"The air gaws at your frame, winds here laden with the blood-rust scent, so like Cybertron\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'s acid-etched dust storms in monsoon. Locked within my spark chamber remains a hologram fragment: Cybertron before fission, twilight\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'s unblinking eye, you and I in undivided existence. Answer me, my phantom—O departed one. Answer me. Let my cranial unit, my struts become the altar of your rebirth. Only remember—when your components are forged anew, that metallic lamentation—shall be the final tremor of my spark\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'s resonance.
The air bites your body, and the wind here smells of blood and rust, much like the acid dust storms in Cybertron's rainy season. There is still a holographic image locked in my spark cabin: Cybertron is not fissioned, dusk is not over, you and me are not dead. Respond to me, my dream - the dead. Respond to me. Let my head and my body be the altar of your new life. Just don't forget - the wail of metal as your parts are cast - will be the last tremor of my fire. "
— By Sentinel Prime
Intention: Treat the world gently.