Chapter Text
Sentinel was… small. Not that, thinking back about it, he had ever been a particularly big mech - even with Megatronus Prime's t-Cog in his chest he was nowhere near the past Prime's height - but now? He felt almost too small.
He looked minute. Insignificant even; specially when compared to Optimus' own stature, which had somehow nearly tripled within a single deca-cycle. Perhaps there was some irony in it, a joke laid somewhere about how the former usurper, now stripped of everything, just looked like any of the cogless miners did before, if not tinier. How under all of that high and mighty speech was just a transformer like any other, an empty one.
Optimus did not even know why he had wanted to repair him. Perhaps it was pity, perhaps it was duty toward his people, perhaps it was to give a good example - perhaps it was all of them - but the fact remained that somehow, the traitor had survived being literally torn in half, and Optimus himself had been painstakingly welding him back together over the course of several orbital cycles.
Yes, orbital cycles, because whenever he thought he was done somewhere or made a good step forward, it turned out he messed up and in several instances he had to backtrack to fix everything all over again. Even now, he still had to check multiple times over, crosschecking several documents and datapads of vague and useless information to find out if he had done something correctly, or accidentally wired Sentinel's legs to his fuel pump.
Couldn't he have asked someone else to do it? Yes, but also no. Outside of a tight circle of mechs, nobody knew Sentinel still lived, and Optimus had no intention of changing this anytime soon unless strictly necessary, lest the precarious order he and his friends managed to form crumbled under protests - or worse, a riot.
His sentence had been a tricky thing to decide. Most mechs he had discussed the matter with agreed on imprisonment, the most extreme ones even proposed execution; yet despite everything Optimus could not bring himself to agree with either. For as dangerous he was, and for as horrible his crime, Sentinel was still a capable mech with a not insignificant following; both options were bound to have consequences and Optimus wasn't sure they were stable enough to face those yet.
He proposed something lighter instead, that at the same time was still punishment enough to drive the point home for the mech and practical enough to not be pointless. Optimus already knew that when the time of announcing the fake Prime's sentence to the citizens of Iacon would come, it would not be a well-received solution, especially among ex-miners, but he believed that with time the public opinion would come around. For now, he could focus on putting the tyrant back together, and only present him with the deal later.
At least, this time around Optimus could have had some proper guidance - the meager instructions he had received by asking the other Primes via the matrix were not as useful as he hoped, too much rightful grudges working as roadblocks. Ideally, he could have pressed more, if anything for the sake of research and availability for the population. It wasn't hard conceptually, but speaking directly in Primus' wavelength required a ridiculous amount of concentration from him, one he couldn't maintain for long or as easily as he would have liked - the most minimal of errors would result in him being ejected at mach speed from it, leaving him with the lovely souvenir of a pounding helmache for the next several cycles.
His connection with his predecessors was a surprisingly one-way only route.
Either way, none of the deceased heroes of Cybertron would be his helpers that day; rather it would be the criminal himself, who after weeks confined to a recharge slab had finally onlined his optics again, meaning that at the very worst, he could finally ask someone for instructions.
Which was a relief in and of itself; the young mech wasn't eager to spend more cycles than he already had awake late at night, tearing the archives apart to find the right documentation to study the anatomy of transformers in pre-war eras (because apparently while outside they all looked the same, the shape, size and function of internal components was vastly different, and the first time he had taken a look inside of Sentinel, he had found himself at the most total loss on where to put his hands first)
...Or well, Optimus at least hoped Sentinel would cooperate if necessary. If the threat of never walking again wasn't enough, he truly had no idea what else to try. As he stood in front of the cell, Optimus crossed his digits and prayed to Primus that the stubborn bastard would put his pride aside, at least for his own sake.
After producing a digital key and scanning it on the lock's pad, the cell's hexagonal doors clicked softly, and with a quiet hiss both slid open to reveal the bare insides. After a quick check to make sure his EM field was wrapped tightly against himself - the fourth time on his way there - Optimus stepped in.
This time, compared to many times before, he remembered to duck before barging in - he wasn't that eager to embarrass himself in such a way so early in his Primehood, especially not in front of someone like Sentinel. Not that the cell was small by any means, it was built to contain transformers provided with a Cog - but Optimus still towered above about everyone by a sizeable amount, meaning he had to learn how to navigate a whole city that was never built around his size (for a second time).
Once inside he took a look around and a small sigh left his intakes upon finally spotting the smaller mech - he didn't think Sentinel could have gone somewhere, the cell was highly guarded after all - but seeing him crammed to the farthest corner of the room, perched atop a bare berth, brought both relief and sadness alike. On one side the newly promoted Prime was glad the other had actually returned online; on the other, seeing him in those conditions was almost painful.
Almost, however. Knowing what Sentinel did washed away almost any empathy Optimus could have felt for him.
He gave small, fake cough - just a polite way to draw Sentinel's attention to himself, really - and waited for any kind of acknowledgement or response from the other. Which came at last, yet only after several seconds of tense silence in which Sentinel remained motionless, body slumped forward and optics barely open.
For a moment Optimus debated walking up to him and checking if he was truly still alive, just to be caught by surprise when Sentinel finally turned his attention to him - bright blue optics narrowing with wariness as they fell on his frame.
"Are you here to kill me?"
Even without the barely concealed swirl of emotions that poured from Sentinel's EM field, that alone was enough for Optimus to know he had to chose his words wisely, starting then and there.
Sentinel, for as smart and cunning as he could have been, was also paranoid and - despite his best attempts at hiding it - terrified. Optimus couldn't blame him, he was imprisoned, handcuffed, cogless, and as if those were not enough, currently unable to walk and with half of his innards spilling out from the partially missing plating on his chest and mid-section. A single wrong word could have made everything infinitely more difficult for everyone involved. "I am not."
The smaller mech, unsurprisingly, didn't seem to believe a word, and the nervous whirring of his vents didn't subdue as silence fell once again.
Okay, let's try again.
"I'm here to repair you." Optimus gestured vaguely at at the blue mech's remaining tubes and cables that still hang loosely from his mid-section. The vital ones had been reattached immediately, and most of the non-vital ones had either been temporarily welded shut or clipped to prevent further fluid loss or energon leaking. While Sentinel was in no life threatening danger, he still had to be repaired, and Optimus had been unable to locate a medic capable of such intervention - leaving him alone with old reports and texts to consult for guidance.
"I refuse to let someone die if I can avoid it, even if that someone is you."
Seemingly only left with his insufferable attitude, Sentinel squared him up and down - blue optics scanning over the younger mech's much larger frame as his field glowed with a mix of interest and suspicion alike - before huffing and offering an annoyed glare in his general direction.
"Sure thing," Sentinel replied, a sardonic smile cracking across his faceplate as he awkwardly gestured at his own body; the loud whirring of his vents went unacknowledged. "That must have been why you've left me here with my innards all over the floor, I'm certain."
Optimus sighed internally. This was going to be a test of patience, and refusing to let the other know his sarcasm was actually getting to him was the very first battle. At the same time however, he did not have all the time in the world. He decided to try for a third and last time.
"I'm serious." To accentuate his point Optimus took a step closer, partially caging the other in the corner he had dragged himself to; for a split second Sentinel's EM field flared with fear before he could reel it back to himself, and Optimus pretended he felt nothing. "I know you won't believe me and I will not act like I am here solely out of the goodness of my spark. You're more useful alive than dead."
Which wasn't a lie, the information about Quintessons in his possession was rare, and definitely very valuable. Hopefully this would convince the stubborn mech that he was going to live.
Yet Sentinel just rolled his optics at him. "What if I refuse? Can't you just ask one of those little teammates of yours for help? Aren't they all at your beck and call now?"
Even secluded inside of his cell, Sentinel was no idiot - nor was he blind or deaf - he already knew what sat in Optimus' chest, in a slot that formed itself specifically for it, and what position that put each of them. Right now he was likely testing his ground, probably trying to find an opening to bargain; and Optimus was having none of it. He hadn't been plunged in the freezing cold lake of leadership of his kind after a lifetime in the lowest of the ranks just to fold at the first strutless idiot who tried to take advantage of him.
"If you refuse I have other ways of getting what's necessary to ensure the future of Cybertron." Which was also true - he was not out of options all things considered - but none were things he wanted to bring to the table ahead of spontaneous collaboration. Plus he wasn't exactly eager to plug anyone unwilling into a computer and rummage around their memory disk, nor to use the Matrix to stir their circuits around to have them confess on their own.
What he needed now, however, was to find a way to successfully reattach the two halves of the former tyrant together; interrogation (and the resulting irritation) could wait a little longer.
Good thing he came prepared.
The newly promoted Prime took two further steps closer - ignoring the way the smaller mech flinched upon his first step, or the way his optics widened in alarm - before lowering himself down to one knee and leaning closer. It wasn't necessary, but he preferred to see eye to eye when talking with certain people.
"Let me make this clear," Optimus began, putting on his best serious expression. "What is going to happen now is that I will bring your sorry aft to a private medical bay, I will reconnect the rest of your insides, you will get a good night of idling, and then tomorrow you will start talking. Understood?"
The vent openings on Sentinel's shoulders hissed, letting out a puff of hot hair; up close one could have heard the strained rattling of his internal gears, the way they worked tirelessly to keep up with the temperature and prevent their owner from overheating.
Optimus Prime was not one to resort to intimidation, and as useful as it could have been against someone who feared him to begin with, he refused to go down that path. With a tired sigh he pulled himself back, putting a few meters between himself and his prisoner.
He watched as Sentinel's optical ridge rose, distrust and hesitation still flashing on his faceplate as he seemingly slowly elaborated properly what he had just been told.
Only after a few kliks the blue mech replied, almost meekly "Understood."
Finally. Optimus cheered internally and the hydraulics of his shoulders relaxed slightly. No more struggling, hopefully.
"If you have nothing else to say, I will carry you out to-,"
"I'm sorry," Sentinel cut him off, one hand raised despite the handcuffs limiting his movements, and the fear in his expression was replaced with confusion. "Carry?"
"Are you able to walk?"
Optimus couldn't lie, watching Sentinel's processors turn for a single second before he looked down as horror dawned on him, was a pretty funny sight. He didn't laugh out of respect, even is a small part of him would have wanted to.
"No…" was the final answer, and the blue mech didn't complain beyond a few grumbles when Optimus wrapped one arm around his smaller frame to lift him up.
.
.
"What will become of me?"
Optimus took off his googles and glanced up, at where the older mech had been burning holes into his helm for the last cycle and a half. He had purposefully avoided answering the question, silently ignoring Sentinel's protests until now, mostly to make sure the other didn't get too upset and wriggled off the circuit slab more than what he had already been doing. For a second the idea of medically induced paralysis flashed through his processors before being banished. He was not that desperate or annoyed yet, but Sentinel's stubbornness and continuous wriggling was spreading his patience thin.
With a small flick of his digit he turned off the welder in his servos, and after pushing the datapad he had been consulting to the side - the one with the clearest diagrams and repair instructions he could find in the archives - he decided to finally answer and deal with it once and for all. "Me and the council reached an agreement."
Sentinel went visibly stiff. For all the big talk he put on, the bravado act, he was still scared of death. Ironic, given what Optimus had actually proposed to sentence him to.
"Most mechs wish to see you dead or in jail," he began. "However I do not believe that depriving a mech of their freedom like that is the solution."
Hearing this Sentinel visibly relaxed, his EM field pulsed gently with relief and hope. Optimus ignored how nice the smaller mech's reaction made him feel.
"So I wish to propose you a deal. You can either refuse, and then spend an undecided amount of time in jail - and I need to warn you that who is in charge of deciding said time is not your friend." From the disdain that flashed across Sentinel's optics Optimus had a hunch on what he was going to pick.
"Or," continued the red and blue mech, "you can accept, serve five hundred stellar cycles doing community service, and ultimately regain your freedom at the end."
For a single moment Sentinel seemed to relax, the lack of 'execution' or 'death' being mentioned visibly calming him down, before confusion flashed across his faceplate, followed immediately by horror and shock as the full meaning of Optimus' words sunk in.
"Wh- F-five hund- " blurted out the blue mech as he struggled to pull himself upright. "Five hundred stellar cycles?!"
Optimus nodded. It was a pretty long time, he had to recognize it, but it was just fitting given the crime; light even compared to some of the suggestions he had received during the meeting held to discuss the topic (that day he learned just how ruthless some of his friends and acquaintances were). "You lied to everyone, betrayed our race, nearly drove our city and planet to ruin, had us live in a lie for fifty stellar cycles. If you accept you will be sentenced to work and repair what you destroyed for ten times as much."
Sentinel didn't rebut; still in shock from the sudden news - and possibly aware of how lightly he still got off the hook- instead slowly lowered himself back down, staring off into nothing for a klik or so before rubbing his servos down his faceplate with a frustrated groan. "Alright. You win. I accept."
Optimus was sure he heard Sentinel mutter "aft." right after. Part of him wondered if the mech's heinous attitude - or the helmache that he already knew was going to leave him with - were worth it. The wises part of him however told him that this was the most righteous corse of action, and he couldn't bend laws and rules for his own commodity; he worked hard to strike a deal and save a life, now that deal could progress and become action. He picked the welder back up and returned to work around the tubes.
Several he had already reopened, reconnected with their matching parts, and returned in their legitimate places around the center-mid section; and as he held the two sides of a torn strut together to let the metal fuse once more, he was thankful to have repaired the supports as a first thing. Repairing everything on a loose structure would have been hell. Once he was done with the struts, he could finally focus on the remaining tubes, and from there to the cables that still hung torn from their spots. Thankfully those were mostly color coded, or he was never going to figure them out. Hopefully the check for reflexes and feeling would be quick and successful after every-
Something knocked on his helm.
"Why am I not feeling pain?"
"I deactivated your nervecircuit systems," explained Optimus without missing a beat or lifting his optics from his work. "Didn't want you to wake up halfway through and start screaming in pain."
"You-" Sentinel staggered, and Optimus heard the groan of his engine revving somewhere inside of his chest. "You had no right to do that! Reactivate them!"
"I deeply do not recommend that…" muttered the Prime - he wished he had dampeners at hand, at least regional ones, but he was not legally allowed to buy them on his own, and any surgeon who could had refused to perform the operation for one reason or another - before halting and lifting his helm with a frown. "Wait, can't you do that yourself?"
With an annoyed gesture Sentinel scoffed, "I can't access the schematics for most of my body, what do you think?"
That was definitely not good, but given the mech's current predictament, also foreseeable.
"It was either that or forcefully imprinting codes to cease all of your frame's movements. I choose the least invasive option," rebutted Optimus, still not returning to work. He was neither a fan of medical immobilization - even if he knew well of its utility, and recognized its usefulness - nor enough of a sparkless monster to operate on someone awake and feeling; that would have been just plain torture.
"I would have preferred that!" nearly shouted Sentinel as he roughly slapped the back of his left servo against Optimus' shoulder. In response, the younger bot silently thanked his previous hesitation on returning to work just yet. If he had been bumped like that as he worked on someone's innards, he was sure his engine would have stopped. He was not a medical expert to begin with, learning from scratch how to reassemble a torn, old bot was a feat in and of itself.
"What else have you done?" Something told him that Sentinel was not truly against what Optimus did, but rather looking for things to feel angry about, just complaining for the sake of disagreeing with him, a mere means to vent his frustration now that he couldn't have shot him dead where he stood.
"I redirected your nanites to minor internal repairs and funneled your energon reserves to vital components and basic functions," replied Optimus before leaning on the circuit slab with one elbow and propping his helm on it. He wanted to sigh, but didn't. Hopefully the discussion would die down before his patience finally got worn down.
Sentinel crossed his arms with a grumble and a pout, probably unable to find fault in the other steps the larger mech had taken to ensure his survival.
"Glad to see you agree," casually commented Optimus. Sentinel remained silent and the thought of resuming his one-mech feat of repairing the ex ruler crossed his processors. "Now please stop moving, it's making everything difficult."
"And if I don't?" Oh come on.
"It's in your best interest if you do…" Please do not make me do this. Optimus did not feel like he could have sustained further complaints.
"Ha! Sure. As if," sneered Sentinel as he threw his arms up, folding them over his chest chassis in an over-dramatic gesture. The movement made the circuit slab rattle, a bundle of smaller tubes slid out of place, and several cables sparked.
Optimus felt his optic twitch. That was it.
Without missing a beat the younger mech jammed his digits under the other's golden chest piece, right below the slot where a t-Cog would normally rest, and slid it open. He remembers spending hours looking for those ports, feeling around under every flap or plate he could see, just to learn the hard way that older bots had individually designed locations, with standardized areas - like under one's chest plating - becoming widespread only a few stellar cycles before Optimus himself onlined. He wasn't even aware that piece could be moved.
Sentinel flinched, a sound almost akin to a squeal was choked out of his voice box as his turbine kicked up a notch.
"What in the frag are you doing?!" He sounded almost hysterical.
"You said it yourself you preferred this." His own chest panels slid open and with some effort the larger mech pulled out his own cords. He still remembered the code lines he had imported in the other's processors, meaning it wouldn't take much more than a few seconds to find and delete them - he just had to move quickly and with a purpose - yet he still readied the ceaseing protocols first. As sure as he was in his strength and size, he did not want to end up harming an unruly miniaturized mech in an attempt of holding him still.
Only, as he went to plug his cables in, a pair of gunmetal servos latched around his wrist.
"W- … wait, you're not serious, right?" For a fraction of a klik Sentinel's EM field flickered to life, and Optimus could have sworn that under all the stress and fear he felt embarrassment as well.
"Relax, I'm not gonna jam it in," tried to reassure the younger bot. A bot's ports were the most delicate part of their body, with most nervecircuits ending there and the closest direct connection to their processors of the entire frame, Optimus knew better than to jam ANYTHING into one - the neural damage would have been catastrophic, and even if it wouldn't, the pain alone would send anybot into a forced shutdown.
"I know what I'm doing."
The tip of his digits foung the familiar shape of a rectangular port, and with a swift gesture he easily slotted his cable in, letting it to click in place.
Somewhere on his right Sentinel let out a choked sound, a pained gasp mixed with the stuttering of his vents that made his frame jolt. Optimus wondered if the sensations derived from ports were also directly tied to his inner processors, leading to any input bypassing the blocks he had previously tied to the modules for damage detection and repair.
Part of him did not want to actually unlock Sentinel's nervecircuits, it would mean sentencing the smaller mech to a whole world of pain just because he was stubborn. Perhaps he could have just lied, spun something about damaged wires and mesh; not very fair, but not a bad option.
Their connection finally flickered to life, a small spark traveled up his cord and spread to his chest and down his spinal struts, followed by a pleasantly warm, tingly sensation; it flowed through him gently - comforting in a way - like a warm oil bath after a long day, almost homely. His HUD sent him a signal, a small bright text signaling the presence of another spark on the other side of the loop, and if Optimus focused he could have seen it.
A small, yet bright light, stored war away and protected by a nearly impenetrable fortress of firewalls. It burned with life, warm enough to be felt so much in the distance; it was almost cute in a way, the fierce little thing. A small part of him wanted to go and check, curiosity was creeping up on him, urging him to go - see how many of them he would have to tear down before coming face to face with the other's spark.
But that was not what Optimus was there for. He had no time to admire the miracle of life, or to marvel at how somehow this one had survived being torn in half. Besides, if he did, nothing granted him that the moment he let Sentinel free the smaller mech wouldn't have started swinging.
Carefully, the younger mech began to make his way through the other's circuitry, silently stalking among rows and rows of codes, thousands of files all neatly stored in order. He had already been there, and within astroseconds he had moved to the correct data shelf, already untangling the nodes of coding he had in the back of his processor before easily placing then among the others - running them as soon as they were in place.
Somewhere in the distance, his optics and audials told him Sentinel had gone limp, and with that the first part of his job was done. All he had to do now was cut off the lines he had previous injected and return his nervecircuits to a functioning state.
… yet, was he really going to? Did he want to? The answer was simple, and it was a solid no. He did not want to try to repair another mech without any form of pain relief, even if said mech claimed he preferred that.
Perhaps he could have returned it to functionality just partially, just barely enough to be bothersome but not to truly hurt; that way, if he kept himself connected, he could have known when he had to stop or backtrack without jeopardizing the whole repair.
Optimus dug deeper, somewhere closer to the other's spark, making his way across boards of circuits and lines of codes until he found what he was looking for, secured away somewhere in a corner of Sentinel's processors. This time he had nothing to stick in place; instead he made quick work of the foreign nodes he had placed himself - cutting and pasting where more was needed, shortening a few lines, pulling back a few blocks, halting a termination program - and within a nanoklik or so he felt the sparkly, tingly sensation of his own nervecircuits glowing to life.
Yet, for some unknown reason, he felt no real pain. Perhaps a glitch, perhaps an error he made somewhere, perhaps something to do with the matrix, or perhaps Sentinel's internal wiring was just so damaged that the relevant nervecircuity was destroyed beyond functionality (Primus, he hoped it wasn’t the latter, that would have been a nightmare to fix...); but other than a light tingle under his chassis, he felt next to nothing.
Odd. Worrying. Hopefully nothing serious.
Optimus pulled back, retracting from the crevices of Sentinel's processors he had crammed himself into - the whole procedure having taken no more than a handful of nanokliks - and walking back up his own cables. He had no reason to disconnect them; even with something clearly malfunctioning, the younger mech still hoped that having an open connection would have served some purpose.
A deep ex-vent later, Optimus readily pulled out three more holopads and quickly projected the content of the first on the closest open surface.
The projection showed, just like most other pads, something vastly different from what Optimus had in his servos. The inner workings of the mech that had been scanned for the holopad - visibly a civilian frame - were more organized, with recognizable components in understandable places - the fuel tank under the chest chassis, the battery in the lower midsection, the cooling tubing and ventilation chambers on the two sides of the chest, and so on; a far cry from the overcrowded, tangled mess he had under his optics.
Not helpful. He dismissed the projection and opened the second.
A bright blue hologram took form before his optics, and the silhouette of a flying warframe materialized a few digits over the top of the screen, wings sharp and tucked against their back, cannons at the ready, and a heavy armor to shield them.
Yet this one didn’t resemble what he was seeing on the slab either. As he went to close it however, something caught his optics. Optimus squinted, then with two digits pinched the hologram, and zoomed, making the holographic shape of the mech's inside glow brighter.
He looked down at what he had, then back at the holopad.
It wasn't… identical, but there were similarities. Some components seemed placed in similar enough positions to be recognizable, and even if most of the remaining… extra in Sentinel's body remained extra, Optimus was ready to shed a tear and thank Primus below for the favor; that holopad was going to save him so much time.
With some newfound hope, Optimus plucked the welder from its abandoned spot on the table and resumed his work.
It was tedious and long, but with some resemblance of instructions it was vastly easier. A good majority of the cables were color coded, making them the easiest fix of the bunch with only a handful left in that moment. Many were torn, ripped at the base or snapped clean in half, but he had repaired his own cables enough time to know the procedure - all he had to do was clip the rubber and meld the two ends together. The ones he had to just re-plug in their sockets were fewer, and he had not even counted them in the repair list, given the simplicity of it.
He started low, with the ones that he had no real way of sorting via color or patterns. Ones either too confusing in their placement or not distinct enough to stand out, and one by one traced them back to their corresponding ones via the holographic model. The one that sprouted from the left hip piston? It connected to the base of the spinal segment, so what he had to do was look for a similar one around that area. The green one tangled with the ball joint? To the other joint. Some seemed to make way less sense than others, and Optimus had a hunch already that many of those would have needed him to further trial-and-error his way to the correct solution.
Yet, despite the hesitation and uncertainty that came with the likely-not-correct repairs, when a pair of severed ends sparked and Sentinel's legs twitched, Optimus felt like sobbing in relief. The knowledge that hours of work had not been fully wasted was truly among the best feelings. The stuttering ex-vents the other mech let out, however, were way less so.
Optimus wished he could have hurried, he wasn't indifferent to Sentinel's pain as much as he would have liked; feeling such a minute frame twitch and spasm at every contact he made with his welder truly made his fuel tank churn. He tried not to think about it too hard.
It was odd how he felt nothing despite the other's oblivious discomfort, and both out of guilt and out of politeness Optimus apologized each time. "Sorry for that one…"
By then, the idea that his own sensors might have been the ones at fault had already crossed his processors, and honestly, what was there to prove him otherwise? He had no real idea of what the Matrix did to him besides giving him some fancy weaponry, it could have completely overhauled his protocols for all he knew. His frame was fully rebuild when the thing was slotted in his chest, maybe that was why he was feeling nothing. He really needed to find a proper medic who knew what they were doing.
But that was a problem for later. The cables were mostly done, either welded or plugged back in place, then carefully braided or grouped in handfuls and slotted between other components; now he had to switch to the following step.
The tubes were tricker, and Optimus did not really trust himself anywhere near the ones that were clearly major energon lines. Yet, he forced his servos still and carefully glued the delicate mesh back together centimeter by centimeter, holding each tube in an optimal position until he was sure it stuck before unsealing the clamps around it and moving to the next one. It was leagues more difficult than welding cables or sealing gashes in armor plates, but something in its repetitiveness put him at ease. Hard, but not the 'you need to solve a puzzle before doing it' kind of hard, just the 'either your hands are used to this or not' kind.
When Optimus ultimately reached the last marked piece, he hit his next roadblock.
What was he going to do about everything that the pad did not show? Was he going to improvise? Guess?
He felt like he could, and maybe should have, if anything just to hurry and prevent further suffering.
Optimus glanced again at the datapads and the schemes depicted on it; then back down at the worktable.
Then checked again just to make sure, and again at the mangled mess in front of him, and uncertainty started to creep back into his processors. He gave the screen a quick scroll, flipping to the next schematics, hoping that the next - or any of the following ones - would show or discuss anything even remotely similar to what he was working with.
Once the sections for standard pieces ended, he scrolled further, quickly passing several diagrams of standard and custom mods, filled to the brim with explanations and instructions on how to assemble, disassemble, and navigate around the extra parts as a medic.
Optimus had no idea if what was in front of him were mods or not, maybe they were and Sentinel got some form of reformatting in his life, maybe even a reframing, but even if that was the case he still couldn't see anything close enough. Something vaguely similar he found in a section about extra memory storage, usually a mod common in librarians, archivists and literati, but those all appeared to be located under one's helm.
A familiar, yet frustrating sense of desperation was starting to slowly set in - Optimus wasn't understanding any of what he was looking at.
He wasn't understanding any of it and the more he looked the more confused he got. All of this was becoming an infinite cycle of whats, weres and hows, all unanswered because most of what he had left under his servos didn't even remotely match anything that supposedly should have been the standard structure of cybetronians of Sentinel's ages, or any known mod procedure. Where did these tubes went, what were these pistons for, what even was this… tank? It sounded hollow when Optimus tapped on it, so it must be a tank, not the fuel one however, that was lower down. Why were open boards and circuits in here, why so did many components look identical, why there were cables by the handfuls, what was he even looking at??
It was wrong, it was ALL wrong and he had no idea of where to put his servos anymore.
He sighed, tired and nearly defeated. Why were the other Primes silent now? They ran their mouths all day non-stop and now that he could use some suggestions, it's suddenly radio silence. He looked down at what rested between his digits.
It was a long, thin red cable that folded over itself twice over, it started somewhere on the side of the right hip joint and traveled up, skating around several struts and modules.
What did this cable even do, where did it connect? Ignoring Sentinel's choked garble Optimus leaned in, trying to take a peek inside of the still mangled part of Sentinel's chassis in an attempt at locating where the red cable was meant to arrive - just to lose it somewhere behind the fuel tank.
A quick second read of the datapad gave him no further information on what was in his servos, and after a moment spent twirling the small thing between his digits - accompanied by more inaudible protests - Optimus gave the wire a light tug.
At the best he hoped to see where it was meant to reach, at the worst to get a few extra centimeters to work with; instead all he managed to accomplish was making the other seize up, an aborted spasm that had his full frame jerk as his engine revved angrily; a choked vent followed as sparks flew out of any of the still-disconnected cables that spilled from his midsection.
"I'm- I'm sorry, I didn't think it would hurt this badly…" he quickly apologized.
Yes, his nervecircuits had to be the fried ones. Thought Optimus as he hurried to put everything back in place; as he did, a timid sense of relief flickered from their shared connection. It was almost imperceptible, but enough for Optimus to ultimately program on his internal calendar the need for a medical checkup. Feeling only partially through a shared connection was worrying, and he wasn't sure if he should have kept going if his own frame was this compromised as well.
Optimus eyed the half finished mess. He didn't want to leave someone like this. Even as someone who wasn’t a medic, Optimus still felt responsible for the mech on the table. And he did his best, he really did! Looking up everything and anything that could have served him as even the tiniest bit of extra help to fix the mangled remains of Iacon's former ruler; and to his credit, he made some progress, and the mech was alive if nothing else.
However… That was about all he could do without medical training or proper equipment. He could have realigned pistons and joins, but neither secure them in place nor provide pressure. He could have matched each strut to its respective grapple but not secure them, nor provide tension. He could have placed each piece back in its place but not weld them to the structure. Pits, he didn't even know if the cables he had connected were actually correct, he had no way of checking and didn’t know any procedures to verify them manually. His medical knowledge stopped at "preventing another miner from going into shock while waiting for the medics".
Without a real doctor - or better yet, surgeon - Sentinel was never returning to his pedes again. Optimus slumped against the chair and dragged his servos over his faceplates.
Primus help me, I have no idea what I am do-
Suddenly, as if the God himself heard him, the brightly colored icon of an incoming call on his private line flashed on his HUD.
[Optimus]
"Elita?"
[We found a doctor]
The red mech almost jumped out of his chair, a hopeful smile threatening to creep on his derma "Really? Do you know when he will be available? Can you ask him to come as soon as possible?"
[We're going to him right now, I think we will be there in a few cycles at most. Get everything ready.]
"Would he be able to solve this mess? Because I am genuinely scratching at the bottom of the barrel here…"
[As far as we've learned he was a military surgeon, from during the war, he should be able to fix our little… problem.]
Ignoring the sarcastic words or implications of her friend, Optimus silently thanked Primus and all the 13 for the rescue. "Fantastic, who is this guy?"
[The name is Ratchet, runs a clinic in the worker district, do not piss him off.]
With those words the call ended, and Optimus took a deep vent of relief.
His work could be considered officially done there, for as much of a shabby work he did with the welding and plating, most cables seemed connected and Sentinel clearly could move all of his limbs. Which was a miracle in and of itself, given that Optimus was nowhere near qualified for what he just did.
With perhaps less care than what should have, in hindsight, been proper, Optimus plunged a metaphorical servo back into Sentinel's coding and snatched the few lines that kept the other pinned to the circuit slab, before quickly retreating and unplugging his cables. A small flicker of electricity crackled at the point of connection, but he felt nothing other than a light tingling.
The same couldn't be said for Sentinel, whose frame jerked violently with a strangled gasp and a cough as soon as Optimus' cords unplugged - vents cycling hard with a long series of rhythmical clicks and hisses that left Optimus more worried than not.
"Are you… okay?" tentatively asked Optimus.
"No I am not!" shouted Sentinel after a deep invent. "Do you have the slightest idea of what you have done to me?!" Whatever fear the smaller bot had been feeling before had seemingly evaporated, leaving space only for near hysterical rage and frustrated embarrassment that pulsed rhythmically along his EM field's charges - now no longer restrained, even temporarily.
"What I have- I'm sorry, what are you talking about…?" asked Optimus, hoping not to sound too clueless about the situation than he already was.
"What I'm- " repeated the blue mech, bewilderment on his faceplate. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe strapping me to this Primus-damned table, or hardlining me through my private ports, or blasting my firewalls with your inputs for forty kliks like I wasn't drowning, or maybe almost melting my processors. You just have to pick your fragging sin, Prime."
For a moment Optimus' processor tried to come up with an excuse, an explanation that he hadn't already given, anything to string along with a sincere apology for the discomfort he had just caused; then, it halted.
Has Sentinel just said personal ports?
The image of Sentinel's shocked expression as he pulled his panels open flashed behind his optics, and realization crushed him like a stream of icy cold solvent as panic flared in his processor. "W- WAIT I'M SORRY! I didn't mean to- I thought-! I didn't know-"
"Of course you did not! You didn't ask!" hissed the blue mech with a sharp slap at Optimus' defensively raised servos. "Are you normally this aft at interfacing? Because this was by far the worst I had in a long time."
The Prime didn't answer. He knew there were right and wrong answers to that question, and unwilling to say something abysmally stupid or think back about his previous interface experiences, Optimus chose instead to fake interest in his own servos.
After a long klik of awkward silence Optimus tentatively looked up again. "Was it… was it really that bad?"
If looks could kill, Sentinel's glare would have been enough to leave him a gray chunk of scrap on the floor. He knew he should have just remained silent.
"Not- not like that!" Optimus staggered, he didn't want Sentinel to think he was bummed at having lost bragging rights of all things "I meant… was it really that uncomfortable? I never attempted a medical procedure, least one through the… wrong ports."
"It felt like I was staring into the sun," deadpanned Sentinel - or at least tried to, with a hoarse vocalizer and coolant still shining on his plating he looked anything but calm. Pretty perhaps, thought Optimus - the warm light of the medical bay made the metallic sheen of his paint job glisten quite nicely - but definitely neither calm nor serious. The Prime chased away that line of thoughts. It was neither the right time nor place.
"Weird, that's not what I felt…" Optimus mumbled, forcefully peeling away his optics from the smaller mech's open chassis and still-warm internal wiring. "Perhaps your nerves are just more receptive? Or maybe you're just pent up and it hit you more?"
Sentinel coughed, his vent sputtered out a cloud of black smoke as he whipped his helm around to stared at the other - optics widened and filled with shock and anger. "No! I am not- wha- do not say scrap like that! -I'm not more receptive, nor I am pent up, thank you very-fragging-much!"
With those words the blue mech lifted one arm, his shoulder creaking in protest, before giving the larger bot a knock on his chest. "It's that cursed thing in your chest, Prime."
"There is a reason Zeta never had any lovers, you scraphead. Either you're more careful or you'll fry someone's motherboards off," grumbled Sentinel before going quiet, leaving only the soft whirring of his restarting vents to fill in the silence.
As kliks went on, Optimus Prime felt more and more like he could have disappeared. He silently prayed to Primus for the ground to open under his feet and swallow him whole, just like it did once already. The realization of what had happened was beginning to sink in to the fullest and all he wanted to do was bash his helm against the wall.
Either he said something or it was just going to get worse.
"So…" he chose to begin with, "what's up with all the weird components in there?"
Sentinel glared, a deep scowl on his face that - were he not reduced to less than half of his original size - would have looked terrifying. Then he grimaced, before sighing tiredly and pulling himself upright.
"My tactical hardware and units, mostly. And the cooling system."
Optimus did not need to see himself to know he looked ridiculous as he near-shouted, "In your mid-section?!"
Probably like a buffoon, and while he felt like one, he didn't think anyone could have blamed him for the way his optics nearly fell out of their sockets. After all, being told by someone they have extra brain modules in their torso was, frankly, absurd. Bordering on body horror. More than bordering, actually.
"Yes, you creep." Ouch. Sentinel carefully pushed his legs off the table, sending several long nanokliks searching for secure footing before putting any real weight into his pedes. "Compared to you, I was cold-constructed with a specific purpose in mind."
"Which is?" The words come out of his vocalizer before he can stop them. What did cold-constructed even meant?
After a tentative, wobbly step and an unpleasant hiss of his pistons, the smaller mech returned to lean against the medical slab. He threw a suspicious glare at the patchwork welding lines on his sides as he continued.
"I had to be sturdy enough to follow the thirteen on the battlefield while I was an advisor," he explained, both hands feeling around his mid section and tracing the welding scars. "My frame allows me to escape with my life if things got ugly, but not much more."
A small realization crept into Optimus's processors. Something inconsequential, but that put many things in perspective: Sentinel was a warframe not made for battle. The unnecessary, cumbersome kibble that were his wings and that made his alt-mode undistinguishable, reflected it.
There was something almost sad about it.
"And the tubes?"
"Coolant." He flexed his knee joint, another hiss came from the pistons, signaling low pressure. "Do you have any idea how much heat these hardwares and processors generate? I was serious about the cooling system, one fourth of my insides are made up of that alone." Sentinel knocked twice over his chest armor - the dull sound leaving Optimus wonder just how thick it actually was. Despite his words, his voice was lacking any real bite, and save for maybe the annoyed scowl on his faceplate one could have mistaken him as unfazed, mildly annoyed at the worst. Yet the stiffness of his frame betrayed the appearences.
A few nanokliks of silence passed, and the idea of these details being private flashed in Optimus' processors. "You don't need to tell me things about yourself that you're not comfortable sharing."
Sentinel sneered. "As if you haven't put your servos inside of me already. Might as well tell you what things are for and where they are. Maybe this way next time you need to tear me open you won't accidentally electrocute me, yourself, or both."
Optimus cringed, mortified, and embarrassment flashed in his EM field before he could stop it. If he had known what was happening he wouldn't have dared to proceed, this conversation could have been way more pleasant - less guilt heavy, at least on his side. Yet, despite everything, the more he thought about the whole situation, the less he liked the other's reaction.
Sentinel sounded… offputtingly fine, or maybe used to this, to some extent at least. Did he want to ask? Yes- Well, No. Not yet. If a stiff posture was all he could catch of how Sentinel truly felt in that moment about the whole ordeal, he doubted he was going to get anything by asking. If anything, he would have made the situation worse.
"Next time?" He asked instead.
The smaller mech turned, showing the rather shoddy looking welding job that Optimus had barely been capable of giving him, an unimpressed expression on his faceplate. "Do you genuinely think this slag will last?"
Good point. Sentinel had to see a proper medic, at the very least to fix his plating and armor. Fortunately, this time Optimus seemed to have done a decent job, and the blue mech took a few unsteady steps as he slowly adjusted to his new frame. If one ignored the way his hydraulics groaned with each step, indicating ridiculously low pressure, Optimus could have considered at least one problem to be fixed.
"Are you going to ask me any more invasive questions or I can have a crutch and return to my cell?"
Unfortunately, however, his nasty attitude had not been magically fixed, and Optimus guessed it would take somewhere between 'long' and 'forever' for that one.
"Actually, about that…"
═════════•°• ⚠ •°•═════════
5th Astral cycle - 12th Vorn - 7th Orbital cycle - 2nd Solar cycle - 9th Cycle, 53th klik.
Fuel level: Critical.
Reserve batteries: [A:33%] [B: DISCONNECTED] [C: DISCONNECTED] [D: 0%] [E: COMPROMISED]
Each of his steps was five of his own. Sentinel looked up at the massive frame marching by his side with the corner of his optic, not daring yet to be caught openly staring.
One of the Prime's - the real Prime's - servos laid under his left arm, holding him up cautiously, but not gently. Sentinel let his diagnostics run, crippled hardwares supplying him with half-afted results and calculations that hinged entirely on the truthfulness of what the mech had said.
Observation: Sentinel was still alive.
Annotation: conditions compromised, transformation cog missing.
Sub annotation: tactical hardware compromised, functionalities reduced to <22%.
Observation: Sentinel has been granted medical intervention by an external professional.
Observation: the Prime had affirmed Sentinel's sentence to be communal beneficial work.
Deduction: the Prime required him alive.
Unresolved Query: Sentinel's utility to the current Primal order was unknown.
Possibility A: Sentinel was in possess of something only he could have provided. Current Primal order required said unknown factor.
Sentinel let his idling hardwares run in the background, ignoring the uncomfortable heat spreading through his damaged internals and under his plating. He just needed a few quick percentages, then he would suppress everything back in their power-saving modes.
The red marker of his fuel gauge flashed on the side of his optics. Primus, he was hungry.
Possibility B:
Based on previous data:
Orion Pax: altruistic, naive, trusting, optimistic, confident.
Probability of deceivement: 5.8%
Deduction: the Prime believes in his rehabilitation
Low. Very so. Sentinel glanced up again. A new set of numbers flashed on his HUD.
Resulting probabilities: A=27% B=24% A+B=49%
He shut off his hardwares. A soft cloud of steam left his shoulder vents with a hiss; the Prime didn't turn.
Even assuming he had been honest with Sentinel, and the deal they had struck was legitimate, Sentinel couldn't prevent fear from crawling under his plating. He couldn't prevent the way his digits twitched or vents stuttered each time the large mech moved just a bit too fast.
One did not have to be malicious to be dangerous. And the newly appointed Prime was more than dangerous.
Sentinel locked the struts he could still feel, around his shoulders and arms, to prevent a full frame shudder. The violently vivid memory of the demigod crawling in his circuitry, barrelling through every layer of protection he had ever put in place as if they were nothing but a thin foil of aluminum and touching everything, made his tanks churn with visceral discomfort. He couldn't stop the way his frame reacted to those touches, nor could he have stopped the way his spark throbbed in its chamber with every passing second of that torturous, endless edging.
And the worst part was that despite his best efforts, halfway through it his tactical hardwares had pinged online, and running a background analysis had proved him beyond any doubts that none of what he was being subjected to was intentional.
It would have been easier if that was just the new Prime’s chosen method of torture. Just another sin to add to the endless pit of slag his predecessors had done, himself included. But it wasn't. And in its own way it was terrifying beyond belief.
Sentinel was, at his core, a specialized cold-constructed analytic war-frame. His primary functions were data processing, analysis, planning, and simulation generation. He could plot around malice. He had done so in the past countless of times.
But ignorance and incompetence were unpredictable. He couldn't plot around those, find a way to avoid overstepping and punishment. Not so soon at least, and certainly not with this little data.
His tactical hardwares booted up a second time, unprompted.
Probability of outcome not accounted in calculation: 78%
Based on previous data:
Probability of punishment for disobedience: 19%
Observation: outcome equating to loss of privileges and/or liberty restrictions 33%
Observation: unforeseeable outcomes certain; outcome might be against him
Deduction: orders received to be followed; compliance=lower probability of unexpected and/or negative outcome
Sentinel walked faster. His tactical hardwares were forced off for a second time, and as the two mechs walked the rest of the length of the corridor, Sentinel hoped the powerful steps of The Prime were masking the panicked beat of his spark and the thrum of his fuel pump.