listen, but his mind screamed with such ferocity that he swiftly obeyed.

“I am your blade, your voice, and your subject. Your will is mine, and yours is the will of our god. I am honored to help fulfill the rite of the divine.” He spoke without meaning to, almost fearing retribution. But the smile on his Prime’s face eased him immediately, even more so as his Prime drew him closer.

“This is as it should be.” Strong arms wrapped around him, metacloth falling from the Prime’s shoulder to briefly brush against Smokescreen’s frame. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Smokescreen’s every thought fell still, his mind clearing and yet also turning into mush all at once.

“Mortal frame weakens the mind. Sorrow dampens the spark. Do not fear the murmurs of my waking self. With time, he shall understand.” Optimus’s words sounded like a choir, the essence of a thousand mechs speaking through him all at once. For a moment, it almost seemed electronic, fake in a strange way. But Smokescreen shook away the murmurs of his blasphemous consciousness, instead leaning further into his Prime’s embrace.

“As you will it, my Lord.” He could feel his vision beginning to flicker and fade as his Prime held him. It was so very peaceful here…

“Our time has come to an end. You must return and make things right.” Digits caressed his helm, soothing Smokescreen even more. He wanted to fall into recharge right then and there, but he felt the call, the order his Prime had given him. He could not disobey.

“I will fulfill your will, chosen of Primus.” His voice echoed, almost as though he were not the one speaking at all. He could barely see Optimus’s face as his vision faltered. But he saw a smile, and that was good enough for him.

“Then go in peace, my chosen. Fight in my name. Sully your blade to preserve the divine. At the end of the long road, Primus shall welcome you home.” With those final words, Smokescreen found himself ripped away from the Temple, away from the light and the warmth it brought.

-----

“The reprogramming had taken root. The subject has had basic devotee doctrine fully implemented with his base personality.” Smokescreen shot online, his mind and everything around him hazy in the extreme as he felt his straps come undone. The patch in his helm came away with a click, but the fog did not clear.

“As a safety measure, the subject will only experience full awareness when around Optimus Prime. This will ensure the subject maintains loyalty and that Optimus Prime experiences guilt, just as Lord Megatron desires.” What was being said? Smokescreen wasn’t catching any of it. He just knew these mechs were enemies—or, worse than that, heretics.

“Perfect. I am sure Optimus will be thrilled to have his new and improved guardsmech back.” Smokescreen couldn’t think, he couldn’t even move as he was picked up and slung over someone’s shoulder. He could see, but he couldn’t process anything. All he could understand were the commands screaming at him.

Fight in my name. Sully your blade to preserve the divine. Protect the Prime. Bear his burdens. Do not leave him. Make him understand. He cannot fall. The Prime cannot fall. He CANNOT FALL-

It hurt to think. He had to get to Optimus. He needed to get back. He couldn’t leave his Prime alone… but it was so hard to move.

“Well, if it isn’t the mighty Optimus Prime?” Smokescreen jolted to awareness as he finally registered the fact that he was outside again. He wasn’t in the Nemesis, he was… on the ground. Harsh and rough earth was getting into his seams now that he noted his place prone in the dust. When had he been dropped?

“Give him back, Megatron.” That was Optimus’s voice. The moment he recognized who was speaking, it was as if the haze in his mind had cleared. White hot anger and sheer determination infused every part of his frame as he rushed to his pedes. His vision still swam, but he bolted all the same.

“Take him and enjoy the alterations I’ve made! I am sure you will find them quite entertaining.” Megatron laughed, but he wasn’t a threat right now. He didn’t matter. Smokescreen needed to get to his Prime and he didn’t care how. 

He leapt from ledges and rockfaces, hardly noting where he was stepping until he finally stood before Optimus and the rest of the team. His fans were spinning wildly and he could see just how shocked the team was. He paid it little mind. Of course, they would be startled. He’s been woken from the dark after Megatron tried and failed to make him into some sort of weapon. He was bound to look a little different.

"Rookie, are you good?” Bulkhead stepped forward first, but Smokescreen didn’t move yet. He needed permission. One did not just approach the divine without being invited.

“Smokescreen, what did that slagger do to you?” Arcee tried to speak as well, but Smokescreen’s optics were locked onto his Prime. His digits twitched as he noted the many scars and the sheer weariness in his Prime’s gaze. Oh, how his Prime had suffered… He needed devotees. He needed help. 

“My Lord Prime, I have returned to you. May I have the honor of serving at your side once more?” The team froze, each staring in horror. Ratchet even dropped his scanner in shock. Smokescreen regarded them all with a sigh. He knew what he was like prior to his cleansing. Wild, untamed. He was a beast before; it was only right that they expected a creature of sin and sacrifice. To see him purified had to be quite a shock.

“Smokescreen, come here.” Optimus’s voice was shaky, but Smokescreen felt sheer euphoria as he hurried to obey. He stepped around Ratchet as the doctor tried to stand in his way. Within a nano-klik, he was knelt before his Prime, content to be in his presence.

“I apologize for my prior demeanor, my Lord Prime. I was impure and blinded to your light.” Optimus didn’t respond. Smokescreen risked retribution to look up and see the sheer shock on his Prime’s face. How long had it been since his Prime was properly cared for? When had a devotee cleaned his plating last? When was the last time a devotee was given the honor of tending to their precious Prime?

“But no longer. Megatron attempted to turn me against you, but instead he brought me to full awareness. I now know your glory and am eager to serve, if you will accept me.” Not a spark said a word, and for a moment, Smokescreen worried he’d said something wrong. Was his oath incorrect somehow?

“What in the Allspark are you talking about?” Ratchet was the first to break the silence, giving Smokescreen reason to snarl. How dare the doctor speak before the Prime. It was not his place.

“You should know when to shut your trap, Doctor. Your Prime has not yet spoken!” Smokescreen’s optics widened and he almost activated his blasters, but the faintest sound of shock from Optimus had him returning his attention to his Prime. Optimus’s optics were flashing, his digits trembling in a way Smokescreen had never before seen. Was it due to awe? Confusion? He didn’t know. He decided reassurance was the best course of action.

“Forgive my outburst, my Lord Prime. I know you have not yet acknowledged me as a devotee, but I cannot bear to watch such disrespect play out in your presence.” The team seemed horrified as he spoke. Why? 

Smokescreen tried to focus on his Prime. He tried to smile and show his devotion. Why did Optimus look so scared?

‘Mortal frame weakens the mind. Sorrow dampens the spark. Do not fear the murmurs of my waking self. With time, he shall understand.’

Right.

Optimus was burdened with too much to see clearly. Smokescreen would have to be his optics and his blade. That was fine. He could work with this.

“I assure you, my Lord. I am perfectly functional. I am willing and eager to serve just as I did before.” Optimus stepped back, his plating flaring defensively. Ratchet clutched his scanner like it would protect him. Meanwhile, Arcee and Bulkhead raised their weapons in confusion. Even the ever quiet Bumblebee was on edge, standing next to Optimus in a defensive position.

They didn’t understand, that much was clear. But Smokescreen would help them. He would remind Optimus of his divinity and help him recover. Then, when that was done, he would help the rest of the team.

He would make things right.

“Allow me to be an extension of your will. Grant me the honor of the divine so that I might serve Primus’s chosen.” He received no response, merely a short gasp from his Prime. He looked terrified.

His poor Lord. He was so unused to devotion that it frightened him.

Smokescreen would have to change that.

[palmettoshenanigans]

I don't wanna look too into things... buuuuuuut

Abram (later Abraham from Genesis), Joseph (robe of many colors), and Michael (archangel)???

Listen, my religious trauma will NOT stop me from busting out a bible and doing bible study for the first time in over ten years just to see if the dots are connecting and if i've connected them

[trmpt]

What a loser

[thedeaddiscodame]

Seeing as to how rose quartz's rebellion happened roughly 6000 years ago, you could make the argument that she is in fact the savior Jesus Christ (religious fanatic version) and the details (as myths often do) became a little fuzzy