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Optimus Prime was supposed to be the kind of mech who confronted problems directly.
Orion Pax used to be the kind of mech who created those problems inadvertently.
This meant, unfortunately, that he was his own contrast, and the raison d'être for the aforementioned principle. Being a miner-turned-Prime would do that. Honestly. He really was trying his best to stabilize and sort out his contradictions, but the added stress of preparing for the second impending Quintesson invasion whilst defending from constant Decepticon raids didn't leave him a lot of time for self reflection.
So far, his mental list of Things To Improve On followed something along the lines of:
1.) Turn the impulsivity down a notch.
2.) Think with your processor, not your spark.
3.) Be more watchful of your surroundings.
He was in the habit of acting a little more cautiously with himself. A breath of fresh air for everyone who knew him previously, he was sure. And! He thought, with inappropriate pride, so far, no one was complaining. So he was doing a good job.
Probably.
'But Optimus,' one might say, if he were to ever voice anything within this list out loud. 'You're a Prime, resurrected and chosen by Primus himself! Aren't you supposed to know how to do all of this, via matrix-accrued wisdom?'
Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't some sort of all-knowing, second-coming of Primus. Sure, he was revived from the dead (ow), but it was less of a rebirth and more of a very startling new set of prime quality upgrades. The only changes he'd noticed so far, to disregard the physical changes that already came with him having integrated a new cog, was his energon axe and access to a very neat processor version of the archival vaults.
—Not that it was a bad thing. It was an extremely elating discovery. But he was kind of sure that it didn't count because there was a difference between access to a potentially near-infinite vat of wisdom, versus an omnipotent influx of infinite wisdom. He wasn't able to communicate with the matrix itself, or talk to the deceased Primes he'd seen, either. He's tried.
He had talked to Ratchet about it, before, and according to the medic, there was a high chance that Optimus had more undiscovered abilities that he just… couldn't access, yet.
"It's not that strange, if you think about it." Ratchet had said once, fiddling with Optimus' back kibble. "Let's compare what you're going through now as… the growth of a cogged sparkling."
"I wasn't a cogged sparkling, though."
Ratchet snorted. "Obviously none of us were, but in this metaphor we're pretending, because that's the comparison every high-caste medic was making when they checked over the other ex-miners."
"Fair 'nuff." Optimus snorted. "Could you explain the comparison, though?"
"Well… hm. To put it in simpler terms: sparklings, as they grow, go through a series of developmental stages. Trust versus mistrust, autonomy versus shame and doubt, initiative versus guilt, yaddah yaddah yaddah. The thing about it, though, is that some dolts will tell you there's a 'positive' and 'negative', and that we should always strive towards the positive, encourage them to be proud, confident, unafraid." Ratchet snorted. "Y'know what that leads to? Sparklings growing up to be arrogant, self-righteous mecha like—
Optimus cleared his vox.
"A little shame wouldn't hurt 'em, is all." Ratchet grouched. "I'm simplifying it, but point is, there's supposed to be a healthy balance. Conflict within those stages serve as turning points for the sparkling. If a sparkling calibrates all the… positive shmuck, it's easier for their plating to loosen, and allows for flexibility and faster transformation. If a sparkling fails to resolve it, the protoform mesh beneath the armor grows stiff. In theory, it's meant to be a protective armor lock, but without proper emotional control, it backfires. It's a nightmare, the sparkling could experience transformation-induced pain, or get locked out of its alt mode entirely. Not many such cases, thankfully, but the reason why I tell you all this is because ex-miners—such as you, and I—are going through a period of time where we experience the same conflicts a growing sparkling would."
"…Huh." Optimus hummed curiously. "Is there any way to—if the sparkling, or, uh, an ex-cogless fails to resolve those stages, is there anyway to get better? Or reverse it? It's not permanent, right?"
Ratchet only hummed, tapping a tool against his palm. "I can't answer that well. The Cybertronian processor is finicky, and the whole, ex-cogless transition is still unmapped territory. While I can guarantee that medical assistance and therapeutic support can help with recovery, there's a very high probability that a hypothetical patient won't ever be entirely the same. It's a developmental stage, after all. Once you experience somethin' that rocks your world view, it's hard to shake it off."
Maybe if Orion had more time to adjust, the gap in knowledge wouldn't be so frustrating. It wasn't like it wasn't well deserved, though. He essentially caused the upheaval of what seemed to be normal, every day society. They didn't have time to adjust, either. Maybe things weren't great underneath Sentinel's rule, but they were everyone else's normal, and on the surface, it wasn't as complicated as they've developed to be after he went off on his way to find the matrix. Which. He didn't even succeed at, considering that he only "found" the matrix when he fell into the core of Cybertron.
Did he regret it?
No.
Would he do it differently, had he been given the chance to turn back?
Yeah.
Ergo, The Fall (the aptly named recent periodization of events that occurred around the time of Sentinel's murder) was ultimately his fault, so he would be the one to help with the aftermath of that, however that might go, and deal appropriately. Which he has been doing! Kind of.
It was actually a little bit fascinating how quickly that tidbit of new history had been edited onto historical articles of online archives. It was also very mortifying, not only because his fallout with Megatron had essentially been aired out for everyone to see, but, strangely enough, also because of the way everyone spoke about him. A constant and never-ending slough of devotion from the mouths of the same mecha who used to look at him with disgust.
A Primus-Sent, wondrous deity, rust-to-polish success story, to be worshiped and loved and trusted by everyone surrounding, he had read the headline of a newsletter saying, once. His death, a lesson in morality, and mortality.
Primus. He felt pretentious.
As a miner, before he slipped into recharge, he would often daydream of being treated with the same normality that cogged mechs treated each other with, and be able to walk around without being ignored, quietly laughed and whispered at, or looked upon with disapproval. To be able to walk around without being othered. To be more than he was.
Well—yeah, he was relieved that at the very least, there seemed to be no more malice towards him just for just his existence But it—it still didn't feel. Different. In the way he wanted it to.
It could be because he wasn't at all sure of whether or not he deserved to be a Prime. He was one, technically speaking, but the more revered Thirteen Primes were thought to be near omnipotent, capable, knowledgeable, filled with of a lot more wisdom than Optimus could ever offer… et cetera, et cetera. As far as he knew, they were born with the basic fundamentals of how to be what they were, and went about their cycles unquestioning of their purpose or existence, fighting for and leading society with benevolent servos.
The name—title, facade, and lie—that is Optimus Prime echoed constantly in Orion’s processor as though it had been branded onto his frame, a permanent and seething thing. But he was Primus-Blessed, and therefore he should be in an awed fervor of everything Prime-like that culminated to be one with him.
And yet. He was not.
Orion was a miner at spark. His existence, a despised necessity, was for the greater good of Cybertron and for the stability of their strained resources . All of his wisdom involved basic mining safety procedures that he never bothered to follow. The knowledge he had was only just enough to keep him from, one: dying, and two: getting demoted from the mining unit entirely. He had barely scraped by as a miner. How could he ever get by as a Prime?
The only good thing about being a Prime, in his opinion, was his newfound freedom to walk into the Archival Vaults. Sure, he was able to access whatever information he needed from the vaults in his processor, but it was nice to be able to hold a physical datapad without having to sneak in or worry that he would get kicked out at a moment's notice.
It was a little less nice when a couple of cogged bots—or. Fellow transformers screeched and gestured excitedly at him. He shifted uncomfortably and stared resolutely at his datapad.
"My Prime!" One of them called out, walking towards him. Orion, stupid stupid stupid Orion, shattered the illusion that he couldn't hear them by instinctively looking up. Orion wondered vaguely if he could squeeze himself further into the corner enough to phase out of the room completely, but he waved the thought away and turned his attention onto the mech that spoke first. "We've only seen you on the news outlets, I can't believe we get to see an actual Prime in person!"
"Just Or—just Optimus, please." Optimus smiled at them awkwardly, feeling as though his consciousness was seperated from his body in the most surreal manner. "Nice to meet you, uhm—?"
"Wheeldex! This over here's my sparkmate, Gearspring."
"Right." Optimus said, immediately blanking on their names. Scrap. What were they again? Wheeldex and Gearstring? "It's nice to meet you, I'm Opti… ahem. Did you need… something?"
Wheeldex nodded, excited and thankfully without commenting on his awkward slip up. "We're big fans, honestly, when we heard you were the one who banished the ex-miner traitor, and that you were the one who took down Sentinel—"
Orion would really like to be done with this conversation now.
"—and that you died for us! And came back! Which, you were a miner before, weren't you? We have friends who used to be miners! And, nothing against you but, wow, it's just a little surprising—"
"I hope you know," Optimus cut in, mildly, "that I appreciate your thoughts, and I understand your sentiments, but that having friends who were victims of oppression does not automatically decide whether or not you supported that system, or the actions taken by the oppressors themselves."
There was a long silence. Wheeldex gaped, their finials abruptly pinned downward in embarrassment. "Oh Primus, no no no, we never agreed with Sentinel's caste system, just to be clear! We're really appreciative of everything the miners have ever done, really, I meant no offense, Optimus, gosh, sorry, really, I didn't realize how that sounded."
"You haven't offended me."
"Your finials, though, they're, uh…"
Orion's datapad fell to the floor with a loud clatter as he clapped his servos over his finials, which had lowered without his knowledge. "Ahaha," he smiled brightly, "ha. I forgot I had those. It's not you at all, I apologize if I sounded short. You had a request?"
Gearstring placed a servo on her partner's pauldron. "I'm so sorry, my Prime, they were just excited, what my sparkmate is trying to ask is… well… if you'd be willing to officiate our bond."
Optimus blinked. "I'm sorry?"
Gearstring looked at her sparkmate encouragingly, and Wheeldex, somewhat subdued but still visibly excited, nodded enthusiastically. "You're a Prime. Primes can do that, right? Make our sparkbond official with Primus' blessing and everything? It would mean so much, and we thought, with everything that happened, we thought, you know, why wait anymore? Who better to ask than the mech Primus himself brought back?"
Orion's processor offered several different responses at once. Why are you so dependent on an old tradition that requires someone else's permission to decide whether or not your sparkbond is valid, and, I was a miner just a little while ago, what importance do I have in this, and, I fell into the core and I came back and no one's telling me how to do anything but I'm still expected to do everything, and, D-16 used to be my best friend and now he wants me dead because I accidentally killed myself to stop him from killing Sentinel, and, I don't think I'm a real Prime, I don't think Primus' blessing is something I'm allowed to pass along, and, I don't know how.
What came out instead was, "Ah."
The rest was a blur, to him. He's not sure what response he gave, or what happened afterwards, or how long he'd spent standing there in the corner of the vaults, or how the datapad on the floor got back into his servos. He was walking now, and he wasn't quite sure where he was going, or why. Orion, who used to be the most sure mech ever, suddenly realized that he wasn't sure of anything at all.
Deep down, where his memories and identity blurred further, he didn’t know where Optimus Prime began and Orion Pax ended, or if they were ever separate. Everything that happened seemed so far away now, as though it were just flux during recharge. It was almost comical that he entertained the thought that it ever actually happened.
The thought that D-16 had ever…
Orion abruptly crashed into the wall and, in an instant, pain bloomed everywhere on his left, pricking his inner circuitry and then leaving burn marks on his spark caging.
Hurt, hurt, and more hurt rebounded throughout his body in slow, unwavering waves. Breathe, Orion thought desperately. In, and out, and in, and out. You're fine. You're okay.
He forcefully shallowed his venting, and let the pain fizzle away into the usual frame-biting ache.
Here, as seen, was just one of the few shameful problems he refused to confront. The occasional (constant) phantom pains. The pain stemmed from the day he had been shot, dropped into Cybertron’s core, and shortly resurrected into a Prime. He wasn't a medic, and he didn't know the biomechanics of mecha-physiology, but he was almost sure that he wasn't supposed to continue hurting like this, especially after recieving the Matrix of Leadership.
Primus-Blessed he was, indeed.
The pain was usually manageable. It was no worse than the occasional flare of a distant and uncomfortable ache in his chassis, if he was careful. And, for better or worse, they were practically nonexistent, as far as he knew. He held no broken circuitry, his spark caging was intact, and his plating was as smooth as could be. He was overreacting. It was fine.
It had to be fine. It had to be because his ache flared only in the areas that Megatron’s fusion cannon had blasted through. The same spots over and over, as if even his wiring remembered the violence, replaying it on an endless loop.
Only, he had understated desperately. Only in his chassis, his shoulder, the searing sting in his midsection—it was fine, and it had to be, because he was alright everywhere else.
He vividly recalled his first night as a Prime, trying to fake his pain out to be nothing more than the strain from the events of that day, when even adjusting his position sent an unnatural burning agony throughout his frame.
The pain wasn't that bad, he told himself firmly, refocusing back on the present.
Bad was blacking out in a cave-in and being more scared of awakening, trapped and alone, than immediate death.
Bad was being unable to do anything but scream when your pedes got crushed under rubble, beneath the aftermath of a mining operation gone wrong.
Bad was finding out that your greatest leader was responsible for the energon shortages in the first place, and thus the reason why their castes were balanced so disproportionately.
Bad was getting shot by your closest friend and—
“'S only a little discomfort," he muttered, in an attempt to interrupt his thoughts. He tried desperately to ignore the tremor in his servos at the painful reminder of that day. He instead focused at the current task at servo with faux conviction, and steadied a stack of miscellaneous crates Ratchet had asked him to move. He had happily agreed, of course—many ex-miners still recharged in the barracks, but they've been slowly integrating into the upper levels. Ratchet, specifically, had been offered an area above the rest, but had ultimately declined in favor of a more accessible department.
The pistons in his digits burned, but if the pain wasn't making him keel over, or physically unable to move, then the pain wasn't that bad.
And, a traitorous thought whispered, if he could lie to himself, he could lie to everyone else.
Unfortunately, the ache grew to be too much, and his wrist struts buckled underneath the weight.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
:: ACTION ::
Notifications dismissed.
“Careful there, Prime.” Ratchet called out, though not unkindly. Orion knew he meant well, but the comment felt like rubbing bleach into rust.
“I’ve got it.” He replied lightly. A bitter thought curled around the edges of his processor. If he couldn't be the Archivist he’s always wanted to be when he was a no-cog miner, and if he couldn't stay with the mech he cared for the most even when he had been granted a cog, then he was, if anything left at all, a good actor.
The next crate's weight on his constantly aching frame made him falter again. For a fleeting moment, his pedes buckled, but he recovered so quickly that most wouldn’t have brushed it off.
“Orion.”
But Ratchet was not most.
“I’m fine.” He replied firmly. Ratchet’s use of his actual designation for the first time in a long while startled him. Orion vented, and untensed his plating. “Really," he said, tone softened. "You know me—Primes are as tough as they come.”
"Still. You know that you can come to me at any time, right?"
"I know." Optimus lied smoothly. "Thank you."
Ratchet didn’t push further, but his frown deepened, and a moment later, he turned away.
Either Orion Pax had severely underestimated his friends' intelligence, or he had severely overestimated his own ability to fake them out.
He had always prided himself on his ability to mask discomfort, and maybe he was being a little over the top, but back when he got caught on his archival runs, there were many times his charisma was enough to sway the guards to give him leeway in some form or another.
It was harder to mask like that when things like getting shot with a large cannon and dropped into the depths of Iacon happened to him, but he didn't count them because he was dead and or dying, so he didn't have the energy to fake it till he made it because there was no more making it, to him.
And then he went and become a Prime, and everything that classified him as dead and or dying went away, so he assumed that everything would just go back to as semi-normal as it could. That had been a mistake, on his part.
Orion suspected that B-127 was the first to catch on, because B-127, despite his oblivious nature, was a very observant mech. Orion recalled the first time B-127 held up both his servos in anticipation, and the pain that had crackled through his left gauntlet when he obliged and met him with his own servos. He thought that nothing had shown on his face, but there was a strange sort of confusion on the other mech's face. He'd stopped offering anything similar to that, after that day, and where B-127's high-fives used to be the norm, a gentle grip on his right servo had taken its place.
The next to suspect me would be Ratchet, Optimus assumed forlornly. He was a medic, after all. To his chagrin, it seemed that Ratchet made it an unspoken habit to keep tabs on him, especially when he was asked to carry something. The first few times this happened, and when Ratchet thought Optimus wouldn't see, his optic ridges would furrow at his struggle.
It was for good reason, he supposed. Optimus was a Prime, his strength should be unmatched by nearly anyone. There should be no struggle. Now, in near every room he went to except for his own private quarters, there Ratchet would be, harmlessly meandering around or scrolling through a datapad.
Well. Optimus thought, morose. No more alone time for me, I guess.
See, when he thought no one would be around to look at him, Orion would take the small amount of time that was and allow himself some grace. He'd let himself do things like hunch over instead of remaining tall and rigid, or freely brace his weight against the wall (or, better yet, sit on the floor and forgo standing entirely). It was shameful that he was without the way Primes held themselves. His disposition as of current was a mockery of it—in the end, he was still the same miner with a broken frame and a fistful of excuses. Just, bigger.
The worst, and the smartest, was Elita-1. His commander had always been the hardest to fool.
"You've been avoiding transforming into your alt-mode," said Elita-1, bluntly.
Orion didn't look up from the datapad in his servos. "Have I?"
"You have." She circled him, Optimus could see through the peripherals of his vision. "I've been keeping track. You've transformed exactly, what, like three times in the last orn? Two of those times were because I asked you to."
Orion continued scrolling mindlessly through the datapad. "Must've slipped my mind."
For a few moments, she only looked at him. "Pax," she said, finally, "No miner has been able to transform up until a decade ago. We were miners. You were a miner. It's not like you to forget something like that."
The implication wasn't lost on him, but Optimus only turned away. "It's not like me to do a lot of things, these days."
There was a long silence. Please leave, he thought miserably. I want this conversation to be done, now. I can't look at you anymore. I'll break if I do. I'll break into a thousand pieces, the same way I did the first time.
Behind him, he heard Elita-1 take a breath, as if to say something. In the end, she left without another word.
A few joors later, Orion stood alone in the hangar.
The dim light cast long shadows across the walls, stretching and distorting everything until the familiar space became foreign. His frame ached in a dull, constant thrum. It was vaguely reminiscent of a sparkpulse.
Orion thought about what Elita-1 had told him, and shuddered. The very thought of transforming into his alt-mode filled him with a deep dread. The idea of folding himself into something more smaller and confined, of feeling his left side compress snugly into himself and then to have to take that pressure away so suddenly, disturbed him.
Orion Pax stared at his reflection in the polished metal floor. Optimus Prime stared back.
"How long are you going to keep this up?" He asked himself.
The Prime only stared back in silence.
There was a sudden clang of metal on metal that echoed through the hangar. Another mech was moving through the space, and Orion barely registered it before a heavy servo clapped against his back kibble, directly over the spot where Megatron's cannon had torn through him.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
SENSOR OVERLOAD
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
:: ACTION ::
Notifications dismissed.
That wasn't on purpose, Orion thought, deliriously. His entire frame seized, and there was a sudden ringing in his audials. It wasn't on purpose. It wasn't on purpose.
"I—Optimus? Optimus!"
"Issokay—" He slurred, shutting his optics tight. "Jazz, its okay—"
His servos shot out blindly, grabbing the edge of a nearby strut. His digits curled into the metal with enough force for it to cave inwards. White-hot agony lanced through him, obliterating any semblance of control. He blinked his optics open, and saw nothing but static. All he could hear was that damned ringing, and the echoes of that fateful blast.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
:: ACTION ::
Notifications dismissed.
Somewhere far away, Jazz spoke again. "By Primus, someone, help! Help, please! Elita! I—I don't know what happened, he just fell!"
Orion huffed out a delirious laugh. He couldn't help it, when everything sounded as though his audials were sunken in water.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
:: ACTION ::
Notifications dismissed.
His vents worked frantically, pulling in air in shallow, uneven bursts in an effort to cool nonexistent burns. No matter how desperately he tried to shove the pain down and pull himself together, his frame continued to tremble. Something creaked beneath his grip, and his knees hit the ground with a resounding clang.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
:: ACTION ::
Notifications dismissed.
There were more voices, and more faces hovering just out of focus.
"Orion!" Elita-1. He could feel her servos on his shoulder pauldrons, pulling him back from wherever he had gone. B-127 was by her flank, worriedly shifting in place. Jazz was there, too, and his mouth was moving but Orion could barely hear the words over the ringing.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
:: ACTION ::
Notifications dismissed.
It was too much. All of it.
"I'm fine," he rasped. His vox felt raw and strained. He forced himself upright, purposefully leaving his left arm to hang limp, and used the crushed strut as leverage. His frame swayed for a moment, but he steadied it.
"This is what you call fine?!" Elita-1 asked sharply.
Jazz looked at him with his lips downturned. "I—I'm sorry, man, it was my fault, I shouldn't have done that…"
"I said, I'm fine." The words had come out harsher than he intended. He hated himself the moment he said it. He hated the way everyone fell silent, and stepped back, as though his word was law.
Well, la dee da, his internal monologue sang mockingly. Congratulations! The only thing Prime-like about you is your ability to bark and bite, even towards your closest.
Later, in his quarters, Orion sat with his helm in his servos.
Perhaps they knew. Maybe for cycles, maybe longer. His attempts to mask the pain had been pathetic, hadn't they? It was all too obvious, how weak his will was to habit. He had failed to keep it hidden, just like he had failed so many times before.
He slammed a clenched servo against the wall. The heavy clang rang in his audials, and paid him in splintered pain and louder thoughts.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
Shut up, Orion thought dully. Notifications dismissed.
A part of him wondered if the point of even trying to pretend was even worth it, anymore. What could he even say? That his pain and the silence and the hesitation and the stress was caused by the strain of battle? That he was simply wearing down from an endless war?
And even then, something whispered in his processor, you are selfish. You are selfish because that wouldn't just be a cover-up story. That, in some twisted way, is your idea at self-proclaimed punishment, even when you know you can never be properly forgiven. You seek self-retribution only to convince yourself you've filled your dues when the wrongs you have permanently turned away appear on the battlefield every sub-cycle.
Not for the first time, the name Optimus Prime felt like a weight that Orion couldn't carry.
A few sub-cycles later, Orion found about a rumor sweeping through the autobots. Optimus, quote unquote, was afraid of touch.
It made sense for them to think that way, given what they knew about life before Orion became Optimus Prime. A no-cog miner was the lowest of the caste system, and because of Sentinel, every miner was a no-cogged. If you spoke out of line, you were reprimanded with fists, or worse. Briefly, his thoughts trailed off into a memory, of the day he and D-16 had been dropped into Sublevel 50, a level all of them hadn't even thought to exist, and met B-127. He wondered how badly B-127 messed up, to be punished so terribly.
Touch had turned into a language, always a warning if it was initiated by a higher caste, and always warming when a fellow miner did it, in a show of camaraderie.
And now, after everything Orion had gone through, they assumed his reaction was because he feared being hurt again. Any living mech would.
Heavy with guilt, Orion let them all believe it. And whether "it" referred to the rumor, or "it" was the belief that he was a living mech, he didn't know.
They all tried to be careful with him, including his closest. They all made sure to approach him from the front, and never from behind, and they kept their movements deliberate, ensuring he could see them in his line of vision before they even attempted to reach out. He should have felt relieved.
(He's not. Pathetic. He's not pathetic, he's not pathetic, please—)
Optimus smoothed over the cracks in his will with practiced ease, pretending not to notice the way everyone looked at him and the way everyone treated him. He pretended not to have noticed anything, at all. Because of course the death of the false Prime only made room for another—after all, what is Optimus Prime without the falsity to pretend that he was okay?
He refused to answer that. He instead, redirected his attention away from his self-loathing and to the current task at hand. Orion slipped into the medbay to swipe a few painpatches he'd been running low on. He was fond of them. They were small enough so he could slip them underneath his protoform, and they helped, somewhat, to numb the usual pains he experienced.
"Don't think I haven't noticed."
Orion startled and flipped his head around, servo hovering over the supply cabinet. Ratchet was behind him, facing away. Slag. Maybe Ratchet noticed the missing patches? Orion lowered his servo. "Noticed what?
"Oh, I don't know, " Ratchet snarked, turning to face him, "shall I talk about the hangar-event where you crumpled onto a heap in the floor and wouldn't respond for almost a joor?"
Orion winced. Was it really for that long? "Ratchet…"
"Orion." Ratchet's voice was hard. "Do not lie to me. I've been watching you fall apart for cycles but I never said anything because I thought, perhaps he'll come to me before it gets worse!" He laughed, raising his servos. "And look where we are now!"
Orion's finials lowered.
"Why did I have to hear it from them?" Ratchet demanded. "Why couldn't I hear it from you? Why won't you let me help you?"
"I appreciate the lecture, but I think you're making it sound worse than it is," said Optimus. "Give me time, I'll sort myself out."
Ratchet shook his head. "Optimus…"
"I'm fine." Optimus shifted, in place. "Really. It's nothing a few more cycles won't fix. You've got bigger things to worry about than me."
"I'm a medic, worrying is what I do!" Ratchet reached toward him but halted, expression conflicted. "You can't just—"
"I can." Optimus closed his optics. "We've got raids to plan and defenses to coordinate. I don't have time to sit here and psychoanalyze myself." He began walking away before the medic could finish whatever thought he was forming. "I'll come back if something changes."
He heard Ratchet exvent behind him. "Fine," Ratchet muttered. "Promise?"
Optimus paused at the door. "I promise," he lied again. Twice in a row, now, he thought to himself, really. What a great Prime you are.
The door slid shut unceremoniously, and he stepped away.
It felt like slow motion, seeing Megatron's digits enclose around B-127's throat, his grip alone near-tearing at his neck pipes and then exposing the delicate cabling of his vox. Optimus stilled, because thus far he'd been trying and succeeding at avoiding any direct contact with the Decepticon Lord. but B-127 was Orion Pax's friend, and so he disregarded any potential error of action by immediately running toward him.
:: SYSTEM ERROR ::
MEMORY DATA MISSING.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
:: ACTION ::
Notifications dismissed.
Orion couldn't recall the furious clash of metal upon metal, nor did he remember the resounding force of his axe cleaving Megatron's servo free from B-127's throat. By the time the haze of a dissociative state had cleared, Megatron was gone, and all that remained was himself, standing over B-127, who was lain on the ground just before an archway. His internal wiring was now exposed to the air, and energon bled freely from his collapsed pipes. The visceral gore made Orion recoil, but he knelt down, shakily pressing a servo on the crushed metal.
"Bee, c-come on," begged Orion shakily, trying to ignore how the messy spread of blue felt on his digits, "stay with me Bee, you're gonna be fine…"
B-127's optics flickered up to meet his. His mouth opened uselessly, and only a wet rasp gurgled out. Orion choked on a sob, bringing B-127 closer. Primus, Primus, please, someone, help—
"Prime!"
Orion followed the direction of the voice upward, still cradling B-127. Starscream stared down at him from the apex of a collapsed building, a smirk lazily drawn on his face. The bore of his gauntlet turret, aimed directly at the two of them, glowed a bright and mocking red. "You really should be more vigilant."
Optimus threw himself over B-127's frame, shielding him in just as Starscream blasted at them. Pain bloomed througout his plating, but to his relief, the gunfire didn't hit B-127. Starscream cackled distantly, and they were shot at again with enough force to launch them both into the base of the archway.
It was silent for a moment. And then the archway came crashing down.
MOVE, Orion's instincts immediately screamed, but B-127 was still beneath him with his optics squeezed shut and the debris was already falling and suddenly Orion's own mind was shoved back into a time from when he was escaping a collapsing cavern and there was no one who could help him and there was no where to run. With barely any time left, he caught the largest slab, and braced his servos against it just before it could crush them both, and, with all his might, held.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
RELEASE LOAD FROM UPPER LEFT FRAME.
"Hang on," Orion gasped out, "Bee, I need you to—I need you to move, I, I can't—"
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
RELEASE LOAD FROM UPPER LEFT FRAME.
B-127 immediately began to scramble backward. The archway groaned, and B-127 successfully dragged himself out from beneath Optimus' shaking frame and away from the rubble. Optimus heaved, whether from relief or exhaustion, he couldn't care to find out. He grit his dentae and tried to push the slab off to the side.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - COMPROMISED
:: ALARM ::
RELEASE LOAD FROM UPPER LEFT FRAME.
To Optimus' despair, his arms began to buckle, and his left wrist struts gave out with a sickening crunch. He let out a haggard whine. The weight shifted, and he felt something in his shoulder joint separate from his torso. His legs buckled, and he was forced downwards into a mock kneel.
Okay, he thought, distantly, the pain causing his vision to blur. This is fine, this is fine.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - COMPROMISED
RIGHT FRAME - DAMAGED
MOBILITY - COMPROMISED
SENSORY NET - OVERLOADED
:: ALARM ::
RELEASE LOAD FROM FRAME.
He couldn't think properly. His processor was shot with multiple alerts and warnings and pings but all he could do was keep his hold. His right arm trembled violently as the slab pressed down, down, down, forcing him further into the ground.
No, he thought desperately. No, no, no, no—
Optimus tried to make his left arm work and do what it was supposed to do, but his efforts were in vain. Tears streamed down his face. He was going to die. He was going to die again. He was going to die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die. The metal of his left wrist struts were bent sharply and the joints of his right were locked and every time he tried to move either of them fresh waves of pain shot through his body and weakened his arms more and more.
His processor felt fuzzy. His digits wouldn't respond and all he could do was watch as the slab inched closer, and closer towards his face.
I'm sorry, he thought brokenly, though he wasn't sure who he was apologizing to. I'm sorry, I'm tired, I'm, I'm so sorry.
His right arm gave out.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NE—
The rubble slammed against him immediately, and distantly, he heard the glass of his chassis shatter. The bend of his nose shifted abruptly with a violent crack, and shortly after, energon trickled onto his lips and into his mouth. The weight settled painful across his chest and his legs and jaw, and his plating began to bend. His vents let out a pitiful wheeze. His plating was collapsing, and he felt his protoform creak, threatening to cave inward. He was falling. He was dying. He was failing. He was going to die. Orion gasped out a harsh sob. He didn't want to die.
And then the weight was gone.
Orion blinked, dazed. Was he dead? His optics struggled to focus, but he could discern the silhouette of Elita-1, Jazz, and Ironhide surrounding him.
"Keep his frame steady!" Elita-1 barked. "Get him in the clear, head to the safe zone! Ironhide, run and keep Starscream busy!"
"Aye, Commander!"
"I'm fine," he tried to say. To his disgust, it came out as a wet cough, energon splattering messily across his bottom lip. His chest burned. Everything burned, he corrected himself.
"Shut up, Pax," Elita-1 snapped, though it seemed to be less out of malice, and more of mild frenzy. "You're—Primus, your face—your arm…"
Optimus did his best to shift his head and look down at himself. His left arm hung at a grotesque angle, and his servo was only barely hanging on by a few wires. His plating was crumpled and caved in, energon flowing freely from the cracks. His right was barely any better, with his wrist struts misshapen and grossly bent. He couldn't really feel his digits anymore.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
EXTERNAL FRAME - AT CRITICAL STRESS
INTERNAL PROTOFORM - SUFFERING LOSS OF STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY
CHASSIS - SUFFERING MILD IMPACT TRAUMA
SENSORY NET - OVERLOADED
:: ALARM ::
REQUESTING MEDICAL ATTENTION.
Aha. That's probably not good.
"We ha—ave to get Bee to the medbay first," he managed, voice slurred. "His vox is, damaged, it—" He coughed again, energon gathered into the back of his throat. Irritably, he spat it out, wincing when residue energon dribbled from his mouth.
"Bee's already there," Jazz cut in, voice tight. "Ratchet took him. We're getting you there now so—so stop talking and let us work."
Orion shuddered. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him, and his optics shuttered. Briefly, he worried of his weight and whether they would be able to carry him, but Elita-1 and Jazz remained steadily there. His frame went slack, and he slipped into blissful unconsciousness.
Orion awoke to the sterile white of the medbay ceiling.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
MEDICAL ATTENTION IN PROGRESSION.
Great, Orion thought blearily. Good morning to you, too.
His processor felt heavy. Automatically, he twitched his digits, and they felt heavy, too. There was something cold and firm wrapped around his torso, and when he tried to move, he found that he couldn't.
"You're on vapor."
Orion's finial flicked, and he turned his helm to find Ratchet standing over him. He felt foggy. Vapor…? Oh, stasis vapor. No wonder why he was in a bit of a stupor. "'S nice," Orion attempted. His voice felt far away. "Less painful now that I—now that I'm on it."
Ratchet remained silent, his optic ridges drawn tightly together. Orion began to feel a little bad, now. "Ratchet," he started.
"Don't." Ratchet's servo came up, cutting him off. "Don't. I am begging you. If you lie, and say you're fine one more time, I—" he stopped short. He made a vaguely threatening gesture, but the effect was undercut under his despondent expression.
Behind Ratchet, he could see Elita-1, Jazz, and Ironhide clustered together, near the door. B-127 was on a berth nearby. His throat, reassuringly, was wrapped in fresh sealant, but his optics were fixed on Orion with an expression that made something in his chest spark painfully.
"You know," said Ratchet, listlessly, "when you were brought in, your frame was in critical condition. I had to perform an emergency repair on your left shoulder joint, and your plating was so badly mangled that it was cutting into your protoform. That was only the external part. For all I knew, you might've been suffering from internal bleeding, too. So in order to get an accurate reading of all the slag I needed to fix, I had to access your processor's internal logs."
Orion felt his spark chamber drop to his pedes.
"Two hundred alerts," Ratchet continued flatly. "For micro fractures, nerve damage, joint instability… all listed under general upper frame damaging."
Orion felt an impeding sense of doom, suddenly wash over him. He swallowed, refusing to look any one of them in the eye. "I…"
"You," Ratchet interrupted, voice shaking, "have been walking around like, this," and he gestured angrily at Orion's general frame, "for—for how long now?"
Orion remained silent and Ratchet's vents hissed. "How. Long."
With great reluctance, he murmured, "Since I came back with the matrix."
An oppressive quiet filled the room. Holy frag, thought Orion. Dying might've been better than the scrutiny he was facing, right now.
Ratchet laughed, incredulous. "You—this could've all been treated if you'd come to me when it happened! You could've said something, anything, but you lied directly to my face."
Orion felt a flash of something hot roiling through his armature. "I'm sorry, Ratchet, but I couldn't exactly figure out how t' tell you that it felt like my frame was rusting when there's quite literally no physical proof!"
"Your processor logs are physical proof!" Ratchet thundered, and Orion recoiled at the volume. "Your constant flinching is physical proof! Your tremors are physical proof! Your inability to withstand a clap to the back kibble is physical proof! You absolute fool! Corroded, oxidized dolt-head!"
Ratchet broke off into a slew of various curses, some of which directed solely at Orion, before his vents heaved and he seemed to run out of steam. He stood there momentarily, shaking. "You could have died," he bit out. "Had Starscream shot any more accurately, had your struts given out a few kliks too early, had Elita and Ironhide not been there in time to pull you out of the rubble, you would have died."
I know, Orion wanted to say, but Elita-1 stepped forward, and the words withered on his lips. Her face was a mask of controlled fury. To his surprise, she wrapped her arms carefully around him, and pressed the crest of her forehelm against his pauldron.
"Idiot," she hissed. "Idiot, idiot, idiot."
Orion froze. His servos remained in the air, unsure of what to do with them. "Elita…"
"You absolute fragging idiot," she continued, "Do you have any idea what it was like to carry your body in here? I—" She broke off, and her digits tightened against his plating. "I thought you were—"
"Elita, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Of course you didn't mean to," she snapped. "You never mean to."
Orion wasn't sure how to respond, so he instead did the only thing he could think of, and reached around her with his good arm to pull her close.
"I'm sorry, my friend," he murmured into her helm, "I'm sorry. I promise I'll do better."
"Hey bossman," said Jazz quietly. Orion glanced up at the other mech. "Mind if I get in on the group huddle?"
Orion wordlessly extended his right arm, and Jazz sidled up next to Elita, pressing close to Orion. His helm was bowed. "Whatever you're going through, whatever's making you—whatever it is that's making you do this to yourself, you gotta let us carry some of it. That's what we're for. Y'know?"
Ratchet came to face him, and incredibly, he looped his arm loosely around the left of Orion's frame. "I'm only doing this because you almost died and I'm angry at you and I don't know how else to get this through your head." Ratchet's voice grew thick, and his breathing stuttered. "You idiot. You insufferable idiot. We care about you. Don't you understand?"
Orion laughed. It was wet and wobbly, with a fresh stream of tears welling up from his optics. "I'm sorry," he said again, because it seemed like apologies were all that he could give. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
A small wheeze of static interrupted him. B-127 was still on his berth, but he had managed to push himself upright, one servo gripping the edge of it. His mouth was open in an unsuccessful attempt to call out to Orion. His vox clicked and hissed uselessly, but the mournfulness in his gaze was enough catch Orion's attention.
"Bee," Orion breathed, regretful that he had hesitated for even a fraction of a nanoklik before he rushed to save him. As if knowing what was on his mind, B-127 shook his head violently. He reached out tentatively, his digits curled into a pleading gesture. Come here, buddy, he seemed to say, I want you to come closer.
"Hold on, let me—" Orion shifted, wincing when his left side protested.
Elita-1 and Jazz made various noises of objection at the movement, but it was ultimately Ratchet who sighed, pulling back. "If you aggravate the repairs and tear the welding, I won't hesitate to knock you out and keep you in stasis."
Orion nodded at the warning. The other two reluctantly released him from their hold, and instead made their way to B-127, so they could help him towards Orion. Orion reached out with his right servo, and allowed B-127 to pull him into an awkwardly angled hug.
"There, there," Orion consoled, "It's alright. Everything's okay."
B-127 pulled back, frowning at him. He made a pinched face, as if to say, I'm pretty sure it's actually not okay, dude, and Orion snorted. "Yeah," he admitted, "but it will be eventually, right? I'm sorry if that's not nearly enough."
B-127 stared at him for a long moment, before slowly tapping his digit directly at the center of Orion's chest. This is enough, the gesture seemed to say. You have always been enough.
Orion felt his spark warm, and stupidly, he began to tear up once more. "Love you too, pal."
A few joors later, after the tears had dried and the group had reluctantly pulled apart (because Orion had looked at them all and pleaded for them to come close once again, touch starved and craving physical connection), Jazz cleared his vox.
"Orion," he said deliberately, "I know you're gonna wanna get back out there and fight."
Orion felt like he knew where this was headed. "Jazz…"
"Hear me out, please." Jazz held up his servo. "Please, don't go. Not yet. You have hundreds of soldiers willing to fight at your beck and call—you have us. Stay here until Ratchet can figure out what's wrong with you an' how to help you, please."
Orion was quiet for a long moment. And then, he shook his helm.
"I have to be out there," he said, firmly. "I can't ask for others to fight for me while I sit here on the sidelines. I can't ask them to do unto others what I'm not willing to do myself."
"Bee will need company!" Jazz tried, glancing at the mech in question. "Right?"
"If I stay here," Orion continued determinedly, "if I hide, what kind of Prime does that make me? What kind of leader asks their soldiers to die while they wait for repairs?" He tried to meet Jazz's optics head-on, despite the visor. "I have to be out there. If I'm not, then everything I've fought for means nothing."
Jazz looked mildly frazzled. He whipped his head toward Elita-1. "C'mon, Commander, back me up here?"
Elita-1 looked at him, and then sighed. "You're going to go out there no matter what any of us say, aren't you?"
Orion nodded.
She exvented heavily. "Fine."
Orion blinked. Really? "What?"
"I said fine." She crossed her arms, expression resigned. "No one can really stop you once you set your mind on something. I of all mecha know this. But," she held up a digit, "You have to have at least two others guarding you at all times, and stay far away from Starscream, Megatron, and Soundwave. If either—or, any of them, so much as look in your direction, you retreat. Don't engage. Don't be a hero. You retreat."
Orion frowned at her.
"Those are the terms," Elita-1 said flatly. "Take 'em or leave 'em."
Orion hesitated, and looked briefly at his surrounding companions, all of whom have various expressions of grim determination before he deflated. "Alright. I agree."
Elita-1 studied him for a moment, and then nodded in turn. "Good."
"Too good to face me now, Prime?!" roared Megatron, in the distant fog.
Optimus closed his optics shut and invented, his mouth curved into a pained, restrained smile. Of course. Of course this would happen to him, of all mecha. He had just recently been cleared for active duty and the universe seemed delighted to throw rocks at him for his chutzpah.
"Orion!" Elita-1's voice crackled through his comm. "We've got optics on opposition. Megatron's closing in."
"Yeah, I can see that." Optimus replied dryly. He could imagine his commander narrowing her optics at him for his tone, and he quickly appended, "I'm pulling back, don't worry."
"Good. Jazz and 'Hide are on their way to you. Lay low."
Optimus looked Megatron directly in the optics. Immediately after, he turned and ran.
Frag, thought Optimus serenely, as Megatron's enraged cannon-fire veered closer and closer toward him. I am so, so incredibly fragged.
He vaulted over overthrown pipes and turned sharply, nearly toppling over his own weight with momentum, and rolled behind a collapsed structure. His frame made impact with stray metal, and he hissed, pressing himself against the wall of debris.
"Do you really think you can hide from me?" Megatron laughed harshly. "You think running can save you?!"
Optimus attempted to control his venting. His welding throbbed, but he shoved the pain aside. Just a little longer, not yet, just a little while longer…
"Jazz," he hissed into his commline, "where are you?"
"A little bit north from your location, boss, just dealin' with a few stragglers. We're coming, just keep moving!"
"Easier said than done," Optimus mumbled. He exvented firmly and gave himself an encouraging nod before bolting into another run, ducking beneath a variety of metal and scrambling away from Megatron as best as he could.
Behind him, he could hear Megatron transform and tear through structures he had struggled to traverse through, sending shrapnel flying and nicking at his plating. Optimus could swear that he felt the heat of his cannon-fire against his back kibble.
Primus, Optimus thought incredulously, why in Unicron's name is he so agile?! He's a damned tank!
Every time Optimus thought he had successfully lost him, he would eventually feel the tremor of explosions through his pedes. Megatron was faster than he remembered. Or maybe it was Optimus who was slower, now.
"You can't run forever, you little rat!" Megatron bellowed. "Come back here and fight me!"
Optimus opted to ignore him, rounding another corner and colliding with Jazz.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
UPPER LEFT FRAME - DAMAGED
:: ALARM ::
DO NOT DISTURB MEDICAL WELDING.
"Sorry!" Jazz grabbed his arm to steady him. "Sorry, bossman, you alright?"
"Just peachy," Optimus gasped. "Just—where's Ironhide?"
Jazz grimaced. "Soundwave and Shockwave were closing in, he socked Shockwave in the socket and, last I saw, Soundwave was chasing him off. Come on, we need to get you to the safe zone—"
An explosion rocked the ground beneath them, and Optimus stumbled. Jazz caught him, hauling him forward and then balking when he inevitably spotted the gray mecha, behind him.
"Is that Megatron?!"
"Yes???" Optimus felt vaguely amused, despite his frenzy. "Why'd you think Elita sent you here?!"
"Elita didn't tell us jack!" Jazz cried. "I just thought it was cause you were alone! Argh, whatever, let's just go!"
He and Optimus attempted to turn left, but another blast forced them forward. They tried going right, but were met with another blast. They attempted this multiple times, but no matter which direction they tried, they would be irrevocably forced forwards. At one point, they tried doubling back to run past him, only to be met with cascading debris blocking their path.
"Slag," Jazz hissed, whipping his head back and forth. "What the frag is he doing?! Herding us?!"
Looking backwards and away from the debris, there was a redoubt directly behind them, and he felt his spark sink. Megatron knew this would happen, didn't he?
"He's driving us into the redoubt," said Optimus. "These things only have one entrance, and there's nowhere to go past that point. It's a dead end."
"Then we go through him!" Jazz flicked his right arm forward, a rocket-launcher deploying from his gauntlet. "Get behind me, I can cover you."
"Jazz." Optimus grabbed his arm and forced the other to meet his gaze. "Listen to me. I need you to leave."
Jazz stumbled on his pedes. "What?!"
"I need you to leave!" Optimus repeated frantically. "Get out of here and grab 'Hide! I'm the only one he's after, he won't chase you down, so go!"
"Uh uh. No way." Jazz looked behind him briefly and ducked away from an incoming blast with a yelp. "Blow it outta your tailpipe, I'm not leaving you alone with that! We still got time!"
"Jazz!"
"Don't 'Jazz' me, Orion! You're being insane!"
"Please," Optimus said, trying to inject as much urgency into his tone as he could, "I don't think you could survive a direct confrontation with him. He'd blast you to scrap."
Jazz made a strangled noise. "And he wouldn't do the same to you?!"
"Out of the two of us, I'm the only one strong enough to handle Megatron. I have the matrix. I have," Optimus paused, cringing, "I have—I used to have a connection with him. Maybe I might be able to reach him this time."
Jazz's digits were clenched into fists. "Boss…"
"Leave, now. That's an order, Jazz." Optimus' voice cracked. "Get out of here and find Ironhide. And, and—and if I don't make it back—"
"Don't say that, man." Said Jazz, desperately.
"If I don't make it back," Optimus stumbled, "make sure that—make sure Bee knows that, I'm sorry. And tell her—tell Elita that it wasn't, that I made you do this and that you had no choice, and that I tried to keep my promise for as long as I could."
Jazz stared at him, and whether his frame was shaking from fear or fury or both, Optimus couldn't tell. "You're an idiot," Jazz said finally. "You're the biggest most infuriating boss I've ever met."
"Not more than Darkwing was, I hope." Optimus managed a pained smile. "Now go."
There was another blast, and the debris that had acted as both their obstacle and cover crumbled further. Optimus could hear Megatron through the ruins. Jazz looked at Optimus, and then at where Megatron would soon be, and then at Optimus again.
"Don't die," Jazz said. "You don't have our commander's permission. She'd kill you."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Jazz hesitated, but when the debris finally came crashing down, he ducked through the rubble and disappeared into the fog.
"There you are."
Optimus snapped his head to Megatron's voice and found him standing at the edge of the rubble. His fusion cannon was still smoking, and both of his servos were curled into fists at his sides. He looked absolutely furious.
"Falling back, were you?" Said Megatron lowly. "Running away like a coward?"
Optimus grimaced, but left him no response. At this, Megatron jutted his chin at him defiantly. "Too good to talk to me?"
"This doesn't have to happen, Dee." The nickname slipped from his mouth instinctively, and he winced.
Megatron glowered at him. "Don't call me that," he snarled. "You don't get to call me that anymore."
Optimus felt his spark-chamber crumple into itself. "I—I know, I know I don't, and I'm sorry. But I'm still asking you, please. Please don't do this. You can still walk away."
Megatron chuckled bitterly. "Walk away? After everything you've done? After you betrayed me?"
"I didn't betray you."
"You chose Sentinel!" Megatron spat, seething. "You chose his life over my rightful vengeance! You watched me suffer and you wanted me to do nothing about it!"
"I didn't want you to stoop to his level," Optimus said desperately. "I didn't choose him, I—I didn't!"
Megatron's engine began to rumble fiercely. In that moment, the tension broke, and both Megatron and Optimus Prime were suddenly locked into a battle.
Sparks flew into the air, and energon stained the ground, but all Orion could hear was the crackling of his own spark, thrumming throughout his frame.
Megatron was relentless in his strikes. His rage toward Optimus was a fury that burned bright and of which never seemed to dull, akin to the red of his optics.
Optimus refused to strike back, instead electing for defense using his axe, using the ghosts of his blade to throw Megatron off his tail. This only seemed to enrage him, as his attacks grew to be more and more unforgiving. Slowly, Megatron drove him backwards, further and then further more, until his back kibble met against the wall behind him.
The Warlord towered over him, casting a long shadow over Optimus. His optics lit up his face with an eerie glow. Those same red optics never left him, and Megatron twisted slightly, pulling his servo backward. His arm cannon suddenly altered so it was rearward, and it boomed with a solid shot, as it propelled his right hook and slammed directly into Optimus' chassis with a sickening force.
Right where Megatron's cannon had once torn through Orion.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
-
:: ALARM ::
-
Orion crumpled over immediately, and a guttural cry tore through his vox. For a moment, he was too lost in his stupor to recognize it as his own.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
-
:: ALARM ::
-
His spark thrummed in elongated agony. He seized, every circuit sparking with white-hot pain and his entire sensory net shooting rapid-fire dead alerts into his processor.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
-
:: ALARM ::
-
His vision blurred with static, and foolishly all he could think about was being in the comfort of D-16's arms, because he missed him, because he needed his—(his friend? Brother-in-arms? Extinguished flame? Lover?) he needed him.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
-
:: ALARM ::
-
I need him. I miss him. I need him. I miss him.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
-
:: ALARM ::
-
Blindly, Orion reached for the mecha he had lost just cycles ago, but his servos shook and trembled too hard and he couldn't move. His digits scraped uselessly against the ground, twitching and convulsing, but his frame refused to obey. The pain radiated from his chest in waves that stole air from his vents and left him gasping. His processor was swept in a storm of broken warnings and half-formed memories, all overlapping and bleeding into each other until he couldn't tell where the present ended and the past began.
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
-
:: ALARM ::
-
D-16 laughed, bright and warm and breathless and lovely. "Pax, you idiot!" His voice echoed through the mines. "You're gonna get us both killed!"
Orion only smiled at him cheekily. "I don't mind dying so long as it's with you."
D-16 shoved at him, laughing harder. "You're so freaking weird, man."
:: WARNING ::
XFMR - SENSORY NET
-
:: ALARM ::
-
Megatron stood above him, staring down. His fist was still raised, though it was lower than it had been a moment ago.
"You…" Orion could barely hear his voice. "What's wrong with you? You—you didn't even try to block that. You just let me hit you. What is wrong with you?"
Orion didn't have an answer. He didn't have anything.
"I'm sorry," he warbled. He felt as though his vox was scrubbed with rust. "'M sorry, Dee, D-16. I'm so s'rry."
:: WARNING ::
PROCESSOR CONTROL - LOST
There is something inside Megatron that breaks, watching the expression on Optimus Prime's face. The name D-16 hung in the air, and all he could think about was how misplaced it sounded. That name didn't belong here, in this place of smoke and ash and debris and war.
"I told you not to call me that," Megatron said. "Why did you call me that? What could you possibly be apologizing for?"
The Prime didn't respond. His optics were half-shuttered, and there were tears of coolant lazily dripping from his optics, leaving visible tracks in the grime and energon.
"Look at me," Megatron demanded. "I asked you a question. Look at me."
Optimus' head tilted, but his optics drifted distantly, as if he were looking through Megatron rather than at him. Megatron began to feel a strange sort of dread wash over him. He didn’t understand. He doesn’t understand.
Optimus' mouth moved, whispering something, and Megatron frowned uneasily. "What?" He leaned closer. "What did you say?"
"Y'r servos." Optimus whispered. "S'warm. Y—when you held me, before, when you'd hold me, it… it was always warm."
Megatron's digits curled into his palm, and he felt something lodge itself into his throat. "That was a long time ago," he said, roughly. "Why are you bringing that up, now?"
Optimus said nothing. Instead, his optics slid shut, and Megatron felt something vaguely similar to panic. "Prime, don't fall asleep on me. Do you hear me, Optimus? Do you hear me?!"
A soft noise escaped Optimus' vox. "'M s'rry," he slurred. "S'rry—you're my best friend. I failed you. Never wanted t' fail you. 'M sorry I didn't save you."
"I'm not your friend. I don't need saving," Megatron snapped at him, disoriented. He swiped his gauntlet across his face, unwilling to fall victim to his own tears. "I don't need anything from you. I don't—I don't need you."
Optimus smiled. It was such a bizarre expression that Megatron didn't register the silence as abnormal, at first. Eventually, he realized that Optimus' vents had stilled.
For a long while, Megatron stood there, frozen, and then slowly he dropped down onto his knees.
He reached toward him and his servos hovered over Optimus (Orion? Orion. Orion Orion Orion Orion—) unable to touch, unable not to touch and so he did, cradling his helm with shaking servos.
"No," Megatron whispered. "Oh, god, no, no, no."
How could he have seen him as a Prime, an entity separate from Orion, when Orion was still there and had still been so openly vulnerable, Orion, who had constantly worn his spark on his plating?
Megatron stared down at the mech in his arms. The weight of his helm felt so, so, wrong. All of it was wrong. He was supposed to feel triumphant and vindicated, just as he had felt with Sentinel. He had finally defeated Optimus Prime, the betrayer and banisher, and all he felt was a dull numbness.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't meant for this to happen.
Liar, he thought immediately. You meant to hurt him. You meant to make him suffer and burn away the light from his stupid, trusting optics. Everything that has happened here thus far is a product of your own decisions. And now he's dead. You can't ever take that back.
Orion had been, or rather, still was, his everything. This is the mecha who had laughed with him, who had dreamed impossible dreams and yet still chose to chase them, and who looked at him like he was someone worth believing in.
Megatron knew back then, that he had killed Orion. He had briefly grappled with the vague idea of Orion's frame plummeting into Cybertron, but he never had the chance to truly grieve, because Optimus had arrived shortly after. He never had the chance to anticipate how it would have really felt, to hold his (his what? His what, Megatron?) to hold Orion's limp body in his arms. Megatron pressed his forehelm against Orion's chest, and tears slid from his closed optics and onto the glass of his chassis.
There was a sudden whirring noise. Megatron startled, rearing back slightly. There was a warmth in Orion's chest, whose matrix was aglow, and that warmth was reaching out toward his own. Like a spark calling to a spark.
Megatron faltered. "Orion?"
It was then, when he felt a pull, deep from within his own chassis. His spark reached, unbidden, towards Orion's chest.
Don't let him go, his spark hummed. Join him. Merge with him. Become one while you still have time, and don't let him go.
Megatron felt like his processor was thrown into retrograde. This was suicide. Merging sparks with a dying mech could kill them both. It was a desperate, foolish gamble that had no guarantee for success.
But Orion would die either way, Megatron thought. Orion is still barely alive and he's going to die and it'll be my fault and I'd have to live with that for the rest of my existence.
A memory came to him. Orion had returned from the archives, no matrix in tow, and with only an armful of datapads. D-16 had been both scandalized at the theft and delighted at the new slough of information.
D-16 laughed, breathless. "Pax, you idiot!" His voice echoed through the mines. "You're gonna get us both killed!"
Orion smiled at him with such softness and warmth that a flustered heat spread across D-16's face. "I don't mind dying so long as it's with you."
D-16 shoved at him, laughing harder. "You're so freaking weird, man."
You are such a strange mech, he had thought at the time. I hope you stay like this forever.
Megatron took a shuddering breath. Maybe he wouldn't mind dying, either, so long as it was with his Orion.
"I can't lose you," admitted Megatron, to no one. "I can't do this without you. I hate you. I hate you."
Despite his words, he held Orion close and pressed his chassis against Orion's own, and willed his spark to reach outward.
His spark flared, and he felt the moment it met Orion. A blinding and terrible and beautiful warmth surged through his frame.
Orion. I'm here. I'm here, don't leave me.
Dee?
Yes. Orion, can you hear me?
I can hear you. I can feel you.
You almost died.
Yes.
I've killed you.
You have.
I thought I would feel vindication.
No. You feel cold. I felt the same, when you shot me.
I'm sorry.
All I could think about when I died was you.
Why? Why?
I could never hate you.
I thought I had finally killed you.
Did you want me to die?
I don't know.
It's not your fault, Dee.
But it is. The only difference is that you're too kind to admit otherwise, and I am too proud to admit it at all.
You chose to save me. That, I know.
I didn't want to lose you.
I didn't want to lose you, either.
You've never lost me.
I know. You love me.
I do love you. I want to hate you. I love you.
I don't think you ever really hid it from me.
I can feel that you loved me, too.
I still do. I'm so sorry I couldn't be what you needed.
You were, though.
I don't understand.
You were the only good thing and I threw you away.
You know that I disagree.
Yes. I don't deserve you.
Since when have I cared about who deserves what?
Okay. I want you.
Yes. That's okay. I want you, too.
Yes, we're here now, together.
I missed you.
I don't know how to be without you.
I don't know how to exist where you aren't.
I can't bear the thought of you not being mine.
I am yours, and you are mine.
Yes. Are you scared?
You ask questions despite knowing my answer.
Grant me the privilege of a conversation.
Yes, I was scared. I am not scared anymore. I just want to be with you, however that looks like.
You'll be with me. I'll save you. I will always save you.
I believe you.
Orion.
Dee. I'm here.
I love you. I love you.
I love you.
After what felt like eons, Megatron felt the way Orion's frame rose and fell against him. The tension didn’t leave entirely, and it never would, but for now, it was enough.
Primus knows they both needed this respite.
"Your species—mine, once, too—we must be the only creatures allergic to happiness. We ruled the galaxy a long time ago, and still quibbled over who got more ice cream for dessert. Still wanted to pretend we didn't come from the mud, still couldn't accept that meaning and solace aren't to be found in the heavens, but in the trenches of everyday living. 'We'll know everything, and then we'll be okay.' 'We'll kill everything, and THEN we'll be okay.' 'We'll forget everything, and then we'll be okay.' 'We'll live forever, and THEN we'll be okay.' 'We'll cling to everyone, and then we'll be okay.' And even then, we weren't okay. Because that's not how the game works."
— the old woman, exurb1a