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Where once stood thirteen – the thirteen – now stands one; broken, fractured, exhausted. Most days, the last Prime could push aside his aches and woes, turn his focus to the current crisis and lead his Autobots without betraying the true weight the ancient artifact (curse) resting in his chassis brought upon him.
Then again, most days, there was only one standing at the edge of his field of vision. One hazy figure flickering in and out like a visual question: were they really there, or was the matrix of ‘leadership’ haunting him? Whatever the answer, Optimus had more pressing matters to handle. He always had more pressing matters to handle.
Bumblebee discovered an unidentified Cybertronian wreck during the lunar cycle, believed to have been carrying supplies to a distant colony before crashing on Earth. The actual contents of the wreck, and the Decepticon’s awareness of the wreck, remain to be seen. Bulkhead, Arcee, and Bumblebee are out there now securing the location while Ratchet goes ahead and surveys the wreck more closely, leaving the Prime behind with the kids.
‘Babysitting’, that’s what Ratchet had called it before he left on the mission; he had thought it was Optimus’ turn to watch the kids and practically ran after the others through the warp gate before the leader could refute.
The old medic never ran, unless of course it was to get away from their human allies. They’d talked about it, but it seems a reminder was needed.
Thankfully, their human companions were keeping themselves busy. Raf was going over his homework while Jack and Miko were occupied with their racing game. They’d customized their vehicle skins to resemble the Autobots, and judging from Miko’s dramatic movements, she was losing.
Optimus huffed, narrowing his optics on the screen ahead of him. Mission reports, resource requests and other data logs flashed across the screen at the rapid pace of his servos on the keypad below. It was almost nice, if not for the pounding in his processor and the weight on his frame today as if he were buried alive again. Not that the Prime would let it show. On the outside, he stood straight, shoulders back, like the calm, collected leader he needed to be, and if he closed his optics, he could pretend he was back in the archives under Alpha Trion’s care.
But closing his optics made everything worse.
‘You need to sleep.’
It made them vocal.
The hazy figures in his side vision grew in number, and he unintentionally growled. There had only been two this morning, and now there were six. Six pairs of hazy optics were staring at him with a mix of pity, remorse and outright anger.
‘Stand down. You’ve ignored us long enough.’
Optimus scowled and hunched over his work. He wanted to shout at them, the nearly invisible ones, to tell them to go back to the All-Spark and leave him alone, but he wasn’t alone. Jack, Raph, and Miko are up in their lofted corner, and they didn’t need to see him lose his temper. No human or cybertronian should ever see a Prime lose their temper.
But they wouldn’t. Shut. Up!
‘These reports have low security clearance.’ A warm sensation spread over his shoulder plating, suggesting a new one had appeared behind him, bringing the total of observers to seven. ‘Arcee will be able to handle them just fine. Go recharge.’
Optimus bit back his anger and instead cleared all the files from the active screen. With a few buttons, he brought up his team’s current mission statuses. All four of them appear to be in stable condition, their vitals showing no signs of distress.
Normally, he would never make first contact with his field team. From an early stage of the war, he’d commanded that all his Autobots never call the field team without prior contact unless it was an emergency, lest they interrupt scouts or spies and blow their cover. (Primus knows how many didn’t listen, how many scouts paid the price.)
But today could be the exception. It’s been over a cycle since they dropped off the kids at base and left on the mission; they should’ve made contact by now, even though there was no obvious threat at the sight of the crash. (The danger is right behind him.) Checking in on his team was what Prime should do. (It’s a distraction.)
His movements were sluggish, just as they’d been all day. He tried to reach for the comms button to contact the others, but his arm stopped halfway. The pounding in his processor multiplied tenfold. It was like Rumble and Frenzy were trying to split apart his helm from the inside.
BA-dum. BA-dum. BA-dum.
But he didn’t clutch his head. He made no outward move to give away his pain. That’s not what a Prime does. Instead, he reached again for the call button and fell short.
His servo landed hard on the steel top of the console, his whole frame now heavily laden like more rubble was overlayed on his grave. His cyan optics glared at the offending button, but his frame could no longer respond to his commands.
The wispy vestiges moved towards him as one, and an ache in his spark joined the pounding in his processor. (He remembers when they all moved like one.)
They were beginning to surround him; he could see it, but he knew no one else would. They were fanning out around him, like a cage trapping him against the console.
The one who had stood behind him, the figure who was a full head taller than he was, had reappeared with the others. Only now, none of them were flickering. They all stood there, solid and sure-footed, just like when they were alive.
‘Oh, little brother, what have you done to yourself?’ The shortest one looked up at him with such woe.
‘He’s always been like this.’ Another snorted, crossing his arms. ‘How that crusty pile of bolts you call a medic hasn’t noticed is the real question.’
Anger flared in Optimus’ core, and for a moment, his vision swam. The screens blurred, and the letters scrambled, the floor tilted beneath him, and his battle mask slammed into place, responding to the Prime’s distress. He caught himself on the console before he could crumble, and with a grip that crimped the metal console under his digits, he steadied himself.
Ba-DUM! Ba-DUM! Ba-DUM!
Optimus closed his optics and counted down in a forgotten language, one that the archivists used to speak to each other, one that Alpha Trion had taught him. (Reminded him. His spark already knew the language of Primus and his first children.)
Slowly, his vision returned, and he turned his helm to spy on the unwelcome. There were ten of them now. Good, almost all of them were here, and he could address them at once.
With a scowl behind his mask, he spoke in the ancient dialect heavy on his glossa.
[Return to the All Spark at once! Your judgments have no reign here.]
All ten of their forms flared. They all stood to their full heights; their optics were glowing with overwhelming emotion, almost blinding the Prime. (Three concerned gazes joined from the lofted corner.)
‘We’re trying to help you!’
‘You ignore our counsel!’
‘You ignore Primus!’
Optimus made a fist and slammed it onto the console. [Leave me, just as you have before!]
They all moved in closer, causing the world beyond them to vanish. (The base disappeared. He can’t reach his team. Three scared cries went unanswered.)
Eleven vestiges slowly crept in around the exhausted Prime, each staring with pure emotion. Sadness, hurt, anger, and Optimus glowered right back.
Then the twelth appeared.
The distinct sullen warmth of his mentor (brother) enveloped him from behind. He didn't need to turn around to know Alpha Trion had his arms out wide, as if to embrace him (like he used to, when the archieves were overwhelming, or when security caught him in a restricted area.)
‘Enough of this, Thirteen. (He hated that title) You’ve pushed this off long enough. Primus demands his child rest.’
Slowly, the leader of the Autobots looked down at his chassis. The Matrix of Leadership began to glow. A tug on his spark told him Primus was trying to reach him. Optimus shoved the sensation down.
[I had a full recharge last night, just like the lunar cycle before, and the one before that! leave me!]
The eyes of the other primes grew brighter, and Optimus could no longer look at them. The matrix itself grew heavier, forcing its wielder to double over and fall to one knee. The forms of the others solidified as if they were truly there, and their colours began to return (they hadn't changed, they were just like before.)Sleep called to him, but it was not the shallow sleep of a routine recharge. It was deeper. Stronger. And calling to him from within the Matrix itself, it promised to ease the pain in both his frame and processor.
In a different time and a different place, maybe he would have answered the call, but he was on Earth with an army of Decepticons and the remnants of his Autobot allies.
[This is not the time nor the place.]
‘Then forgive me, Thirteen. Forgive me, little brother.]
The ghost of Alpha Trion grabbed Optimus from behind. Eleven more servos reached for him. Their facades stayed neutral, but in his core he knew their optics betrayed sorrow and pity. He fought them, tried to throw them off, but the ache in helm, the weight of his frame and and the lull from the matrix became too much.
Optimus Prime collapsed to the floor.