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A storm was brewing, dark clouds broiling with rumbling thunder and crackling lightning. The darkened mass seemed to extend across the entirety of Iacon, enveloping the city in shadows. While some of the buildings’ windows still shone with light, they were little more than faint dots against the darkness.
Optimus Prime stood at the window, staring out at the city and the tempest that grew above it. His servos were clamped tightly behind his back and his stern face was twisted into a slight frown. He did not consider himself a superstitious mech, and yet this storm was filling him with a sense of unease. Optimus’ spark felt unusually tight in his chest, tense and poised.
As if it were waiting for something, he thought. Something terrible...but what?
The Prime was currently in his office at the Iacon Hall of Records, which had been reconverted into a base of operations for the Autobots, Optimus Prime’s forces. From here, Optimus and his officers planned and carried out strikes and defenses against the Decepticons, a group of Cybertronians determined to bring the planet to its knees. Their leader, Megatron, had proved to be a cunning and merciless foe - always evading capture or termination, despite leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.
Yet I still cannot understand how we got to this point…
Optimus shut his light blue optics, struggling to stop the onslaught of memories that came with this thought, many of which took place in this very building. Recollections of long, thoughtful conversations; light, almost playful debates; dreaming and planning for a brighter future for all of their kind; asking for Megatronus’ help in reaching a higher shelf to get a certain datapad because he couldn’t figure out where the mobile lift had ended up-
Shaking his helm rather violently, Optimus managed to push through the cloud of could-have-been s and what-ifs to ground himself firmly back to reality, disregarding the storm of emotions that threatened to burst forth from within his spark.
Primes must be strong and in-control of their emotions at all times, no matter what the situation, he recited to himself. They cannot afford to be overwhelmed or led astray by their feelings or desires. They must be the support and example for all others.
Letting out a small sigh, Optimus turned back around and started shuffling through the datapads on his desk. Hopefully focusing on strategy suggestions and recruitment reports would help take his mind off the storm and the unexplainable anxiety it brought him.
BAM BAM BAM!
Optimus snapped his helm up to look at the door on the opposite end of the room, fighting down the instinctive urge to pull out his blaster.
“Come in,” he instead called.
The door promptly slid open, revealing a white-armored mech with red and blue accents. A blue visor covered his optics, the distant lightning reflecting off of it as he strided into the room.
“Jazz?” Optimus said, mildly startled to see his communications officer this late at night.
“Hey Prime,” Jazz replied, his visor sliding up to show his blue, worried optics.
“What has happened?” Optimus asked. Jazz was normally a laid-back mech whose movements were as smooth as his voice - calm yet energized. Now, however, he was tense, clenching and unclenching his fists and venting hard. Something must have gone wrong - horribly wrong - if he was acting like this.
Jazz opened his mouth, stuttered, then shook his helm and started again. “It’s Tyger Pax, Prime,” he said. “The Cons took it a few hours ago.”
Optimus gripped the edge of his desk so hard that the metal threatened to bend under his digits. Tyger Pax was a settlement that doubled as a heavily-fortified stronghold for the Autobots. It had been their closest base to the Decepticon capital of Kaon, and thus important for gathering data on the Decepticon’s plans and movements. Losing it was a heavy blow.
“Were our forces able to evacuate?” Optimus asked.
“Yes…”
“Were we able to wipe all of the important information on the computers?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, that is a start,” Optimus said, nodding to himself. “Our next course of action will be-”
“Optimus.”
The Prime instantly went silent, staring at Jazz with a growing sense of dread. He could not remember the last time the communications officer had referred to him by his first name. It was always “Prime” or - before the war - “Pax.” So why had that suddenly changed?
“I…It’s...” Jazz faltered, his optics blinking rapidly. His next words came out in a violent rush, every one of them feeling like a cannon blast straight to Optimus’ spark.
“It’s Bumblebee, Optimus. Last I heard, he had been taken prisoner by Megatron himself.”
“We did all we could, Optimus,” Ratchet said, his voice unusually soft. “You did all you could.”
Optimus stood stiffly, staring down at the bodies that lay at his pedes. They were standing at the center of a small settlement outside of Polyhex, which up until recently had been a place where traveling Autobots could stop to rest and refuel. However, the place had been besieged by Decepticons who easily outnumbered the half a dozen Autobots and nearly defenseless residents. It had taken Optimus’ team a couple solar cycles to reach the settlement after they received a distress call due to the lack of viable transportation.
Their failure to arrive in time was illustrated by the countless corpses that littered the ground and a silence so complete that it threatened to drive the young Prime mad.
“We...we shouldn’t stay long,” Ratchet said, looking at their surroundings with a faint shiver. “The Decepticons made sure there were no survivors, I doubt they would be happy to see us...what do you think, Optimus?”
Besides clenching his fist, Optimus remained perfectly still. His mind, however, felt like it had been sucked into a tornado. Grief and guilt were nibbling at his resolve like scraplets, while anger and frustration threatened to burst out of him in the form of groans and screams. It was taking a surprising amount of self-control to not snap at Ratchet, to tell him that he didn’t know what they should do and to stop calling him “Optimus,” because if he were truly a good, worthy Prime, this wouldn’t have happened.
“Optimus?” Ratchet said, concern now creeping into his voice. “Are you-”
“I am fine, Ratchet,” Optimus said, his voice a tad more stern than he had intended. Turning in such a way that Ratchet couldn’t see his faceplate, he added, “I am going to check the perimeter one more time before we leave. Remain here.”
Moving quickly, Optimus ducked down an alley in order to avoid the stares of his fellow Autobots. He soon found himself on the outskirts of the town, where buildings that had already been in poor shape had been reduced to mere rubble. Stumbling over to the nearest stable wall, Optimus smacked his back into it, dragging his servo down his faceplate and venting hard.
Even before all of this, back when he was the file clerk Orion Pax, he had never been able to cry. It wasn’t that he was unable to feel sadness or frustration, he just couldn’t express it in such a visible way. Optimus, for the most part, saw this as a benefit - a built-in stoicism necessary for being a Prime.
But times like this reminded him that the lack of any outlet for his emotions had its downfalls. Right now, his sorrow, rage, and frustration felt like they were about to melt him from the inside-out.
I know what I am supposed to be fighting for, he thought. To stop this violence and rebuild Cybertron to be better than it was before...but is it even possible at this point? And if it is not...what am I fighting for?
A soft clattering noise issued from somewhere to his left. Optics snapping open, Optimus pushed himself off the wall and pulled out his blaster, aiming it at the empty Visco can rolling away from a large pile of rubble. He stepped forward, battle mask sliding out and combat programming readying itself. This place was supposed to be deserted, but Optimus wouldn’t be surprised if an opportunistic Decepticon had stayed behind to see if there were any more valuables they could seize.
“I know you are there,” Optimus addressed the rubble, his voice as steady as he could make it. “Come out slowly with your servos up. I will not hesitate to open fire if you choose to attack.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint whistling of the wind coming from the open metallic fields surrounding the town. Optimus was starting to wonder if he had threatened a random retro-rat when he detected a slight movement from behind the pile. Tensing, Optimus aimed his blaster and readied himself to fire.
Slowly, a small, yellow-plated figure stepped into view. The sparkling’s armor was criss-crossed with scratches, some of which were leaking small amounts of energon. His door-wings were shaking, but his light blue optics were narrowed in determination as he held a jagged piece of pipe in front of him like a sword.
Optimus’ optics widened as he lowered his blaster. Battle mask sliding back into his helm, Optimus slowly lowered himself to one knee, though he was still several feet taller than the sparkling. While he was trying to move in a way that didn’t frighten the young bot, his mind was racing with questions.
How did he survive? Optimus silently wondered. He does not seem to be injured...how did he escape the Decepticon’s notice? Are there any other survivors?
The yellow sparkling didn’t move, still gripping the pipe with trembling digits. Now that Optimus had gotten over the shock of his sudden appearance, he could see that the sparkling was not in the best shape. His armor clung tightly to a chassis that seemed a little too thin and his optics were dim from lack of energon. He was actually shaking all over, but whether that was from physical weakness or fear, Optimus couldn’t tell.
“It is alright, little one,” Optimus said softly, putting away his blaster as he did so. “I am not going to hurt you.”
The sparkling seemed unconvinced, optics narrowing slightly as he readjusted his grasp on the pipe.
“...My name is Optimus,” he tried again. “What is your name?”
The sparkling’s optics narrowed further. “You mean like the Prime?” he asked, sounding both suspicious and confused.
“Yes,” Optimus intoned, figuring it was better to be honest than modest.
The sparkling’s optics widened, then darted towards Optimus’ shoulders where the Autobot insignia had been engraved. Optimus remained silent, waiting for the young bot to finish his examination.
“So…” The sparkling slowly lowered the pipe as he spoke. “You’re really not some Con?”
“No, I am not,” Optimus said.
“Oh…sorry, I just wasn’t expecting anyone else to come.”
Optimus had to stop himself from flinching at the sparkling’s words. “I am sorry that my team and I did not get here sooner,” he said quietly. “How did you avoid detection from the Decepticons?”
The sparkling was still holding the pipe with one servo, but now he had crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders against the chilled wind coming from the surrounding plains. He seemed even smaller now, and Optimus suddenly felt the odd urge to scoop the sparkling into his arms.
“I hid in some of the old energon-transport pipes,” the sparkling said. “They run under most of the town. I’ve explored most of them, so I ran to the closest entrance when I saw the Cons coming.” The sparkling was silent for a moment, then answered Optimus’ other, unasked question. “Nobody else knew about the pipes...I...I think I’m the only one left…”
The sparkling looked down at the ground, kicking aside a small bit of roof tiling. “I should have done something,” he added, the words coming out of him in a pained rush. “I don’t know what, but...something.”
A pain of sympathy shivered through Optimus’ spark. It seemed that the sparkling’s thoughts mirrored his own on the matter.
“Do not blame yourself, little one,” Optimus said, his voice soft. “There was little you could have done without getting yourself killed.”
The sparkling shuffled his pedes, optics glancing upwards to meet Optimus’, as if he were looking for reassurance in his gaze. “What am I supposed to do now?” he said, grasping his own elbow tightly. “I can’t stay here, and I’m not really a soldier…”
“Why would that prevent you from coming with us?” Optimus said with a slight frown.
The yellow bot immediately perked up, door-wings shooting up and hope sparking his faded optics into a brighter shade. “I can come?” he asked excitedly, the pipe slowly falling from his grip.
Optimus felt - to his mild surprise - a gentle smile slowly spread onto his faceplate. “Of course, little one,” he said. “It is the duty of Autobots to do our best to help and protect those who need it.”
The sparkling took a few cautious steps forward, clearly eager but still nervous. He seemed desperate to take the offer but terrified of getting his hopes up for no reason.
“Are-are you sure?” The sparkling stammered, his frame still quivering slightly. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to be an Autobot…”
“It is alright,” Optimus softly said. “You do not need to fight or even join the Autobots if you wish. The decision is yours, and either way we will still help you. That being said…” The Prime again smiled as he spoke. “Physical strength is not the most important thing in an Autobot.”
“It’s not?” The sparkling asked, optics wide and cocking his helm like a confused cyberhound.
“No,” Optimus said. “Determination, courage, and compassion are far more important. And those qualities can flourish in any bot who truly wants them.”
“...Okay,” the sparkling said with a nod. “Okay, I can do that. I can flourish and...all of that.”
Still smiling slightly, Optimus extended a servo towards the sparkling. After another nervous pause, the sparkling stepped forward and timidly grasped Optimus’ digits with his own, comparatively tiny ones. Optimus carefully stood, making sure to keep his arm low enough that the sparkling could still keep a tight hold.
The pair made their way back into the town, carefully sidestepping chunks of rubble and holes blown in the ground. Optimus had to walk more slowly than he usually did in order for the smaller bot to keep up. The sparkling kept a vice-like grip on the Prime’s digits, though his helm swiveled around constantly, peering down alleys as if expecting a Decepticon to jump out at any second.
It took a few minutes to wind their way back towards the center of the settlement where the rest of Optimus’ team waited. The murmur of conversation slipped into Optimus’ audios, the voices low yet frustrated. Just as the pair turned the corner and the plaza came into view, one of the Autobots kicked a broken machine part across the space.
The sudden crash echoed through the otherwise silent town. The sparkling jumped with a squeak of fear, his digits gripping Optimus’ even more tightly. Instinctively, Optimus ran his thumb across the sparkling’s knuckles in an attempt to soothe him. The sparkling looked up at him, his big blue optics touching Optimus’ spark.
“It is alright, little one,” he said. “I will keep you safe, I promise.”
“O-okay…” the sparkling mumbled, shuffling a bit closer to the larger mech.
As they set off once again for the plaza, Optimus glanced back down at the yellow bot. “I do not believe you ever told me your name, little one,” he said.
“Oh...right, sorry,” the sparkling said as he once again looked up to meet Optimus’ gaze. “My name is Bumblebee.”
Optimus was aware of the startled voices and astonished gasps that sounded when he and the young bot came into view. However, he kept his optics on the small, timid yet strong sparkling at his side.
“It is good to meet you, Bumblebee.”
The transport ship rattled slightly as it shot through the air, not used to the speed it was traveling at. The large cargo hold was filled with boxes of supplies and Autobots that had been ordered to provide support for the survivors of Tyger Pax. Most of the assembled bots were clustered by the door, eager to leave the confines of the old, slightly rusty ship. However, there were two mechs standing on the opposite end of the hold, by the cockpit. Jazz was twiddling his digits and looking around the hold, occasionally stealing worried glances at the taller mech standing across from him.
Optimus Prime stared hard at the floor, arms tightly crossed and servos gripping his elbows. He had spent the entirety of the journey in complete silence despite Jazz’s occasional attempts at starting a conversation. His battle mask, usually only brought out in dangerous situations, was now covering most of his faceplate in the hope that it hid any cracks in the Prime’s outer facade of calm.
How could I have forgotten that Bumblebee was stationed at Tyger Pax? Optimus thought for what felt like the hundredth time. I know we have not had the chance to interact much after he finished his training but...I should have known. I should have been there. We all knew it was only a matter of time before the Decepticons tried to take Tyger Pax, yet I spent all of this time in Iacon in a Primus-forsaken office!
“Prime...you good?” Jazz said slowly.
Optimus blinked, suddenly aware that his armor was bending under the pressure of his own digits. Loosening his grip, he looked up to see Jazz anxiously watching him.
“Yes Jazz, I…” Optimus said, briefly struggling for words. “I just want to reach our destination as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, same…” Jazz muttered. For a moment he stood there, tapping his digits against his arm plating before compulsively continuing. “Bee’s tough, Prime. He’ll be alright.”
Optimus wanted to agree with Jazz, to be confident in the scout’s skills and luck, but no sound came forth when he opened his intake. After a couple of attempts, he settled for simply nodding and resuming his examination of the cargo hold’s floor.
Please, Primus, let him be alright... Optimus couldn’t help but think.
“We’re coming up on the landing zone now!” The ship’s pilot called through the intercom. “Grab your gear and be ready to move, Autobots!”
Shaking himself free of his frantic thoughts, Optimus moved to face the creaking exit ramp of the ship as the shuttle moved to land. Silently, he and Jazz grabbed supply crates along with their fellow Autobots. With a loud thump, the ship landed and the ramp rattled to the ground. The two mechs waited for the other passengers to disembark, then strided the length of the cargo hold and out into the open.
The landing zone was a relatively flat section of ground near a series of structures that served as an impromptu base for the Autobots that had escaped the destruction of Tyger Pax. A few Autobots were rushing out to meet the landing party, among them a red mech with large cannons attached to his arms. The mech’s optics scanned the arriving group and quickly found Optimus (not that spotting the tall mech was that difficult). Passing by the main group, he strided up to the Prime and his communications officer.
“Prime, Jazz,” he said, nodding gruffly at each of them.
“Ironhide,” Optimus replied, shifting his grip on his crate and resisting the urge to immediately start questioning the soldier.
An urge that Jazz did not bother stifling.
“Well, what’s the deal ’Hide?” Jazz asked, already moving towards the base.
“About sixty-five percent of our bots were able to evacuate,” Ironhide said, turning to walk alongside Jazz and leaving Optimus to bring up the rear. “They came out of nowhere, the slaggers. Started with an aerial assault that kept us busy long enough for their heavy ground troops to sneak up on us. We’re lucky that this many of us got away.”
They were about halfway to the nearest building when Ironhide stopped and turned around to face Optimus.
“...But that’s not what you’re thinking about,” Ironhide said, his usually tough-as-steel faceplate sympathetic.
“N-no,” Optimus said, wincing at his unintentional stutter. He hadn’t done that in stellar cycles.
“Well, I’ve got good news on that front,” Ironhide said. “We found him, and he’s alive.”
A vent of air that Optimus hadn’t realized he’d been holding came out of him in a strangled gasp. Jazz made a similar noise of relief, a grin already spreading over his faceplate.
But Ironhide did not share their joy. The large mech was frowning and suddenly unwilling to look Optimus directly in the optic. A sense of dread nearly as great as the one that had plagued Optimus all the way here was now taking root in his systems.
Jazz had picked up on the sudden tension as well. “’Hide, what is it?” he asked, sounding nervous again.
“It’s…” Ironhide trailed off, clenching his fists tightly enough that Optimus could hear the squeak of metal.
“Ironhide,” Optimus said, sternness starting to creep into his voice. At this point, he doubted he was above outright ordering Ironhide to tell him what happened.
“Ratchet’s here,” Ironhide said suddenly. “It’ll probably be better if he explained. C’mon, he should be in the medbay.”
With that abrupt statement, Ironhide turned and started walking towards the base once more. An increasingly anxious Optimus and Jazz had no choice but to follow, only stopping long enough to drop off the supply crates at the entrance. Continuing into the building’s rather derelict interior, Optimus did his best to remain calm.
Ironhide has seen so much during this war and has always managed to remain cool-helmed, he thought. What could have happened to shake him this badly?
Finally, they arrived at the impromptu medbay. There were at least forty berths packed tightly together in the space and all of them were full. It was relatively quiet, apart from the soft moans of pain that occasionally issued from the injured Autobots. A few medics patrolled the berths, checking the monitors and making sure their patients were as comfortable as possible, though most were in recharge mode.
Optimus quickly spotted Ratchet, the Autobot’s chief medical officer and one of his oldest friends. The white and orange mech was peering at the monitor of a one-armed mech who was deliriously mumbling. Ratchet glanced up from his work and straightened suddenly upon noticing the three mechs. He seemed to sigh, then gestured at the trio to approach him.
Moving quickly and quietly, Optimus, Jazz, and Ironhide made their way into the medbay. As they carefully sidestepped berths, Optimus scanned the area for bright yellow armor. However, none of the mechs and femmes sprawled on the berths were Bumblebee, though a few seemed to recognize him. Optimus could not bring himself to meet their gaze - if he had been at Tyger Pax, he might have been able to prevent this carnage.
Optimus looked forward and noticed that Ratchet was moving towards a small door nearly hidden in the shadows. Spark pulsing rapidly, Optimus followed him, Jazz and Ironhide right behind him. Reaching the door, Ratchet opened it and ducked inside, holding it open for the other three mechs as they entered.
The room was dark and so small that the four Autobots could barely wedge themselves inside. It appeared to have once been a closet or storage room, though now its only contents were a tiny battered crate, a quietly beeping monitor, a medical berth that had been shoved into the corner, and the yellow-plated mech lying upon it.
Feeling faintly terrified, Optimus slowly approached the berth, reflexively scanning the young scout. Bumblebee’s normally shiny yellow plating was completely covered in scratches and dents, making it nearly impossible to find one square inch of clean paint. One of his legs showed signs of having recently been snapped nearly in two and then mended. In short, he looked like he had been used as a toy for a Predacon.
By far the worst of Bumblebee’s wounds was the mangled mess of metal around his throat. The plating around it was partially torn away, what was left warped and badly bent. Optimus could see the fragile wires and cables that ran from the scout’s helm to the rest of his frame, some looking like they had recently been welded back together. In the center of the damage was an energon patch that covered a massive puncture wound, like a blade or claw had been forcefully jammed into the side of Bumblebee’s neck.
For several moments, Optimus could only stare at Bumblebee in barely contained horror, watching as the scout’s chestplate shakily rose and fell with every shallow vent. Finally, the Prime tore his gaze away to look at Ratchet.
“What happened?” Optimus said, not daring to say more for fear that something in his voice would reveal his anguish.
Ratchet did not meet Optimus’ optics, instead staring down at the fallen scout. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow with sorrow.
“I don’t know the full story,” Ratchet said. “But apparently Bumblebee was attempting to distract the main Decepticon forces while the rest of the troops evacuated. He was captured by a Decepticon enforcer and brought before Megatron…”
Ratchet had to take a deep vent before continuing.
“He...interrogated Bumblebee, tried to get him to reveal important information,” the medic said. “Apparently, this lasted for about a cycle or so...most of the damage is by Megatron’s own servos.”
“Well…” Jazz spoke up. “At least-”
Ratchet held up a servo, cutting Jazz off.
“Bumblebee refused to talk,” Ratchet continued. “So Megatron...he...I guess he decided that if Bumblebee wasn’t going to talk to him...he wasn’t going to talk to anyone ever again.”
Only now did Ratchet turn to face Optimus, his faceplate twisted in despair and desperation. “He crushed Bumblebee’s voice box and left him for dead, Optimus,” he said in a rush. “We barely found him in time and I did everything I could, but...I don’t think I can fix it.”
The last sentence came out as a broken whisper, the medic looking down at his patient with badly hidden guilt.
“It was not your fault, old friend,” Optimus said, his voice equally soft. As terrible as the feelings were that boiled within him, he couldn’t ignore the medic’s anguish.
“He’s right,” Ironhide said, placing a heavy servo on Ratchet’s shoulder. “Megatron’s the frag-helm who did this to Bee, not you.”
“Perhaps,” Ratchet said, his agitated voice rising in volume. “But I still should-”
A faint, wheezing whimper suddenly issued from Bumblebee, the young mech twitching slightly in his unconscious state. The noise was barely audible, yet it instantly silenced the four mechs.
“Could we be left alone for a moment?” Optimus quietly asked.
“Oh...yes, of course,” Ratchet said, shaking himself slightly. “I’ll be back in the medbay if you need me.”
Ratchet carefully opened the door and slid outside, soon followed by Ironhide and Jazz, the latter of whom gave Optimus a weak smile of comfort before exiting. With a slight clunk, the door swung shut and left him alone with the injured Bumblebee.
Slowly, Optimus pulled the small crate up to the side of the berth. With a slight sigh, he sat down to begin his watch. Optimus tried to focus on the monitor and Bumblebee’s vital signs, but the thoughts he had been beating back since he had entered the room were now consuming his processors.
Megatron did this, Optimus thought. The mech I once called brother did this. I know that Megatron had changed for the worse a long time ago, but...how could he do this? A sudden, horrifying idea occurred to him. Could he have known that I was close to Bumblebee? Is this some act of vengeance on his part? Or would he have been this brutal no matter what?
Bumblebee let out another whimper, his frame shuddering slightly. A surge of rage flooded Optimus, his optics narrowing and servos clenching.
It does not matter, he thought. You will not get away with this, Megatron, I swear it. I will make you answer for your crimes, even if I have to defeat every last Decepticon to get to you.
Optimus was snapped out of his anger when Bumblebee whimpered again, much louder than before. The scout shifted slightly, helm rolling from side to side as his blue optics slowly fluttered open. Almost as soon as they did, Bumblebee’s venting increased to a worriedly rapid pace and his servos flew up towards his throat. His right servo snagged onto the cable that attached Bumblebee to the monitor and started to pull it free.
“Bumblebee?” Optimus said, standing up and gently grabbing the scout’s wrist. “Bumblebee, calm yourself. You are not in any danger.”
The young mech didn’t seem to hear him, his thrashing growing increasingly violent. Bumblebee frantically attempted to pull his arm free of Optimus’ grasp, his other arm grabbing Optimus’ elbow and trying to shove it away from him. His undamaged leg was scraping against the berth as if he were trying to prop himself up while the other leg could only twitch feebly on the berth.
“Bumblebee? Bumblebee!” Optimus said, struggling to keep his grip on the panicking bot while also not alarming or injuring him further. His free servo gently grabbed Bumblebee’s other wrist. This only seemed to add to the scout’s terror, as Bumblebee began violently twisting his frame around, smacking his helm against the berth with a force that made the Prime wince.
“Bumblebee, please!” Optimus said, wondering if he could risk letting go of the young mech long enough to get Ratchet. “You are safe. This is Optimus. You are no longer…”
At the sound of Optimus’ name, Bumblebee abruptly stopped thrashing. Wide blue optics quickly found the Prime’s faceplate, flickering faintly as he took in Optimus’ appearance. Optimus remained still, though he retained his grip on Bumblebee’s wrists in case the scout started panicking again.
With a soft moan, Bumblebee slumped back onto the berth, shuddering in relief. An equally relieved Optimus relaxed his grip on the scout’s wrists and carefully sat on the edge of the berth by Bumblebee’s hip.
“It is good to see you again Bumblebee,” Optimus said, carefully placing his servo on top of Bumblebee’s. “I just wish our reunion had not happened under these circumstances.”
The young mech gave him a weak grin. He then opened his intake and a rasping, glitching noise cut through the comfortable quiet of the room. Bumblebee’s smile vanished as he attempted to speak again, only getting a harsh burst of static for his efforts.
Optimus tightened his hold on the scout’s servo. “Bumblebee, please do not strain yourself,” he quietly said. “You could damage yourself further.”
The scout looked at him with wide, confused optics. His free servo moved to clutch Optimus’ wrist, the grasp so strong it was almost painful. Trembling in fear, Bumblebee made another series of rasping squeaks, these much softer than those that preceded them.
What’s happening to me?, he seemed to be trying to say.
“Bumblebee…” Optimus said, trying to keep the sorrow out of his voice. “How much do you remember?”
For a few seconds, Bumblebee was still, staring vaguely over Optimus' shoulder plate. Then his optics flashed and both servos suddenly flew to his throat, freezing once they made contact with the energon patch. Optimus resisted the urge to grab the scout’s servos again as Bumblebee carefully felt his way around the damage to his neck, digits skirting the worst of the wounds. After about a minute of this, Bumblebee slowly lowered his servos to his chestplate. Optics still locked onto Optimus, the scout began struggling to speak yet again.
“Bumblebee, please…” Optimus whispered, his own servos slowly falling to his lap.
“Fff-ffff eeee-eeee-” Bumblebee’s speech descended into senseless static that abruptly ended with a questioning “tsk” noise.
“Fix?” Optimus repeated unsuredly.
Bumblebee nodded frantically and pointed at his neck.
Realizing what Bumblebee was asking, Optimus shifted uncomfortably. “Bumblebee, this has been a very trying experience for you,” he said, unable to look the scout in the optic. “Perhaps it would be best for you to get some-”
Optimus was cut off when Bumblebee, with a surprising amount of strength given his condition, grabbed Optimus by the shoulders and hoisted himself into a sitting position.
“P-puh-leeeeeeeee-sss,” Bumblebee choked out, the sounds wildly changing in pitch as they came out. His optics locked on to Optimus’, terrified desperation written all over his faceplate.
A part of Optimus wanted to reassure him that everything would be fine; that all he needed to do was rest and that when he woke up, his voice would be back and everything would be normal once more. But if there was one thing Optimus could never do effectively or without guilt, it was lie.
“I...I am sorry, Bumblebee,” Optimus whispered. “Ratchet did everything he could, but your voice box was beyond repair.”
Bumblebee froze, blue optics wide and servos still gripping Optimus’ shoulders. Slowly, he started trembling, his torn-up door-wings quivering and pulling closer to his back, and his helm began to shake back and forth. His intake opened and shut again and again, silent “no”s spilling out. Optimus had just enough time to notice how wet Bumblebee’s optics were before the scout suddenly let go of his shoulders and scrambled backwards until his backplates hit the wall. Pulling his functioning knee to his chestplate, Bumblebee buried his faceplate in his servos, choked and glitching sobs audible through his digits.
Optimus remained perched on the side of the berth, feeling helpless as he watched the traumatized scout completely break down. He shared Bumblebee’s grief - it was horrible to think he would never hear the scout’s comments, quips, or laughter ever again. His rage towards Megatron was still there, festering in the backlogs of his processor, but it was overcome by his sorrow at Bumblebee’s state.
He considered placing a servo on Bumblebee’s shoulder, comforting him in a dignified, Prime-like manner. As horrifying and deeply personal as this circumstance was, he could not allow his emotions to get the better of him.
Primes must be strong and in-control of their emotions at all times, no matter what the situation, his mantra reminded him.
Optimus looked at the trembling, shattered Bumblebee and suddenly saw the tiny sparkling he had met in the ruins of the abandoned town, shaking in terror but still willing to trust him.
...Slag it.
Scooting backwards so that he was fully sitting on the berth with his back plates against the wall, Optimus gently grasped Bumblebee by the shoulders and pulled the smaller mech onto his lap. Bumblebee started in shock, then moaned and threw his arms around Optimus’ torso. Pressing his faceplate into the Prime’s shoulder, Bumblebee sobbed and shook under Optimus’ servos. Optimus wrapped his arms around the shaking mech, being careful to not put pressure on any of his injuries. Shifting Bumblebee into a more comfortable position, Optimus rubbed the young mech’s back, gently hushing him.
“It will be alright, Bumblebee,” he said. “It will all be alright. You are safe now and...I could not be more proud of you. I heard that you refused to tell Megatron anything. You have shown a level of bravery that few achieve in their entire lifetime.”
Bumblebee glanced up at him, tearful optics flickering faintly. He was unable to say anything, but the way he tightened his embrace made his thoughts clear.
For several more minutes they remained like that, Optimus holding the young scout and Bumblebee shuddering in his grip. Eventually Bumblebee’s sobs died out, the battered yellow mech falling limp against Optimus’ frame as he slipped into a deep, badly-needed recharge. Optimus continued absently rubbing the scout’s back, finally looking down to examine him.
“I made a promise to you when we first met, Bumblebee,” Optimus whispered to the sleeping bot. “I promised to keep you safe and...I failed you. I am so sorry, little one.” The Prime had to stop for a moment to take a vent. “But I will not fail you again. I will keep a close optic on you from now on. No one will ever hurt you like this again.”
Bumblebee twitched slightly, though he relaxed as soon as Optimus gently patted his helm.
“And that promise is one I will not break,” Optimus said.
“Optimus?”
Optimus Prime started, blinking as he remembered where he was. He was standing on the rocky ledge looking over Denny Clay’s scrapyard, observing the bright orange sky as the sun began to descend towards the distant horizon. Turning, he saw Bumblebee climbing the nearby cliff to join him.
“Yes, Bumblebee?” Optimus asked, trying to shake off the hold his memories had on him.
“Ratchet and the Mini-Cons say they’re almost done with the repairs to the Alchemor,” Bumblebee said as he walked up to the Prime. “Strongarm, Sideswipe, and Grimlock are almost done loading up the last of the Cons, so you should be ready to head back to Cybertron soon.” The yellow mech looked down at the scrapyard, then chuckled. “Well, as long as Grim’ doesn’t have to break up any more arguments between those two…”
“True…” Optimus said with a small chuckle of his own. Staring at the horizon, Optimus felt his expression shift back into a pensive frown.
“Are you alright?” The former scout asked, a worried look coming over his faceplate.
“I am fine, Bumblebee,” Optimus said. “It is just that I have been thinking…”
“About our argument?” Bumblebee offered.
“Partly…” Optimus admitted, cringing as he remembered his recent behavior. When he and the “Away Team” had returned to the scrapyard, Optimus had struggled to accept that Bumblebee was the leader of the team, even arguing with him and trying to give orders that contradicted Bumblebee’s. It had gotten bad enough that every other conversation that they had ended in a stand-off. Optimus had not enjoyed fighting with his former scout, but he had felt that, given the situation, he was more fit to lead.
Now, after they had talked it out and Earth was no longer threatened by a huge force of Decepticons, Optimus just felt rather foolish.
“Well, I get why you acted the way you did,” Bumblebee said, looking out at the sunset. “You’re good at leading, you’re used to it, so you thought you should take charge. I’m just glad we got it worked out.”
“Agreed…” Optimus said. For a moment he remained silent, struggling with his thoughts, before continuing in a rush. “But that was not the only reason why I tried to take command.”
“It wasn’t?” Bumblebee asked, looking at the Prime confusedly.
“No…” Optimus said, shifting awkwardly on his pedes. “I suppose that...I always thought that as long as you were under my command, I could…”
“You could…?” Bumblebee prompted. The yellow mech was clearly confuddled - it was a rare event, Optimus Prime being at a loss for words.
“...How much do you remember of the night after you lost your voice box?” Optimus quietly asked, optics downcast.
Bumblebee wasn’t quite able to hide his flinch. “Bits and pieces...why do you ask?” he said.
“Well…” Optimus said. “I doubt you would remember this either way, but I said that I would-”
“Keep an optic on me from then on?” Bumblebee offered.
Optimus whipped his helm around to stare at the yellow mech.
“I wasn’t quite in recharge mode yet,” Bumblebee explained with a sheepish expression.
“Er...yes,” Optimus said. “As you know, after that...incident I had you reassigned to my team. I rather hoped that by doing so I could prevent you more harm.” He paused, looking down at his pedes. “Although in hindsight, that did not turn out to be true.”
“Hey, you did the best you could,” Bumblebee said. “We were in the middle of a war, there was always a chance of getting hurt.”
Optimus nodded, managing a small smile before continuing.
“When you tried to remind me that you were the leader of the team...” he said. “That I was no longer the one to give you orders...I suppose there was a part of me that was not ready to accept that you no longer needed my guidance, my protection. That you had grown up.”
Optimus kept his optics locked on the horizon, embarrassment building in his spark. It had been a very long time since he had shown this level of vulnerability, especially towards his former scout. He was therefore slightly startled to feel Bumblebee’s servo on his arm. Glancing over, Optimus saw the younger mech smiling at him.
“I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me, Optimus,” Bumblebee said. “More than I could ever say. You saved me when nobody else had, and you’ve been there for me ever since.”
Bumblebee let go and moved to look at the horizon.
“And I understand that it’s been hard to adjust,” he said. “Scrap, I spent the first few weeks back on this planet trying to copy you, trying to do exactly what you would do. It took me a while to learn how to lead on my own. But I still remember and use everything you taught me. I might be more than your scout now, but I will never refuse your guidance or forget what you’ve done for me, Optimus.”
Turning back towards him, Bumblebee gave another smile.
“And that’s a promise,” he said.
Warmth filled Optimus’ spark as he gazed fondly at the young mech who had become like a son to him. Reaching out, Optimus placed a servo on Bumblebee’s shoulder, hesitating for only a brief second before pulling him into a hug. Bumblebee wrapped his arms around the Prime, his helm still barely reaching Optimus’ shoulder even after all this time.
“I still mean everything I said,” Optimus softly said. “I am so proud of you, Bee.”
“Thank you, Optimus-”
A burst of shouts caused them to break apart and look down at the scrapyard. They could make out the forms of Strongarm and Sideswipe in each other’s faceplates, shouting and shaking their servos as if ready to come to blows. Grimlock was standing behind them, windmilling his arms in the air and apparently trying to end the argument by drowning it with his own shouts.
“I should probably go take care of that,” Bumblebee said, chuckling and rubbing his forehelm as he turned and started making his way down the ridge.
“Yes, I will let you do that,” Optimus said as he followed. “I imagine you have more experience in breaking up fights between those two.”
“You have no idea,” Bumblebee groaned, though he was still chuckling. “Teenagers, I swear...how, in the name of the Primes, did you put up with me?”
“Oh…” Optimus said, placing his servo on Bumblebee’s shoulder as they picked their way back down to the scrapyard. “I managed.”