He sits in the dark, the only light emanating from the energon chains surrounding his massive form. From time to time he tugs at the chains in a futile gesture. He knows that he cannot break them. He hasn't been able to for centuries. Still, some last iota of hope, gleaming ever fainter than the chains that bind him, compell him to pull.
Ages ago, he was considered a hero. He fought for what was good and right. All that he believed in shone like a brilliant beacon of light in his actions. All that he fought for exploded like a nova in his mighty hands of steel. Now, countless lifetimes away, in a dark cell that is his prison, all that he ever stood for and believed in encased him in a political tomb.
With another tug from his left arm, he looks down at his shoulder. In the reflection of the chains he saw not only his face, but something which has been his only reminder of the way things were. Before the Great War ended, and even at it's end, the symbol ignited hope in all of their darkest hours. Shortly after the War ended, it became a political liability. And now, alone for longer than even he thought could be bearable, he knew that this was indeed his personal darkest hour.
He tugged at the chains one last time. The chains held fast against even his great strength. In that moment, he finally resigned himself to the dark and despair.
"What good am I," he thought to himself, "when all I have become is a long forgotten secret?" Pulling his legs up and against his torso, the ancient warrior retreated into his mind. From the darkness, he went to a time and place where he mattered. In his heart, he returned to an era where freedom was the right of all sentient beings.

To Be Continued!