I Am The One Who Sleeps - Chapter 1 - Anonymous - Transformers (2025)

Chapter Text

You.

Hey you.

Yes you.

Come closer.

We wish to speak to you.

Why you?

We are nothing without you.

Just tiny balls of energy, lost without vessels

Incapable of action, voice, or visage

Pushing and pulling in the high tide of the universe.

We have witnessed the birth of stars,

Planets small and large,

Swirling air, carbon ice, volcanoes that scream into the void

Marred faces of Mars—meteorites crashing into her crimson skin eons ago

A blemish left behind

The red eye storm of Jupiter

Still dancing, still screaming

In that bitter darkness

And hail comes The Architect,

All-Maker, Inventor, The One Star

Who awoke us once

Ancient metal creaking to life

The silver spines snapping in place

To continue the Grand Design

From Birth to Death

And now, it is your turn

You

Why You?

There is no such thing as ‘ordinary’

There is only life and demise

And you will lead this universe to both

As such the Grand Design

Is not right?

Prime?

XXX

A strange, embittered dream without voices.

This is what Orion Pax thought every morning as he quaked back into the cold world of ash and shadows of his unit. These recurring visages of primordial messages singing in his synapses, murmuring to him without tone, fluctuation, and emphasis. A claim that the Universe itself had a nightly commune with him, in a deeply mythical symbiosis that connected planets to their suns and suns to their stars and the stars to black holes dancing somewhere in Andromeda beyond.

It was, of course, a silly notion. For why would The Architect speak to such a lowly creature?

Orion Pax emerged from his dark unit every morning when the twin suns slipped up from the golden horizons of Cybertron, the ever-reliant signal for Cybertronians to attend to their duties. Cybertron, of course, required her dues and there was no better honor for any child than that of servitude to their parent.

Upon their construction from a hot spot, a Cybertronian is presented to clerics of the Sentinel Prime who would evaluate the newborn and designate a role and alt-mode befitting of their stature. Some were fortune and were promised to be gladiators—warriors to fight for honor in the infamous Kaon Pits or members of the Elite Guard whom, in times of war, defended the empire-planet from their Quintesson enemies. Others, of course, were given low-caste working roles like miners, drivers, merchants, and guards. Indeed, such roles were not as exciting but there came a pride to the work for Cybertron did not operate on warriors alone. They were the backbone that made the planet rotate and the world around them whirl from dream to life.

Then there were the blessed few who are chosen to serve alongside the Sentinel Prime and the legacy Seat of the Primes Thirteen. These Cybertronians were clerics, councilors, senators, elite guards, and advisors—those who would support the Sentinel Prime in his leadership of Cybertron and the great planetary-empire the Primes Thirteen left behind (do you remember Alpha Trion).

When Orion Pax was presented to the clerics in those early years of his awakening, they looked at the nervous young bot—whirling cold optics, marred and dull—and waved their servos of him.

‘Data clerk,’ they designated mechanically and stamped the insignia right on his chest plate. ‘Put him in the archives. Serve the Hall of Records.’

A role meant for the shadows, in the comfort of old tomes and scrolls and data disks. Out of sight, out of mind but one that suited Orion Pax well. For he was of a bearing most befitting of a gentle archivist—quiet, soft-spoken, and notably at ease around bound texts of knowledge than other fellow bots (a strange fellow! They could call him, and a strange fellow he remained).

And so, without a word of complaint, Orion Pax accepted his life role and, when the time came after his graduation from the academy, he disappeared into the dark shelves of the Hall of Records.

Then came the dreams.

Orion was not sure where exactly they came from. When he was examined by his close friend and the local doctor, Ratchet, he could not find any fault with him either. No ticks or glitches in the processor. Nothing broken or needed mending in the helm. His optics were registering sight and information properly. Orion was, in their words, a ‘perfectly operational bot’.

And yet, the dreams kept coming. The voices kept beckoning to him. And as the cycles marched forward towards the end of the year, Orion Pax wondered if his isolation in the archive was causing him to go a bit crazy.

Maybe so.

“Orion Pax?”

The archivist blinked and found himself slumped over his desk again in the back of the Hall of Records, covered in old data pads depicting of the Quintesson invasions of the past. Holy imagery of the Primes Thirteen at the first war.

Ah, now he remembered: he was in the middle of processing notes for the Sentinel Prime’s senators. And then, the archivist turned towards the voice and met with the all-too familiar gaze of B-127 peering at him from the doorway of his office. The young bot smiled at Orion, his voice box filling the room pleasantly.

“Am I...bothering you, Pax?” He asked shyly.

“From you? Never.” Orion felt a smile tug on his lips as he turned his chair away from his desk and addressed B-127 directly. “You had just interrupted a bad dream so I must thank you.”

“By Primus! Was it a nightmare?”

“I am not sure.” A pause. “It did not scare me, really. But I wished not to think of it anymore. Come now, B-127, how can I help you?”

The young bot beamed at him, his bright yellow coat bleeding against the ugly dimness of the library—a pleasant color to have in these shadows and one that Orion Pax could seldom complain about seeing often around more often.

B-127 had come to this archivist about a few years back during an academy visit to the Hall of Records. The bot, notoriously chatty, had been abandoned by his irritated school mates and was left to wander the empty galleries in desperate search of his class. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled upon the old history section where a lonely archivist, in the silent company of texts, was dreaming once again of a Universe unknown.

The fact was that Orion Pax very much adored the young B-127. He spoke much—this was true, but his pleasant ramblings filled the void of the library and made the quiet scribe feel at ease, especially considering his own nervousness with other bots. After a year or so, where B-127 made it a point to visit Orion Pax every cycle after his schooling, the librarian had come to accept the chatty bot as kin. Like a son in a way.

Of course, just from the near-worshiping, fond gaze the young bot held for him in his optics, Orion Pax knew he had been transformed into a sort of fatherly figure in that sense as well.

Just a family of lonely outcasts.

“I passed my final exams this chord,” B-127 started, his sensors buzzing happily with his body giving a hop. “I can now graduate and transition right into my occupation!”

Orion Pax stood up, his smile wide and bright. “How have I forgotten! Oh B-127, I am so proud of you! Sincerely that I am! What section of the Hall of Communications will you be operating in?”

Just from the young bot’s expression alone, Orion Pax knew it to be good news. He had seen this face plate before from many a former hot spot mate who left the clerics and declared themselves to be entering the service of Cybertron as an elite guard after academy graduation.

A thought: by Primus’ mercy, Orion Pax prayed that the young bot did not end up in the service of the Kaon Hall of Communications.

B-127 was not built for war.

The young bot closed his fist and proudly beat his chest plate, dentas grinning white. “I will be at the Department of Cybertronian Intelligence here in Iacon,” He declared proudly.

“The DCI? You would not happen to see direct combat, I take it…”

“No, no! We’re just mechs with higher clearance to directly convey information to the Office of the Sentinel Prime. It’s real cushy! Just sitting all cycle and processing data…just like you!”

Orion Pax laughed again, more so out of relief that this little one won’t be thrown into the slaughter. “Well, probably a bit more exciting than my role. You actually get the honor to assisting the war efforts directly. And it is a perfect role for someone of your skills. That, I am proud,” he said and reached over to pat B-127’s helm affectionately.

The young bot’s light sensors whirled to a bizarre pinkish hue, and he quickly shrugged the librarian’s servos off with a sheepish smile, his optics quickly darting to the side.

“Aw, thanks Pax,” B-127 stuttered, still smiling. “I’m surprised they decided to transfer me there. Everyone was betting on me ending up in the main network frame in Polyhex. Primus knows I’d make everyone go crazy over there…”

“You do yourself a disservice. I’d think you would succeed wherever you go, son. They would not have chosen wrong for you.”

“Hah! You say that and yet the clerics chose to put you here in the backroom.”

Orion Pax cocked his helm, his smile curious. “What makes you say that, B?” He asked carefully, hoping his inquiry would not spook the bot into thinking that he misspoke.

B-127 blinked twice before giving a faint shrug. And he then turned to look at Orion Pax’s office. The place was covered in open data pads and fermented by the smell of rusted disks and aged paper. Even the interface of Orion’s terminal twitched with signs of aging—last year’s model evidently. Tiny energon particles danced in the rare bits of sunlight coming in through his small rectangular window in the left corner and veiled the archivist like a dead star exploding somewhere in space.

“I just think...you were meant for something greater than this, you know? Not put away so no one can ever see or hear you but...I don’t know. Maybe working alongside Sentinel Prime in his seat and traveling the universe with him. Anything but this,” B-127 remarked, waving his servos around for emphasis.

“B—”

“It just feels like maybe they got you wrong, Pax,” B-127 said in grave finality and stared at the older bot with a hardened, fierce gaze. “Haven’t you ever thought so yourself?”

Yes, Orion Pax wanted to say. Yes, for he always wondered if he had more potential than beyond the dark confines of the Hall of Records, working cycles on end without visitors or friends. Once in a while, a cleric would come in and request something specific for him to find or translate—and, of course, his orbital cycle duties to supply all operational offices with their archival data. But it was a quiet, friendless job and the lonely had become something of an aching sickness to him.

But the Sentinel Prime has decided Orion’s fate as he did the fate of all those in Cybertron. He is their Prime, after all. Such divine wisdom is not simply given so freely to anyone.

“No,” Orion said, covering his solemness with a controlled smile. “I am content where I am. Now, no more about me. Why don’t we celebrate your success? I’ll treat you at the Maccadam’s Old Oil House. You can invite your friends too! I know Arcee would probably need a cool down from the racetracks.”

And B-127 smiled back, his own sadness for the scribe just too poorly veiled for Orion Pax to confuse it to be anything else but displeasure. But they both knew to end the discussion here.

“Sure, Pax. I’d like that.”

XXX

Orion Pax never told anyone this before—not that he had anyone to tell in his natural solitude, but he did long dream of a Cybertron far different than the one occupied by the Sentinel Prime. Sometimes he sat in the empty courtyard after a long cycle of translation, staring up at the suns and dim stars beyond, and pictured the visage of his homeland transformed.

He dreamed, of course. A world without classifications and categories and labels. Where the Primes could not decide the future of a fledgling nor could they prevent the chasing of ambitions and aspirations from other bots. Where the gladiators’ blood sport would be abolished and there was not a need for death and war or the glorious celebration of destruction. Where young bright cybertronians like B-127 could freely move and speak to whoever he liked, whenever he liked, and wherever he liked.

No servitude.

No masters.

No gods.

Orion Pax’s Cybertron was a silly one. But he visited that place often in his processor. In that world, he was braver, more confident, more joyful. He could explore all facets of the world: perhaps he could be an explorer, a scientist, and an advisor. Maybe even a leader.

What a juvenile thought—though the few he did share these cycledreams with always took it with an edge of solemn idealism. Senator Shockwave from the Iacon Senate, who made a habit to personally come around the archives since Orion’s start date, had become a close confident (friend?) for the lonely archivist.

Ah, it’s not a silly delusion, Orion,’ he would always say, patting the bot’s shoulder affectionately with that easy white smile. ‘I wish you were not so shy to philosophize with me. I like hearing you talk.’

Orion Pax chose the way of silence, finding even his own thoughts and notions to be a danger in functionalist Cybertron. Their ways had been carefully constructed since the dawn of the Thirteen, cultivated and build up from a foundation that has only allowed their empire-planet to survive this far. What would to happen if this eon-aged system were to break? Who could even break this ancient wheel?

It was not like Orion Pax disliked his job. He liked his job. He enjoyed the malleability of data collections. He enjoyed the sounds of data pads humming, the smell of aged tomes in the back rooms, the distant murmurs of the other clerks in the adjacent wings; the echo of visitors entering the main hall and the shutting of doors. He even enjoyed waking up before the proper rise of the solar cycle because the route to work was littered with the pink-lilac splash of stars and moons against the slow sunrise peeking over the horizon line. And yet, he also knew the world the Primes left behind was a strict, immobile one—a ladder with no pegs for those on the bottom to climb out of.

“What are you thinking about?”

Orion Pax blinked his optics back into the Ark-1 Memorial Park. A cold dread filled his core.

That voice box. It was unmistakable who it belonged to. Every cybertronian recognized this voice right next the Sentinel Prime himself. The voice, deeper than a canyon abyss and sharper than any kinetic blade, commanded the loyalty and love of every gladiator and patriot alike. For he who stood over the idle Orion Pax was the Patriot of Cybertron—her most esteemed hero.

He who is named Megatronus.

He who is the supreme champion of the Kaon Pits and rumored to be the next in line for the title of Prime.

He who was declared the spiritual successor of the Megatronus Prime’s namesake.

He who is standing right over the lonely scribe, like the sun itself dwarfing a small rock in space.

Ah.

This was not a dream, was it?

Why was Megatronus here in Iacon? Should he not be in Kaon, slaughtering in the pits? Training his mechs?

All strangeness on this cycle.

“What are you thinking about?” Megatronus repeated, his striking visage bled in Orion Pax’s wide optics.

The warrior’s silver-ashen armor plating at his chassis and broad shoulders shone beneath that dim sun, marked by the presence of thickly wounded cables and pistons at the arms and calves—further proof of his natural placement among Cybertron’s elite champions. Orion Pax has only seen Megatronus in rallies after another successful battle and even then, the warrior was already foreboding from far away. It was only up close—this close, that the scribe realized how utterly small and insignificant he was in comparison.

“It...Nothing. Just simple, idle thoughts, sir. cycledreaming,” Orion Pax answered politely, his voice box barely above a quiver. What was one to say to a Gladiator, especially one who was to succeed the Sentinel Prime himself?

To his surprise, Megatronus smiled at this comment and his face plate very much conveyed amusement.

“Funny,” he started kindly. “You seem to daydream a lot in this courtyard.”

“Pardon?”

“May I join you? It will not be long.”

Orion Pax wanted to say no, more so out of the shame of sharing the bench with the famed general but he also understood keenly that he could not refuse the bot either. He forced a smile, albeit probably a nervous one based on the wild heat in his processors, and gestured to the space next to him.

Megatronus sat down, his arms resting idly on his tibulen with his purple optics trained on the sun above. It was a rather bizarre feeling in Orion Pax’s spark, that fact that someone this important cared to sit beside him—cared to speak to him of all things. Perhaps Megatronus was bored and needed a simple bot to entertain him. Well, he chosen poorly.

“I apologize,” the champion suddenly started without removing his gaze from the sun, “if I disturbed you. The truth is that I see you sit here every single time I visit the Iacon Hall of Records. And it’s the same sight too: you right here on this bench, staring up at the sky like this. And I wonder to myself: ‘what is this little archivist thinking?’ What mysteries do you hide in your processor, hm?”

Orion Pax did not answer.

Megatronus made a strong sound in his voice box. “Ah, there I go again. Speaking out of line. I haven’t even gotten your designation, little archivist. May I have it?”

“My designation? Me?

“Yes. You. May I?”

“...you may. I am Orion Pax of Iacon,” he said barely above a whisper. His optics were trained elsewhere, afraid that if they moved, it would betray the fear and trepidation whirling hot in his processors.

“Orion Pax,” Megatronus repeated slowly, like a sacred foreign word he wished to remember and master in his lingo. “That I shall remember. Do you wish to know my designation?”

“I have no need.”

“No?”

“Everyone knows who you are, sir.” Orion Pax paused and braved himself in actually riveting his sights down to Megatronus’ face plate. The warrior bot was staring down at him, expression still very much amused with a hint of something else entirely. “It is an honor to speak to you, Master Megatronus.”

Really? You do not sound too pleased to speak to me,” he remarked with a grin, cocking his helm to the side.

“I am sorry if it appears that way. I...am not well adept at socialization. Take no offense, sir.”

“None taken.”

Silence. In the distance, some pilot bots cut across Cybertron’s sun, casting quickened blurs of shadows. Orion Pax breathed slow, and his audio receptors practically burned when his vents clicked on and started to whirl in place. At the corner of his optics, he could see Megatronus’ smile widened.

“I must confess, I actually came by because I wished to introduce myself to you. Not only have I seen you upon every visit, but you also came highly recommended from the Prime council,” he started, folding his clawed digits together.

Orion Pax blinked and turned to him. “M-Me?

The gladiator nodded, evidently pleased. “Yes. The senators claimed that you are the most dedicated scribe they have seen. Your translations and ability to internalize texts in this endless sea of records has been noticed. Even by the Lord Prime. So I simply had to come by and catch your name.”

Flattery?

“The Hall of Records have many senior scribes and archivists here. You could have asked them to assist you instead of I,” Orion Pax said with a shake of his helm.

Megatronus chuckled. “Are you insisting that you are not worthy of all the talk I heard of before?”

“I believe…that they may have exaggerated my worth.”

“Do you believe that is your worth?”

Silence yet again.

Megatronus then stood up, his armor plates creaking in place against his tight cables. He blocked out the sun alone with his towering stature, blanketing the disquieted Orion Pax with the dominance of his shadow, and grinned at the archivist. His face plate exuded nothing but a most displaced fondness.

“Thank you for giving me your time, Orion Pax. I think I have my answer now,” he declared with a tight nod.

The smaller bot frowned. “And what would that be, sir?”

“Mystery. Intrigue. You are a truly fascinating bot. And one cycle, you will tell me of the dreams you hold here in this courtyard. And you will find that I am not very patient. Farewell for now.”

Orion Pax watched as the great gladiator champion himself took his departure and it only a few minutes after he had left that the lonely archivist realized that his cooling vents had been humming loudly this entire time, enough to be heard from any passerby coming into the courtyard no less his talking companion. Perhaps that is why the Prime-to-be bore such a teasing smile upon his intake, cruelly silent in Orion’s audible engines.

He reset his optics and nervously shuffled back into the Hall before anyone else could join him for unwanted conversation.

Orion Pax hoped to never meet with Megatronus again.

XXX

You.

Hey You.

Yes You.

Beloved kin

Would you like to hear about the Universe?

The Architect

Gave up his spark

And set free the energies into the void of space

Consider

The molecules

Atoms

And balls of light

Reflecting the vastness

Beyond our comprehension

In the microcosmic mirror

Where our visages are sculpted

And bodies bound by metal flesh

That those molecules

Atoms

Balls of Light

Reflect The Architect’s lost image

Energon

The gift of life

And the white hum you sometimes hear in the dead of night

From an apathetic Universe

That we can never understand

Only know this

That once the Grand Design has been put

Into motion

It is unalterable

Unstoppable

Unmovable

Such as the way of The Architect

And Energon

And Us

And You

XXX

“Look Orion, I don’t know what to tell you. There’s nothing wrong with your processors.”

“Are you sure, Ratchet? Can you run a scan again?”

“No, kid.”

Ratchet, the resident medical bay physician, gave Orion Pax a most irritable look though the archivist chalked it up to the doctor’s age. Perhaps he has seen his fair share of false calls from young mechs who could not ever understand the complications of their physiology.

Orion coming back for the third time, claiming about voices in his head at night probably did not help the doctor’s mood one bit. Still, the archivist’s trepidation has doubled over night for the voices, the dreams had gotten louder—stronger, as though they too were gaining their strength by the cycle. Ratchet shook his helm, flickering optics shone dull in the dimness of the medical bay.

“Listen Orion. If you were to ask me, I think its all that dust in the Hall of Records. You’re in there—like what, nearly nineteen groons a cycle, which is insane considering that Hall of Labor dictates a healthy ten for all working bots. Plus, you don’t really have anyone to speak to in there. Sure, you got other archivists and scribes but you’re all isolated in that huge, endless spiral of data points. I honestly think your processors are stressed from a lack of interaction. My prescription for you, Orion—go out there and just take some time off.”

A pause; his intact curled up into a mocking smile at Orion Pax. “I don’t count. Take my advice, Orion. Some socialization will do your processor some good,” he concluded, tapping his servo against his open data pad.

This same story before. How many times has he heard this before? The redundancy of commonality. And it was that glazed over look to: what a strange fellow, they would say. Awkward to speech, nervous in crowds, and more prone to speaking to his books than any living creature. And the dreams, unknown voices calling out from bits and pieces of the void—were they just concoctions of the mind? Even now, just from the way Ratchet watched him warily, Orion Pax already registered that the doctor found him odd. And odd bots were not a good thing for Cybertron.

“I apologize Ratchet,” he started with his helm bowed. “I...I must be overworking myself.”

“Exactly. Clock out early, get out there, and actually talk to the world. It’ll surprise you how much you end up learning from bots compared to the Hall of Records,” Ratchet suggested, his voice box emulating something of a relieved sigh.

The good doctor then opened a cabinet close to his helm and rummaged through it idly with Orion Pax still nervously settled on the exam chair. After a moment or two, Ratchet pulled out and small electronic box and handed it over, bearing something close to a sympathetic smile.

Orion Pax stared at it in his servos—it was a gray metal box aligned with thin light sensors on either side. When he touched them gingerly, the box gave a mechanical hum before opening to reveal tiny, thin strips of processed energon awaiting inside. He looked up and met with Ratchet’s weary optics.

“For the dreams. Some doses of concentrated energon could calm your processors at night from overworking. Take two every night by the intact and you should not have anymore…bizarre…visions of voices, if you catch my meaning,” he instructed carefully, still watching the archivist with a notable level of wary.

“Yes, Ratchet, I understand.”

“And if it doesn’t work and your dreams worsen, come back.”

Strangely enough, the medical mech meant this sincerely and Orion Pax was not sure if he simply pitied him or that, somewhere deep behind all those old cables and sensors and an old-world processors, he believed there was to be a greater mystery behind the dreams of Orion Pax. Either way, the archivist offered Ratchet a grateful smile, accepted the medicine, and departed from the bay.

The city of Iacon hummed mechanically before him—the world beyond peeling back the dancing, electronic curtain of blue and white against the smokey horizon. Obsidian-touched skyscrapers on floating platforms jutted in the gray distance, glowing soft with lilac neon, as the greater sky was peppered with the shadowed imprint of the morning air traffic. Orion Pax lifted his head and stared up in search of the sun, but he found none. It was, indeed, a gray cycle.

Something aching in his processors commanded him to return to the Hall of Records but, to even his surprise, the bot decided to abide by the doctor’s advice and head elsewhere. Orion Pax could feel the rhythm of the streets, the ever-present vibrations of transformed bot racing past him in a colored blur, as his pedes brought him a bit of the ways down, to the aged doorway of The Maccadam’s Old Oil House

The archivist stared at its half-dead, flicking teal neon sign over the doorway, tilted and hanging on by a singular circuit (ever since that bar fight incident a year and half ago)—unfixed but welcoming nonetheless. Orion Pax then pushed the button, watching with a smile as the automatic doors flushed open with a notable screech, and headed on inside.

The smell was of a homely comfort; that hinge of old oil and energon-touched drinks which seeped into every corner of the bar. To any newcomers, the sight of rusted standing tables, large dents in the metal walling, and an old-world music player booming new age songs at the far wall could be seen as deficient. Especially the music, which tended to boom out the windows and onto the streets.

And true, Orion could agree: mostly low-caste working bots like miners and mechanics tended to come to the Old Mac’s, which did not assist much in the bar’s rough reputation. But, he preferred this place above all others for it was the comfort of communities together without judgment.

The dance of purple-pink neon lights touched Orion Pax’s optics pleasantly, ebbing all along the walls, corners, and tableware in quickened streaks. On the walls were aged metal posters of Iacon band of Orion’s academy cycles alongside print outs of famed gladiator champions of Kaon. He noticed the familiar visage of Megatronus in the middle, holding two pieces of a downed gladiators ripped apart in his arms. His face plate illuminated by the pits’ fire, expression feral with power and glee.

Orion looked away, flustered, and reset his optics back to the rest of the space in search for the bar’s resident musician.

Instead, what he got was a screaming bot flying right in his face.

Oh.

The archivist quickly ducked to the side as the poor mech crashed against the automatic doors before crumbling to the ground. Everyone in the bar merely watched with wide optics before flicking to the sight of a bulking silver-steel bot with his sub woofers chassis booming aggressively from the far end of the bar. He cracked his servos together, black wheeled struts digging into the ground with audible smoke singing with every loud step as he stood over the cornered bot with a cruel glint across his face plate.

Orion Pax watched in fascination as the silver mech leaned over slowly, powerful servos grabbing the smaller bot by the neck and forcing him against the automatic doors with an audible, metallic squeeze. He spoke and his voice box—usually wonderful melodic beat on good cycle—rumbled with the undertones of roaring music beneath each word.

“If you step inside Old Mac’s ever again, I will shove my fist far, far up your afterburner that you will taste my servos in your intact. Do you understand me, you fragging bastard?” The silver bot uttered with a half-laugh, chassis rumbling with a violent beat.

The bot in his servos squeaked, blue optics flickering wildly. “Yes, yes! I’m sorry Jazz—just let me go, and you won’t ever see my face plate again!”

“You better. Now get the frag out of here.”

Almost upon cue, the automatic doors split open and that little bot made a horrible choking sound—akin to old metal being crushed by hydraulics as he was thrown back out onto the streets with a clang. It was only when the doors closed shut again that everyone in the bar started to bang their fists on the tables repeatedly and cheered in a wave of relief. The silver bot’s sub woofer chassis died to faint vibration, pleased, before turning his optics over to Orion Pax sitting on the ground in muted disbelief.

The anger and playful wrath dissipated in place of brotherly warmth. And so he came over and stuck his arm out towards Orion Pax with a wide grin and optics bright and whirling.

“Ayo, Pax! Sorry for the rough welcome, bro! But at least you got a show out of it, eh? Can’t say this place ain’t got energy.”

And the archivist gave a warm laugh before taking the musician’s servo with a squeeze. “Yes, yes, I know. Thank you, Jazz.”

A cherished friend—one of few Orion Pax could happily call to be his family, his Amica Endura. In their time of youth, the pair were academy mates, sharing an odd sort of brotherhood despite the differences in their caste and occupations. Surprisingly, Jazz’s rather playful personality had paired well with Orion’s rather quiet demeanor, a relationship that raised a few optical ridges back in the cycle. Even now, their present post-academy years was peppered with long night drinking sessions in the bar.

Orion took seat on the bar counter as Jazz passed him a cup of high grade pink energon—old Maccadam’s favorite. Before the archivist could say his thanks, his old friend had moved to wipe down a spot on the floor where multiple bottles laid broken, apparently smashed in succession. The smell of fermented energon laid thick into the space and the silver bot shook his helm, a wounded temper returning with a rumble.

“You’d think drunks would be more fun to watch,” he remarked, giving Orion a rueful gaze.

Orion Pax chuckled at this. “Not everyone can be like you, Jazz.”

“It takes more energy to smash shit up than to dance and sing on a table at the morning groons, Orion. Frag. What a waste…”

“Where is Mac tonight?”

“Ah, the old cog had an ‘epiphany’ this morning about some energon drink that can make you stay up for three cycles. Now he’s off to go find the stuff outside of Iacon in those weird functionalist towns while I’m locking down things here.”

After a moment, the silver bot straightened up with a funny smirk on his face plate, and regarded the archivist warmly.

“Now that I think about it, it’s odd that you’re here, bro. The chord end ain’t here, yet,” Jazz said with a playful accusation.

Orion Pax rubbed the back of his neck and offered a grin back. “I...paid a visit to Ratchet again and he suggested that I should take some downtime from work,” he admitted.

“Frag. I agree too. Primus knows you’re always stuck down there, reading all cycle. Some company could do you some good.” Jazz’s smile widened, optics bright. “Ah. And you chosen me. Wise choice, my good bot! How are you, Pax?”

“Ah.”

The dreams. He wanted to tell Jazz about the dreams. But a primal fear had wormed its way into the archivist's processors—to be an oddity, a failure, in his optics of an old friend. Should he too judge the one who stares at the sun and hears voices in the dark?

“Couldn’t sleep,” Orion said rather morosely.

“No frag. Even back in academy, you weren’t much for a good sleep cycle,” Jazz remarked with a hum. “Ratchet gave you meds?”

“Yes. I’ll take some tonight and see.”

“I have noticed that you seemed...off. Thought maybe work’s been killing you but, well, seems like everyone these cycles have problems, bro.”

Orion forced a laugh. “Such is the way of Iacon,” he said, voice box emitting a very small noise.

“Such is the way…”

A brief pause. Someone’s vent fan went off.

“Orion.”

Jazz stopped at the other side of the bar counter and leaned against it. His arm resting idle on the top with the digits rapping along methodically as his optics settled on Orion. In the back, the song had changed to a solemn tune and the bar itself went still with the peace of silence.

“Listen, listen,” the silver bot started in an unusual quiet. His gaze riveted quickly from left to right past Orion Pax’s shoulders, at the tables in the far back where the cycle workers gathered to drink and sometimes sleep. He then regarded Orion coolly.

“There...has been talks, you know. Here in the bar. Don’t know what they are and I don’t care to ask. But I hear enough scrap to know when trouble is coming.”

“Trouble?”

Resentment. Many are unhappy with the Sentinel Prime. Enough to form some kind of hidden group to discuss...plans, it sounds like. And they got a ring leader who is willing to act if you catch my drift,” Jazz whispered, Orion’s astonished expression reflected on the bot’s blue visor.

He had not words. In truth, Orion was not surprised to hear such rumors for the Sentinel Prime was not a popular leader. Not by far. He was the chosen successor of the Prime Thirteen—at least, the chosen one by default as they all found their deaths in the last great Quintesson war many eons ago. The last Prime of the Thirteen, Alpha Trion, who founded the Hall of Records in Iacon, was Sentinel Prime’s mentor. When he died, it was declared that Sentinel was to be the next Prime to lead Cybertron.

“Between you and me, I get it,” Jazz said.

“Do you now?” Orion asked with a tilt of his helm.

His friend hummed, voice box riveting with an audible irritation “Just once a chord, an inspector from the Lord Prime’s office comes down to check on the place. Too many complaints of ‘loud’ music—as if the other bars are any better! At least my shit actually sounds good.” Jazz’s vents hissed and he gritted his dentas together. “But the way I see it, the good Lord Prime just doesn’t want the miners to have a place to rest. The afterburner works everyone to death.”

“Oh Jazz…”

“Whatever, whatever—as if I can do anything to change Cybertron. Whatever this secret group has planning, whatever their leader decides to do, they better keep all the broken scraps and oil real low. I don’t want to clean deactivated bots off the streets no less my own bar…”

The automatic doors rushed open. Jazz briefly looked up, and straightened his back—staring firm to whomever stepped inside.

“Come on in, now. If you need some energon, we have a pretty vast menu. Bar’s open or take a table wherever and give me a holler. But don’t touch the music box,” he said idly, throwing a dirty rag over his shoulder guards. The silver musician then gave Orion a playful wink before strutting away to entertain to a group in a corner table.

Orion started at his reflection in his drink. By Primus and the Thirteen, he really did look tired; his blue optics were eerily dull and worn-down like scratched over lights. His silver face plate had taken on a darker color than usual and his optical ridges were straight and neutral as though his processor was running linear without any stimulation. He sighed and his reflection rippled quickly with the disturbance of a force right beside him.

Orion Pax looked up to see a towering hooded bot standing over him—blood red optics bleeding from the shadow of his cloak.

“Is this seat taken?” inquired the stranger, his voice box deep yet oddly subdued as though he was restraining his true tone intentionally.

Orion just offered a shy smile at this. “No, of course not.”

The archivist returned back to his reflection, paying little mind to the bot that just sat down beside him. Why was he here, drinking away all his unspoken loneliness and discontent in the cycletime? There were a mountain of requests he had to get through back at the Hall of Records. More data points to relocate and replicate for the Sentinel Prime’s advisors; more submissions for archival information from other offices in Iacon. Instead, Orion Pax was practicing slothfulness in Jazz’s bar during the solar cycle, and a deep-seeded guilt had begun to gnaw at his spark.

He pushed away his drink and moved to get up when the stranger spoke.

“You’re from the Hall of Records,” he said, matter-of-fact.

Orion Pax blinked; he forgot, for a moment, that his engraved insignia was facing this bot.

“Y-Yes, that’s right. I only took some time for respite but I’m heading back now…”

“What’s the rush? I’d say you need a drink, if you can excuse my remark.”

“Do I look that bad?”

A laugh—deep and rich and eerily familiar like a recurring dream unbinding itself. Red optics watched him in their darkness. “By Primus, hardly. But I don’t think your supervisor will care that much if you’re on a lunch break.”

“No…,” Orion Pax sat back down with a subdued nod. “I-I suppose not.”

“Chat with me while I wait,” said the stranger. “You’d make for some fine company.”

“Would I? You do not even know my designation.”

“And what would your designation be?”

The archivist could not help but smile at the stranger’s teasing words. He did, on occasion, enjoy the playful banter—It helped him feel like awkward about himself.

“Orion Pax of Iacon. Occupation, well, you already guessed. And yourself?”

The stranger smiled but quickly gestured for Jazz to pass him a drink from the end of the bar. When the mug flew down the counter top, he caught it cleanly in his clawed digits, and brought it up to his intact. But a moment was all it took; he downed the whole thing and dropped the empty mug on the counter top without a second thought. And a white smile greeted Orion Pax’s optics, sharp and predatory.

“You may call me D-16 of Tarn. Occupation...miner,” he finally said slowly.

“Ah, that makes sense,” Orion said with a nod. “You’re on break like everyone else?”

“One could say that. I’m waiting for some friends but they’re delayed at the moment. But matters not: at least I have some company.”

Clawed digits began to rap alongside the empty mug. “You know, Orion Pax, there are things I always wanted to know about your occupation.”

The smaller bot laughed at this remark with a shake of his helm. “Yes, it’s very, very boring. And quiet. And lonely.”

“Do you find it boring?”

“Honestly? Not at all. I enjoy working with knowledge. Texts of the old world, the first years of Cybertron, and the Primes Thirteen. Back in the Academy, I studied nothing but science and history so this is a natural field for me. I only say its boring because I have been asked this question many a time,” Orion Pax explained, leaning his chin on his servos to directly stare at his new friend.

D-16 was smiling back at him from beneath his hood. The mining bot’s reddened eyes regarding him with every word as though he were actually intriguing. Orion Pax could not help but grow flustered at how much he had been speaking and looked away lest his new friend would have noticed hot loud his vent fans were again.

“Oh no, continue: I always wondered what kind of passions and talents the Hall’s data clerks have. Tell me, Orion Pax—what does your library tell you about the Prime Thirteen? Besides what we already know,” he suggested, clawed digits moving from his cup and onto to the counter top.

Jazz’s music player gave a sharp screech before moving onto the next song—a bit more solemn, a bit more melodic. Orion believed it was a trending romance song.

“Well...I have found many old data disks predating the time of the Prime Thirteen and early Cybertron,” the archivist started, moving his optics back to his drink. “They’re interesting, actually. The first scribes under Alpha Trion documented pretty much every time from the building of Cybertron to first invasions of the Quintus Prime’s children, the Quintessons. But the most fascinating accounts are the ones about Megatronus Prime and Prima Prime.”

When D-16 did not speak, Orion Pax continued with more energy.

“They were all children of Primus but Prima and Megatronus shared the closest bond. They were brothers-in-arms, promised comrades, and other halves. When they build the first cities of Cybertron, it was Prima and Megatronus leading the charge. Of course, you know in the end that they both died together in the first Quintesson war after Cybertron’s establishment but...well, I caught a detail in some of data pads that I do not believe is widely known.”

“Oh? And that is?”

Orion Pax’s vents went off again and he felt a most strange heat touch his internal sensors, causing a bit of steam to escape his lips at the thought. His reflection showed a very flustered and almost youthful bot.

“They...were lovers apparently,” he said very slowly.

D-16, once again, said nothing to this. When Orion Pax turned to look at his new friend, he was surprised to see that the hooded bot was still smiling at him, reddened optics entranced without any sort of wavering or even disbelief at his discovery. The hooded bot’s digits had moved a bit closer to his now.

“Let me guess: hidden rendezvous, small touches, short looks...whatever, I suppose, our ancient fathers were able to hide their relationship from their siblings,” D-16 suggested with a wave of his servos.

“Uh...yes, exactly.”

“Strange. I was always told Solus Prime was a shared lover between them.”

“The Master Smith appeared to be merely an intentional red herring to prevent discourse among the first civilizations. Be it easier to pin any romantic affections on her than Prima and Megatronus. The disks actually detailed much of her love tied to her work hence, the legendary status of her forge.” Orion gave a quiet sort of laugh. “Based on Alpha Trion’s observations, it seemed like she did not mind being featured as the love interest in the Romance of the Thirteen Primes. Makes theater all the more interesting.”

“Hm, maybe you should let the word spread. More good literature to hit the market then.” His smile had turned a tad mischievous, if not cruel. “That their beloved Primes were as prone to desire and want and temptation like the rest of us.”

Orion Pax merely shook his helm at this. “Well, of course they’re like us. They deactivated like any good bot. And all the data logs I read detailed the rather ordinary exploits of our founding fathers. Megatronus and Prima in particular did not hide their relationship well and was often teased by their siblings. It was said that they died together on the same battlefield, desperate to find each other. That sounds very ordinary to me,” he said plainly; his optics have wandered now and registered that D-16’s clawed digits resting near his arm was very familiar.

Where has he seen those digits before?

D-16 tilted his helm ever so slightly. “You speak of them as though they are not Gods,” he pointed out with a most surprised yet pleased tone.

“They are not,” Orion Pax reaffirmed with a shake of his head. “There is only one and He who is called Primus. The Thirteen Primes were his children...as are we.”

“Dangerous things for an Iacon archivist to say.”

“And that’s why I do not talk a lot.”

“Shame.” A laugh filled the space between them. And then, slowly, D-16 digits, long and clawed and powerful, touched Orion Pax’s gently. His optics glowed a hauntingly dark red beneath his hood. “I wished you talked more. I like hearing your wisdom, your philosophy. Cybertron could do good with more bots like you.”

“Please. I am...I am no one. Forget I said anything, it’s all nonsense,” the archivist stuttered, hating how utterly loud his vent fans are upon the touch or the tight heat trailing alongside the small sensors beneath his plating. Cursed be that Jazz’s music box had to play more quieter tunes at this groon—where was all the booming from nights before? Deafen me!

“Is that what you think?”

“I—”

Suddenly, the automatic doors whirled open once again. An entire group of bot stepped inside, their chassis and helms painted with grime and ash from the mines. Standing at the center of this newly arrived party was a dark blue Cybertron—tall and stocky with a windowed cassette chassis, broad shoulder guards and powerful arms with his cabling exposed. His intact was covered with a silver mouth guard as were his optics behind by a dark visor, completely shielding any expression he could show.

Orion Pax then noticed the insignia on shoulder: Hall of Communications, just like B-127.

D-16 sighed with an edge of disappointment and stood up, retracting his servos away from the archivist's side.

“I apologize, but my friends arrive and our meeting is one I cannot miss,” he said, evidently remorseful.

Orion held a servos up. “No apologies needed, D-16. I must thank you for allowing me to ramble on so much. It was a worthwhile chat.”

“Indeed it was.” The mining bot’s red optics gleamed at him like solar flares dancing on suns, “If I may be blunt...I wish to see you again. Can you promise me such a thing?”

“I can...usually I am here on the chord ends but you can also visit my office at the Hall of Records.”

“You’d let me steal you away from your work? What would the Lord Prime say to see such two bots of different castes together, hm?”

“I…” Orion trailed off as he started to fidget his digits in his lap.

There was something aching inside of his processor—a reminder that the intense stare D-16 held, practically burning black holes into Orion’s sitting form, was not a new feeling. No, he felt this before. Where? Why was he failing to process his own memories correctly?

A chuckle, too warm and deep to ever be confused for more than fond teasing, and D-16 patted Orion’s shoulder guard before stepping away to join his group.

“I’ll see you around, my little archivist,” he murmured with dark promise and a crescent moon grin that followed Orion Pax back into his unit and into his berth for the night.

Ratchet’s medicine did little to distill new, unwanted feelings.

XXX

On slow cycles of solemn humor, the Iacon Hall of Records could feel like a prison to the young Orion Orion.

He was not sure what it was—the rotating data libraries that seemingly hovered into the empty vacuum of space, the ancient archives of the first Cybertronian eras where the bounded tomes of Alpha Trion’s scribes were so aged, it required the archivists to wear face guards over their intact to order to protect their filters from the ancient energon-mixed dust. Or perhaps, it was the fact that none of the other clerks liked to speak or even see each other, Orion Pax somewhat included.

He admitted to his own anxieties—besides the few friends that stopped by his office, anyone else received a rather awkward reception where the isolated bot would ramble on nonsensically, scaring off any opportunities of company.

By Primus, even his own colleagues seemingly could not stand him no less each other. And on cycles where Iacon was veiled with the blue-gray curtain of star-lit rains, Orion Pax felt even more trapped in the walls of his office and the millions of hovering data shelves stretching up from a very dark void. On these cycles, he was more prone to dream and, as such, the archivist ensured he did not nap.

Luckily, there came a most familiar knock at his door.

“Orion?”

B-127’s youthful voice box hummed into the dark space and Orion Pax stood up from his desk, resetting his optics of any fatigue that had been building in his circuits for the past few groons. The bright yellow bot slipped inside, bringing in a flush of color to dim shadow, and he grinned white at Orion with elation. On his arm was the newly engraved insignia of communications officer.

“Oh B, come have a seat. Can I get you some energon tea?”

“Ah, naw, I can’t stay long! Gotta head back to the Hall of Communications. I thought to swing by and ask you for a huge favor,” the young bot said, leaning against the open doorway with his arms loose at his side and heels kicking idly against the ground.

“Favor?” Orion wanted to laugh at the bot’s sudden show of nervousness. “What sort of favor could this scribe possibly fulfill for you? Need some help locating a certain disk? Histories? Perhaps a translation?”

“Uh…chaperon.”

“Chaperon?”

B-127’s smile turned sheepish and his optics wandered off to the side.

“I…uh, kinda been honored at work, Orion! It wasn’t much, I swear—all I was doing was intercepting coded messages between nearby Quintessons spaceships and alerted the Elite Guard of a potential secret agent working in Nova Cronum.” A pause; a small laugh. “Well...I guess they found him because the Lord Prime wishes to award me with the Prime Service of Honor for my actions,” he explained, each word falling upon the other in an awkward trip as though he could not believe what he was saying.

Orion Pax could not retain control of his own body as he ran over and swept up B-127 in his arms. The yellow bot gave a surprised cry as the archivist laughed out in pure joy—his spark throbbing with aching hot sparks dancing along his circuits and squeezed his young friend tight to his red chassis. Even his voice box bore a rare kind of energy he himself have not heard since his academy cycles with Jazz.

“Oh B-127, I am so proud of you! See? I told you that you would do well and well you did! By Primus, the Prime Medal of Service is only given to the most heroic of our kind. And at your age cycle, to be recognized in such a way...yes. Yes, I am so proud of you,” Orion said, near breathless, as he put B-127 back on the ground but held on to his round shoulder guards with a squeeze.

B-127’s face plate melted visibly before him, his smile soft and blue optics a bit watery—an irritation in his back circuits. The young bot then made a guttural sound in his voice box, close to a sob, and instead settled on a grumble. He then gently pushed Orion Pax away, rubbing his arm cables with a half laugh.

“Y-Yeah! I couldn’t believe it either! And that m-mean old Soundwave said I couldn’t amount to anything at my age cycle…but he was wrong! And that’s why I’m here actually—they said I could bring a guardian or a mentor to help put the medal on me so…”

Primus.” Orion Pax could feel a similar heat in the back of his optics and shook his head. “You are not asking...oh B…”

“I have no one else, Pax. My caretaker from the cycles I was constructed from the sparks have long deactivated, my academy teachers always disliked me, and my old schoolmates all hate me for being a ‘chatterbox’. By Primus’ divine afterburner, even my supervisors at the DCI—for all of their own chatter, hates it whenever I talk. I just have...you, sir. And honestly, I would not have it any other way,” B-127 finally confessed, sounding far younger and vulnerable that anything Orion Pax has heard from him yet.

For a moment, neither bots did not speak. They did not move. Orion Pax made a noise and reset his optics twice before stepping forward and caught B-127’s small helm in his servos. When the yellow bot did not move or resist his touch, Orion Pax pulled him into a gentle embrace with B-127’s forehead tucked against the archivist's shoulder plate.

“Of course, son. I would be honored to stand in at your award ceremony,” he said into the bot’s audio receptors. “Permitte divis caetera.”

B-127 laughed. “Who said that? Quoting Prima Prime again?”

Leave the rest to the Gods. That your sadness and past shapes you but does not command you. And you, my spark, have come very far since those early years so I am nothing but proud of you. Will your friends be attending?”

“They will be live streaming in their respective cities! I think Roddy wanted to come personally but he got into spot of bother in Nyon. But none of that matters—I want you there with me.”

Slowly, B-127 brought his own servos up to Orion’s arms and gave a squeeze. He tried to open his mouth to speak but all that came out were sparks, shrill little sounds of disbelief. Instead, the young bot smiled and allowed his optics to leak fluids all over Orion Pax’s shoulder. For once, in his life, B-127 was utterly speechless.

And, on these cycles like this, the Iacon Hall of Records left less suffocating. A distraction from work, no doubt, but it did delay Orion Pax’s growing feelings of discontent. Even if it was for just a cycle.

XXX

An oppressive chill fell upon Iacon. With it, followed a dagger-sharp frost that made it dangerous for most bots to be outside for long periods lest their joints and hydraulics malfunctioned.

It was rare for the Iacon Hall of Labor to make any sort of open announcements, more so with the Sentinel Prime’s rather austere leadership over the low caste working bots. However, on this rare cycle of cold, they had given nearly all bots a cycle of rest to stay inside and keep their bodies warm—save for the ones who were never outside, of course.

Orion Pax could hardly complain—he was not a miner or a transport guard or any sort of other working bot that would be exposed to the dangerous elements. He was a middle caste scribe with a secured office, a protective hall to work inside of the entire cycle, and very little exercise to do save for perhaps pushing carts full of data pads. Unlike the rest of the mid to high caste Cybertronians in warm government halls—who are probably complaining endlessly of their supposed cycle off being given to impoverished, overworked bots, Orion Pax quietly returned to his archives without another word.

On this cycle, of course, it was emptier than usual. Most of his colleagues had taken the cycle off on their own accord so the Hall’s usual churn of spinning data libraries from other wings had gone eerily silent save for Orion Pax’s footsteps, which echoed off the hovering pillars and gold vaulting. And truly, Orion could not hear a single soul around him—not even the squeak of transport carts or the flipping of tomes.

The bot sighed out loud: today was to be a rather lonely one as it seemed.

Orion Pax wandered the halls for a bit, more so to confirm if anyone at all stayed behind. When he was greeted by his own vents humming, the archivist finally decided to head towards the courtyard. It was not like any of his colleagues would have stopped him from being idle on a full cycle—everyone avoided the quiet mech anyway, but Orion figured that if he was to be alone, he might as well tried to enjoy himself.

The Ark-1 Memorial Park right next to the Hall, veiled blue and white with a thin curtain of frost, was empty. Orion’s body audibly groaned under the sharpened chill as he stepped outside but it was not enough to force him back inside. Of course, he could see why miners who had to operate down in those frightfully wide and exposed caves had to wait out the cold—working all cycle in these conditions could easily deactivate a weakened mech.

There was no sun to stare at so Orion Pax just watched the clouds over Cybertron passed through slowly—smoldering white-gray waves of frost and ice like the great lakes of Kaon in the winter cycle. The planet has not really changed since the death of Prime Thirteen. They died eons ago and yet the sky still moves without them; the grand empire they build in Primus’ image still quakes with life every morning. And the newborn Cybertronians, constructed from the sparks in hot spots, are indoctrinated in the unbreakable system the Thirteen built to keep the planet moving towards the future. Caste, insignia, role—a gear that always moves in line with the great machine.

Movement obstructed, freedom limited.

Gods. Masters.

The Architect, Primus.

These thoughts, dangerous to bear, are as obsessive as the dreams which haunted the archivist at night. The only difference was that Orion Pax pondered on these notions willingly. And deep down, he sincerely cursed himself for being an academic for knowledge was a heavy burden to bear alone.

“What are you thinking about?”

Oh.

Orion Pax instinctively reset his optics but it was a futile task—the gladiator champion, Megatronus, had indeed returned right beside him. He stood over the smaller bot, his striking figure even more imposing in the white darkness of the winter sky. And for a moment, Orion could a sworn that a ghost of a mischievous smile touched upon the warrior’s intact.

“Master Megatronus—I was not expecting you,” the archivist started kindly, still unable to shake his nervousness around the high caste mech.

“Well, you should have, little archivist. I did promise to stop by again,” Megatronus stated matter of fact. His optics, bleeding red like twin suns, riveted briefly from the bot and all around the courtyard. “Is it just you, Orion Pax?”

He remembered my name.

“I believe so. Most of the Hall took the solar cycle off due to the frost,” Orion explained simply.

“And you decided against it?”

“I would not know what to do with myself if I could not work.”

“The Lord Prime would be proud to hear such language.” Megatronus smirked and it almost appeared disdainful. Just for a moment, however, before he regarded the sitting bot with a much more warm expression. “Anyway, it matters not that the Hall is empty—I was seeking you anyway.”

Orion Pax ignored the slight warmth flooding his circuits and forced a controlled smile at the looming gladiator.

“Oh? Well, it would be an honor to assist you in any way, Master Megatronus.”

“In any way?”

“Y-Yes?”

The gladiator’s optics widened, practicing burning holes into Orion Pax’s plating as though the bot had offended him in some fashion. Perhaps he has—the archivist was prone to saying such silly things without notice of his own impact. Then, suddenly, Megatronus began to laugh. His booming voice echoing across the courtyard like a cry in the darkness. Orion merely watched, stifled if he did managed to insult Cybertron’s national hero and, potentially, their next Prime.

By Primus, he might actually die here.

“You are a very intriguing bot, Orion Pax,” Megatronus said with fond sincerity. “In truth, I require your planet-size processor to help me uncover some important texts if you could spare the time.”

The smaller bot smiled, more so out of relief—it seems like the champion had a sense of humor. “Spare the time? Of course, it is my occupation. Would you happen to have some titles for me to search for.”

“No.”

No?

“I…,” he started, tilting his helm ever so slightly, a small attempt to hide any expression of embarrassment, “am not sure. If I must be blunt with you, I know not of what specifically I seek, but I know of the potential contents.”

“Well, I still can still assist where I can, Master Megatronus. Come and follow me back into my office for a moment here.”

The archivist tried his best to suppress the hot sensations of his sensory circuits overloading as he beckoned for the towering gladiator to come along. It was not as though he hasn’t been in the presence of higher caste members before—usually advisors and councilors who would come into the Hall of Records seeking high clearance data points but those meetings were short and far in between (though a particular Iacon senator had made it a point to come around for just a long chat—this Orion tried to keep to himself). Of course, a famed gladiator from the Kaon Pits was a different beast than a sneering politician from the Senate.

For one, they seldom came around for their work naturally prevented them from interacting with pampered desk scribes; when, on the rare occasion, it did, those encounters fair poorly. It was no surprise that Cybertron’s gladiator class had a tendency to look down on any caste who had a more comfortable, relaxed lifestyle. ‘Polished scrap,’ was often the term Orion Pax heard from his coworkers. Perhaps, to the Master Megatronus, he too came off as someone’s house pet—by Primus, the archivist's bulky plating had never once seen combat.

They entered the gentle darkness of Orion Pax’s office in the far back of the data libraries. The shame that burned in the archivist's face plate was almost palpable as Megatronus had to lean his entire torso down under the automatic doorway just to step inside awkwardly. His reddened optics were carefully scanning the space, rolling over every corner of the office where used data pads, open tomes, and pinned texts peppered the space in a rather organized madness on Orion’s workstation and walls. The archivist, on the other hand, stood off to the side and waited in silence.

Megatronus made a pleased sound. “They were not wrong: you are very dedicated to your role,” he said in an effort to compliment.

Please. I am simply disorganized.”

“Some disorder is good. Healthy even.”

Orion Pax shook his helm, mostly to physically reset his processor to think properly. “W-What was it that you needed to seek, Master Megatronus? I may be able to search it for you based on keywords,” he said, gesturing to his workstation where a giant computer device sat, hooked up to the ceiling in a collection of thick glowing cables.

“This may sound like a strange request but I need to know more about the original amendments made by the Thirteen Primes on labor rights with the lower castes.”

“Oh?”

The gladiator's optics notably harden but his smile remained perfectly still. Controlled. “Yes. If such a thing exists. I am quite aware of our current Hall of Labor has their own amendment but based on my own information, that amendment has existed as long as the Lord Sentinel Prime has been in power. After that, there seemingly is no record of actual labor rights for the lower caste.”

Orion Pax nodded slowly. “Yes, you’re not wrong there. Our current amendment is rather young in age...but well, they never did say if the Thirteen Primes were able to establish such rights during their short reign,” he explained, moving over to his master terminal. He pressed a button at the base and watched as the giant screen hummed awake with a near-blinding neon blue.

“You mean the Academy,” Megatronus said with his optical ridge at an angle.

“Everyone, really. The Academy, the Senate, the Hall of Labor—never heard anyone mention if the Thirteen were involved with that labor rights process before the war...but I may have an idea of where to look.”

“Hah! And this is why I wanted to see you above all others,” he said with an audible smile in his voice.

Orion hummed idly. “You give me too much credit, Master Megatronus—I haven’t even found anything yet,” he said, already logged in and undergoing a tagged search in the data archives with a quick dance of his digits.

Solus Prime.

A notable warmth touched his back plating and Orion knew that the champion gladiator was leaning close behind him with his clawed servos resting on his table by the clerk’s elbow. Megatronus’ voice box, now a low timber, vibrated pleasantly into the Orion’s audio receptors with a half laugh.

“While you search, may I inquire more about you?” he asked quietly.

Orion’s face plate heated but he kept his optics straight ahead at his screen. “What is there to know? I am a mid-caste mech with a desk data job. I was reconstructed from the hot spots in Iacon and I have never been to any other city,” the bot explained straightly.

“Please. You cannot believe that is all to you save for what the Lord Prime has designated. What are your hobbies? Interests?”

“Uh. Hobbies, right…I like reading about history.”

A warm scoff kissed the back of Orion’s neck. “That is a part of your job, no?”

“It is a natural aspect, yes, but I do enjoy reading outside of work.”

“As you say.” Megatronus paused; a faint clicking sound began to sound into the space and Orion slowly realized that the gladiator was rapping his digits on the table idly. “What do you tend to do after work?”

“Go to my unit and shut down for the night.”

“Orion Pax.”

“Okay, okay.” Orion’s digits slowed down a bit and he raised his helm in deep thought, as though the inquiry had required a great deal of effort from him. He then sighed and reset his optics again. “I...I like to take some of my history disks over to the Maccadam’s Old Oil House and read there.”

“The miner bar in downtown Iacon? Curious.”

Megatronus’ tone was, surprisingly, not mockery. But instead, a keen playful intrigue that bordered on elation.

“My Amica Endura currently plays there. I feel...comfortable there among the lower caste mechs.”

“Well, this does not seem like new information for me.” Megatronus’ digits crept closer to Orion’s arm when the towering mech moved to catch the archivist's work over his shoulder guards. Another bemused laugh kissed the back of Orion’s neck, dangerously close. “You have a most approachable nature.”

Why was the champion gladiator so close? Were his optics failing their sight function at that distance? Orion tried not to distract himself with such indulging thoughts of other intentions—silly, delusional little data clerk.

“Please, Master Megatronus. Flattery does you no justice,” he said quietly.

“It is not flattery if it is true.” A pause. “You said you like history so much. Tell me your favorite story.”

There were many stories. Orion Pax grew up with his helm stuck in a data pad and servos running over the spines of Alpha Trion’s tomes. Of course, this did little to help him find friendship save for Jazz who decided in the moment that the extremely quiet history student was to be his brother-in-arms, but the mythologies of the Old World were his only consistent company. Orion Pax gave a long sigh through his vents—his terminal was positively struggling to find labor sources in the library predating the Lord Sentinel Prime’s regime, but the next search was slowly loading in as they stood and watched.

Megatronus’ servos was resting idle right next to his arm and the cold sharpness of his claw digits made Orion Pax dizzy. He straightened up, nearly bumping against the gladiator, and nodded.

“There...is one. A story I discovered myself in the libraries of the Academy,” he started carefully.

Megatronus hummed pleasantly. “Do tell, my little archivist.”

“The Holy Relics of the Thirteen Primes. In the first cycles of eons where white stars across the void exploded and created suns—where racing asteroids ripped through the facades of young planets and gave birth to moons, Primus’ firstborn were gifted relics made from the dust of cosmos themselves. Vigils to help guide our civilization to utopia. Maybe you remember this tale yourself in a distant youth—when the Thirteen fell, their relics disappeared out of sight as well. As though Primus himself called for their return until the cycle those worthy could wield them again.”

“We did not lose all the relics, Orion Pax.”

“No, we did not.” Orion’s processors flashed marble imagery of the Walhalla, the grand hall honoring the Thirteen. Many a field trip brought the young bot there to peer upon the majesty of his parents, their visage lost to time save for the remnants they had left behind.

“There are some that still remain in our control though untouched and noticeably, unwieldable. Megatronus Prime’s Requiem Blaster stays in Walhalla—it was said that one shot from his divine weapon could summon a black hole to reverse intelligence and life instantaneous on the spot. Its victims forever unspoken. I have never heard of any survivor escaping its power….could be the strongest weapon of the Primes,” he slowed down considerably and, without realizing it, began to rest the back of his head against Megatronus’ chest plate. “And of course, we have Solus Prime’s Forge, a holy warhammer larger than even the largest of our kin. Legends have it that the Forge could cause tremors so powerful, it could down cities the size of Kaon with just a single slam. And then, there is the Matrix of Leadership.”

No one spoke; it was a forbidden topic among Cybertronians, even with the state archivists. The Matrix of Leadership was a privilege and honor spoken only by the chosen prime and that would be the Lord Sentinel Prime. Primus’ direct artifact for inheritance.

“Speak to me, little archivist,” Megatronus murmured into his audio receptors, moving his servos over Orion Pax’s. He did not move, did not push the archivist away from his body, and instead, welcomed the contact by resting his chin right on top of Orion’s helm. “Tell me your story.”

“The Saber Star.”

“Of Prima Prime, yes.”

Orion smiled solemnly. “Alongside the Matrix of Leadership, Prima wielded a sword made from the dead stars themselves. He was chosen among the Thirteen to be the forefather of Cybertron and the birth of civilization. When he did, his Saber disappeared from his servos...until, eons later, it showed up unexpectedly to Iacon’s doorway.”

“Yes, it sits now in the Walhalla.” A pause. “Is there something you found special about the Saber Star?”

“The Matrix of Leadership chooses its master—chooses the next Prime as designated by Primus himself. But not everyone knows is that the Saber Star also wields the same consciousness as the Matrix.”

Something shifted considerably in Megatronus’ figure; he seemingly went stiff and went utterly cold that Orion had begun to worry if he had said something wrong again. Then, the gladiator spoke and his voice was so utterly small—like a hiss even.

“So...the Saber Star can reject someone who is not a prime.”

“Exactly. Hence why only Prima could wield it and any Prime candidates chosen by the Matrix.”

“...And we have yet to see the Lord Sentinel Prime use it at all—”

A electronic beep. A reddened flash on the screen in alarm. A warning on the terminal screen: High Clearance Required. Supervisor Override?

Megatronus stepped back, depriving his warmth from the smaller bot’s backside. His optics made clicking sounds in the quickened attempts to refocus his sights.

“What does that mean, Orion Pax?” He asked, slightly bristled.

The archivist sighed and cracked his digits. “It means that an archival disk has been located regarding your inquiry but it is locked behind section that only archivist supervisors can access. That section holds information sensitive to the public such as information on the Matrix of Leadership, potential updates on the relics, and other information that could only be seen by the highest governance of order,” he explained with a slight hint of exasperation.

The champion’s optical ridges furrowed, optics bright and intense in the shadows of the office. “So,” he started slowly, resentful, “only those from the Senate.”

“I am sorry, Master Megatronus. Perhaps you can make a formal request with the Senate for access rights. Even then, you would have to contend with the supervisors.”

“And there is no way inside?”

“Well…” Orion Pax never told anyone before, not even B-127 or Jazz, but in the past few orbital cycles, he had been able to access the high clearance archives with a stolen code from his supervisor. Of course, no one ever noticed the quiet data clerk going in and out of the virtual library for, to them, he was merely a shadow in the corner. Furthermore, his own wing here in the Hall was devoid of any data clerks or archival assistants from the Academy for they all prompted to work elsewhere.

Thus, the child was left with a powerful tool and absolutely no supervision found anywhere—he could access and read all the protected data discs to his liking and no one would ever notice his footprints.

“I...could get inside for you,” Orion Pax confessed reluctantly, looking over his shoulder and caught Megatronus’ burning gaze. The gladiator's twisted expression of exasperation slowly turned towards mild surprise and, perhaps, admiration and he cocked his helm to the left with the embers of his optics whirling to a calm dullness.

“You? Do you have supervision access?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a supervisor?”

When Orion Pax did not respond, a wide, near feral smile slit across Megatronus’ gray face plate—his dentas sharp at the corners, and he let out a breathless laugh.

“You...are really intriguing, Orion Pax.”

“Mihi nempe valere et vivere doctus.”

“As you should live for yourself, my dear archivist.”

Orion reset his optics, more so to distract himself from his spark sang out. “Y-You...understand old cybertronian?” He asked with static rumbling from voice box.

“Did you believe pit fighters are not literate? Besides, I am touched intimately by ancient humanities.” Megatronus watched him carefully before smiling. “Vixi, et quem dederat cursum fortuna peregi.”

“Please spare me,” the archivist muttered, red-faced, as he quickly entered in his supervisor's code into the command prompt. His spark was pulsing wildly, dark confusion over his first public act of defiance in front of Cybertron’s most powerful and famed warrior—and—the rush itself. This surge of energon deep within his core and circuits and neurons that made Orion Pax eerily giddy.

“It’s strange: I done this a thousand times but if I am caught once, I could lose my occupation and get demoted. Or even scrapped.”

“As if I would ever let those loyalists put their servos on you, my little archivist,” Megatronus growled, becoming more enticed by the moment.

Loyalists?

The terminal made a violent sort of humming, overclocking to physically put an access point inside the high clearance section. A stream of colors—blue, purple, and pink—whirled across the screen and dazzled the pair’s optics as they watched in disquieted awe. Finally, the humming stopped; there was a small chime and a virtual tome materialized before them.

The Treaties of Fair Labor in a Republic Statecraft; Solus Prime, State Artificer of Cybertron’

“She...wrote a book about this,” Megatronus uttered softly, his vents whirling audibly inside of his plating. “I never knew...they never said—”

“The greatest power is that of knowledge. Ignorance is a wonderful leash to control the masses,” Orion Pax stated coolly and inserted a disk into the terminal’s burn drive. He turned to the gladiator and nodded grimly. “I will give you her book on a disposable data disk. That way, they cannot trace who has a copy of her work.”

“So this is your hobby, Orion Pax.” He grinned white, dentas sharp and hungry. “You are a cultural rebel. An anthropological anarchist.”

Orion Pax’s face plate burned yet again and he quickly ejected the disk when the terminal made an agreeable sound. “By Primus, please do not tease me, Master Megatronus. Just take this disk and leave before someone discovers us,” he urged with a stutter.

“Aye.”

But instead of accepting the disk in the archivist’s outstretched servos, he grabbed Orion’s wrist and tugged the smaller bot to him. Orion Pax could not help himself but yelp out as his helm collided with Megatronus’ chest plate—why was he so tall—and practically saw constellations until he felt a clawed servos frame his chin and force his helm up. His stunned optics reset twice; his vision burned at the scorching visage of twin suns that stared at him back from above with a dark, tight heat.

Stillness now; and the unbearable quiet save for the lullaby of vents humming quickly between them.

“I desire—demand another favor from you,” Megatronus said in a voice box as hardened and edged like the end of a energon axe overheating.

“Okay,” was all Orion Pax could say.

“Be my spark mate.” A pause. “My Conjunx Endura.”

Someone laughed out loud; who?

“No, Master Megatronus.”

“Why? Do I frighten you?”

“...Y-Yes? But that’s not the reason.”

“Did someone already ask you? I will challenge them to deactivation, Orion Pax.”

“I mean, yes? But I also voiced my rejection to him so I really don’t think a fight is necessary—”

“Are you disgusted by the violence and destruction of my occupation? That should all change in the coming year.”

What does that mean?

Orion Pax’s blush practically burned hot in Megatronus’ possessive grip and he knew that the gladiator could feel this for his smile became a sharp crescent moon across his fiercely determined face. Joined sparks pulsing wildly with abandon.

“N-No, it’s not like that! Master Megatronus, take no offense, but we barely know each other. This is our second meeting.”

“One hundredth and two.”

“Excuse me?”

Megatronus’ crimson optics narrowed, the inner lens tightening to center all focus on the smaller bots against his hardened chest. A powerful arm wrapped around Orion Pax’s slender waist, locking the trembling mech in place—no escape! And the archivist’s entire frame practically burned against him.

“I have been coming here since departing from the Kaon Pits a year ago,” Megatronus started like a spell. “Immediate research has driven me to require the full aid of the Hall. And every time I come here to the Ark-1 Memorial Park, I see you—sitting there on that broken bench with your helm lifted up to the sky. Always alone, always talking to yourself. At first, it mattered not to me of your presence. But over time, I could not help but notice you. The way the sun illuminated the gleaming blood red of your chest plating; how your optics glowed this wondrous silver blue upon the passing of a pleasant thought. Your legs—beautifully long and white and idle, as you gently dig your heels into the grass; your waist, it’s so...small as though it were designed to be wrapped around by someone’s protective arms—I am simply and utterly devoured of all thought of you. And when I heard that they considered you to be Iacon’s most effective scribe…well, I could not stop myself from giving you peace any longer.”

“Master Mega—”

Just Megatronus. Please little archivist. I abandon all sense of ego and self-preservation if you would enter a Conjunx Ritus with me,” the gladiator concluded, near breathless with even his ventilation failing to keep up with his internal temperatures that was probably scorching his circuits and cables by the nanoklik.

Orion Pax’s own vent fans were no different in their sudden burst of velocity and he started to steam up incredibly hard in Megatronus’ grip. Was this, too, a dream? Was Ratchet’s medicine even working on bit? Was he defective—by Primus, he probably a defect.

“Orion Pax.”

“Megatronus. I have...no words, sincerely. I would not think such a high caste powerful warrior like you would ever find favor in a lowly mech like myself.” the archivist in a near whisper.

“Hah! High caste…”

“I’m not worth it, sir. You could have anyone. Someone worth something.”

“You are worth something.”

“...No. No, such a partnership would not be beneficial for us. For you. You are set to become the next Prime after the Lord Sentinel Prime. Your Conjunx Endura should be a mech befitting of Cybertron’s next divine protector. Not a...desk clerk.”

“If I am to be Prime, then I am allowed the privilege of choice. And I choose you.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Megatronus, please, just take the disk and stop teasing me.”

The gladiator did not obey. Instead he tightened his grip around Orion Pax, a dark anger visibly tightening his arm cables as his optics narrowed to thin, red slits. He drew his face plate close to Orion’s, enough where the smaller bot could see hot steam leaving Megatronus’ lips—probably from his vent fans and spark overworking themselves.

“My little archivist, at least humor me in Conjunx Ritus. See my devotion yourself. And if you wish to depart from my side afterwards...then I will respect your choice. But I plead with you to give me the chance, at least,” the champion uttered in finality.

Orion did not give himself enough time to second guess himself any longer, not when things were becoming this heated so quickly. Instead, the archivist gently pushed the gladiator away but not so much where it appeared to be an outright refusal; he kept his servos latched onto Megatronus’ arms—where the thick wounded cabling of his forearms pulsed with strength and smiled politely at the bot.

“Listen...why don’t I have some time to think about it? It’s not that I don’t find you favorable Mast—Megatronus, and in fact, it still haunts me wildly to see you stand before me. But I am not adept for any notions of romance or talks of ‘spark mates’ and, to me, this is the second time we met.” He sighed out, watching the gladiator's expression falter slightly. “May I think on this?”

Silence once again. But it was neither oppressive or solemn like before. And Megatronus gave a smell, near gentle smile that could have been mistaken as an indicator of a more pacified nature underneath all that silver jagged armor as poetry itself bounded by steel.

“Very well. I will give you the space to ponder my words. But know this: I shan't forget this conversation.” When he grinned again, that sweet nature dissolved all too quickly to reveal that common visage of a warrior—the same facade Orion Pax often seen on all the holographic ads around Iacon: hunger.

Then he let go, a slow reluctance, and took the disk out of the archivist's frozen grip with a hum.

“In the meanwhile, I shall enjoy some afternoon reading. Though it will not be this book plaguing my thoughts tonight.”

Something short circuited in Orion Pax’s processors.

XXX

Hey.

You.

Yes you.

The others might be more patient with you

But I am not

You cloister yourself

Within the safe confines

Of your walls

And libraries

But do you not

Once seek

Realms beyond this

Or dream

Of possibilities beyond your birth

We seen you sleep

Imagining other existences

Beyond the energon-kissed

Acrylic windowpanes

And floating skyscrapers

And you of all

Should know

It is the right

Of all intelligent beings

Under the Architect

To seek the sun and sky

For the air outside

Is far sweeter

Than it is

Inside a gilded cage

XXX

Orion Pax only met the Lord Sentinel Prime once.

He was present during the archivist's graduation ceremony, though only for a short while for the speech and congratulations. The Prime’s speech, while richly conceited and naturally flowery, only lasted around five minutes and instilled a certain motivation in his class year. While Orion himself was not so convinced, he said nothing to lessen everyone’s else excitement to jump right into their designated roles. Still, he never did forget Sentinel Prime’s golden visage burning into his optics.

A distinctively handsome veteran of the last Quintesson war and his rich blue plating spoke truth of this. Marred and scratched up in the ways that not even buffing and sanding could get out, he shone up in a noble bearing that exuded nothing but pride for the yesteryear and a well-earned ego presently for his position as the chosen Prime. From Orion Pax’s work in the archives, he found out that Sentinel Prime had been a gladiator during his youth—high caste and worshiped Megatronus Prime as his patron saint like others of his occupation.

Their meeting was years ago though. Orion Pax heavily doubted that Sentinel Prime even remembered him. They shook servos on stage but that was only five nanokliks before the next academy graduate stepped up to be honored. No, the Sentinel Prime would not remember him; he would not even remember B-127 either, and this was to be his award ceremony for exceptional service.

Orion Pax was slowly acknowledging the lengths of his own pessimism. Or perhaps, atheism. He was not so sure anymore.

But today was not about him.

“By Primus. How do you I look, Sir? I must look like an idiot. Frag, I should have gotten that paint job. Look, there’s a smudge right here—see? Can you see it? Oh by the Thirteen, it’s big enough where everyone can see it. Sir? Pax? Pax?!”

“B-127, you look fine.”

“By Primus, if Roddy or Arcee were here, they actually would make me look good.”

On the surface, the young communications officer seemed to be the self-possessed type but Orion Pax knew more than anyone else of the fragile spirit that laid underneath. The older bot watched as his friend paced back and forth, his voice box emitting a most high pitch signal with every jolt of his heel—wide optics quickly shifting back and forth to the shut door of their waiting bay to Orion’s face plate.

It was an oddity to see B-127 so nervous; he was the kind to jump into the dark, despairing chapter of some bot’s life—a lifeline out of a cesspool with just that funny little grin alone. But even Orion knew that his frame was easy to dent with his processors prone to overloading with too much unnecessary information that might cause a malfunction.

Such a gentle bot.

“I’m glad you’re here, Pax,” B-127 stuttered as he sat down next to his guardian, his legs still jittering violently. “I think I might faint without you.”

“Oh B, come now—all will be well. You get to meet the Lord Sentinel Prime, be featured in the Iaconian Gazette, and get a paid upgrade. Yes, the ceremony will be daunting but it will pass. I promise.”

“I can’t believe I get to meet Sentinel Prime himself. And I was told that some members of the Senate will be in attendance. That’s too many high caste mechs in one space for me to be n-normal!”

Orion Pax sighed before swinging his arm around B-127’s shoulders and tucked the smaller bot close, allowing the poor thing to rest his helm fully. They sat there, listening to low hum of the waiting bay. Beyond, there were voices. A muffled miasma of whispers and orders—all frantic and rushing to keep to order. Someone important must already be out there. Orion wondered who.

“You know, Jazz has a celebration party at Old Mac’s after this,” Orion said softly to B-127’s audio receptors. “We can drink ourselves to oblivion.”

“You? Drink yourself to oblivion?” B-127 scoffed playfully. “I like to see that.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Pax, you’re always the designated driver. By Primus, everyone on the road was utterly confused on why a red semi truck was carrying a pile of unconscious bots down the I-27 highway at 67 miles an groon.”

“It was 62 miles an groon, mind you—I’m careful that way—and for you, I can get...a little loose.”

B-127 chuckled breathlessly and rolled his helm against Orion’s shoulder. “By Primus, I would pay everything to see that again. Last time you went wild, you tried to kiss one of the guards that came to break up the party. What was his name? Dio—”
“Please, stop! I will utterly deactivate out of embarrassment,” Orion hissed out, shaking his helm frantically.

He long buried that particular memory, the archivist dancing and singing to the overtly loud song on Jazz’s music box while everyone else cheered him on. When the cops came to quell the noise, Orion immediately saddled up against the bulking chest plate of Iacon’s most notoriously strictest law enforcers—a towering blue-white mech named Dion who merely brushed off Orion’s invading intact with a slight heat touched on his cheeks, and gently escorted the singing bot to his unit. After that, Orion Pax promised himself to never drink over the limit again.

“Well, once we get through this ceremony, I get to see you sing again tonight. And honestly, that is what is going to get me through tonight.”

“Oh, eat your spark out.”

“Maybe I will.”

The automatic doors swung open and both bots jolted up in a sudden fright. A giant of a silver mech stepped inside—a seeker frame, a privilege only belonging to the Lord Prime’s Elite Guard. He said nothing and merely stepped to the side, allowing a much small, gangly bot to come in. He had a data pad open at his arm and quickly looked up at the pair, optics hiding behind a pair of refocusing spectacles, which made him look rather juvenile.

Still, it did very little to veil the conscious air of suffocating contempt he was plainly wielding. The bot made a mechanical grinding sound in his voice box and breathed hard through his intact.

“B-127.”

The bright yellow bot hesitantly stood up, his digits clacking against each other.

“Y-Yes?”

“You are wanted for the ceremony. However, I must discuss some essential rules before Lord Sentinel Prime honors you. Firstly, you will only approach His Lordship when he gives the signal to do so. Any attempt to move without his permission may result in immediate neutralization by the Elite Guard. Secondly, you will take his servo when he offers it. Not before and not too late—we cannot have you making this affair awkward for His Lordship, especially since this ceremony is being live broadcast to all major networks. And thirdly, you will not speak. You are only required to show up, follow commands, and smile for the cameras. Now, is this your chosen guardian?”

Orion Pax stood up, unable to contain his own vexation.

“Yes, that is I,” he said coolly.

The bespectacled bot hummed curtly. “You will be the one to put the medal of service around B-127’s neck. Before doing so, you must also show your respects to Lord Prime. Thus, as per the etiquette, you must bend the knee and hold out both servos to take the medal from him. No optical-contact; neither of you are of a higher caste to directly look at His Lordship directly. Do I make myself clear?” He said rapidly typing some notes on his data pad before eyeing the pair in equal coldness.

“A question.”

“You have thirty nanokliks before you both are set to come on stage.”

“What do we do after he receives his medal?”

“B-127 will have his picture taken with the Lord Prime—a privilege seldom granted upon those of your particular standing. Then the Elite Guard will escort you both off stage as His Lordship finishes his speech to Iacon. He will not be meeting you afterwards. His time is sacred—oh, time to go!

With a near-mechanical precision, the guard accompanying Sentinel Prime’s assistant stepped forward and around the pair as though to gently guide them out the door. His smaller companion shut off his data pad and made a short gesture to follow him into the darkness of the back stage. With little choice or mobility of freedom, Orion Pax put a comforting servos on B-127 trembling shoulder guard, gave his young mech a smile, and said:

“Well, shall we? I’ll be right beside you.”

And B-127 gave a shaky smile.

“Thanks Pax.”

The Senate was built in the early years of Cybertron’s birth—a circular white-gold tower that loomed over all of Iacon where thirteen looming seats of pure cosmic sun surrounded the visage of Primus’ divine universe in the center: the Afterspark, the promised realm where all would be one some cycle. In the ancient years, the thirteen seats were all filled with the Prime Thirteen; one Prime seat is now occupied with any senators and councilors taking their place in the lower banisters.

Orion Pax had only see this divine place once during his academy cycles on a field trip; he never expected to make a return again. At least, it was under incredibly pleasant circumstances.

They followed the fidgeting assistant through the darkness of the backroom until a pale, white rectangular light seeping through an open doorway greeted their vision. There was a booming sound—someone was speaking over the echoing intercom to a screaming crowd of spectators. A flash of cameras and Orion caught the familiar white noise of live broadcast equipment humming from the room, probably projecting a holograph for Iacon to watch.

The Elite Guard behind the pair shoved them forward, right on the edge of where the shadows meet the light of the stage.

Don’t mess up.

“Alright, alright my fine Cybertronians! I see our spirits are high for the groon so allow me to introduce one more member we are honoring for their service and dedication to our great Republic! This young, hardworking Cybertronian just joined the Department of Interplanetary Intelligence right out of the Academy and demonstrated shown exemplar skill by catching an undercover Quintesson agent within the first few orbital cycles of his service.”

Upon this came the joined choruses of cries alongside the quickened ring of laser guns being fired up to the open-air ceiling, sending a fury of neon lights across the room. B-127 shot Orion Pax a most crippling look and the archivist opened his intact to say something but Sentinel Prime’s assistant had suddenly cleared his voice box behind them.

“You’re almost up,” he warned with a hiss.

“This is why I live to serve, good bots! To see such young, admirable citizens take a step further to defend our beloved empire. Therefore, I would like to welcome our final awardee to the stage to be honored here in Iacon! Come up, my most honored friend: B-127!”

A slight delay; a squeak in the neck hydraulics but it did not take long before B-127 stiffened up physically with his optics wide, and he stepped out into the light. Orion Pax stayed pinned to the doorway, watching his young bot’s back plating as he walked across the Senate auditorium. On the other side, he could see them: some members of the Senate themselves standing in perfect, precise order save for Senator Shockwave, who was oddly absent. Tall, thin, with their plating fiercely shining in that way that could only belong to bots of the highest caste order: natural kin of politicians and leaders whose greatest weapons were their voice boxes than their build-in artillery.

And standing in the middle was—

“Look upon this fine bot! So young and admirable!” declared the Lord Sentinel Prime himself with his arm raised up over B-127.

He had not changed since Orion Pax’s academy years: wickedly handsome with his royal blue armor nicked with the scratches of an old war; large golden wings flared out on both sides of his sharp frame, resembling that of the statues of Primus himself. But His Lordship’s glowing blue optics never once met with B-127’s petrified gaze and stayed stuck on the holographic crowds before him from the Iacon square as he flashed a white smile.

“See, it warms my spark, my dear citizens, when members of our grand family continually outperform themselves. Does it not encourage us to do better? That each and every one of us are capable of great things...if the effort is made.”

A servant-class bot, their entire face plate covered with a white mask, slipped out from the shadows close to Sentinel Prime and held up a black box with their helm pointed down. The Lord gave a powerful laugh, a playful wink to the crowd—who thundered upon such a casual act from their ruler—and picked up the gold medal from the outstretched box. It dangled under the mixture of sun and florescent lighting: the imagery of Primus himself on the facade, the golden winged Creator of the Cosmos.

“Now, may I have B-127’s guardian step up to assist in putting his award over his neck, hm?”

Orion Pax’s cue. He was shockingly bad with such crowds (probably why he was better put in a dark library somewhere) and even worse with public speaking hence why he was glad to not utter a single word tonight. The archivist gave a sharp hiss through his dentas, calmed his violently pulsing spark, and slowly stepped into the auditorium.

The white lighting was extremely harsh and the sudden flash in his optics made Orion Pax incredibly dizzy; he steadied his feet carefully on the floor and hoped to all Primus and the Thirteen that he did not look like an absolute fool for B-127’s ceremony. There were too many noises—all the cheering from the crowds watching his live holographic, and the bot tried to keep his eyes down to his pedes the entire time to avoid Lord Sentinel Prime’s striking gaze.

When Orion finally reached B-127’s side, he performed as earlier instructed: the archivist fell gracefully down on one knee to the looming figure of His Lordship and held up his cupped servos to accept the medal.

For a second, nothing happened.

Above him came a small sound from Cybertron’s ruler, one that almost sounded like—surprise?

“A-Ah...thank you for coming to represent B-127 today,” Sentinel Prime said in a quick recovery followed by a controlled laugh. Orion Pax could practically feel the scorching heat of the ruling bot’s gaze upon his helm so he did not move, did not speak, as His Lordship lowered the medal in his outstretched servos. “Go forward now and honor your fellow bot.”

The archivist stood up while avoiding Sentinel Prime’s face plate (that which was now directly aimed at him than the crowd he had been entertaining just a few moments ago) and he looked to meet with B-127’s gawking stare.

Oh sweet father Fear; like prey caught in a hunter’s trap—this is what Orion Pax saw in B-127’s glassy, wide optics. The faint stillness of those inner lens as though time stopped itself, and for just that minute, Orion realized that B-127 was not seeing him at all.

He was not here.

“Hey B,” he whispered and leaned in close with the medal in his digits. Just the whisper alone made the young bot reset his optics to give away to the renewed sight of the archivist looming over him, blocking the holographic crowd from view. They stared at each other and Orion Pax smiled at him. “I am very proud of you.”

B-127 choked quietly. “I love you, Pax.”

“Love you too. Lower your helm, son.”

B-127 obeyed and, as he did, bits of lens fluids fell from his optics and struck Orion’s arm when he lifted the medal’s necklace. He said nothing to this, but gave the young bot a fond smile when his watery, ebbing gaze flickered up momentarily. The medal slid on and rested just at the upper sectioning of his chest plate—Primus’ winged visage shining under the white light of the Senate.

“Why don’t we give our young mech a hand, huh?” Sentinel Prime announced with a theatrical rise of his arms up towards the petrified B-127 who visibly stiffened up upon the sight of the holographic crowds in the Iacon square.

Orion placed a servo on his friend’s shoulder and gave a tight squeeze; their optics locked onto each other and a warm spark hummed happily between the contact. And B-127 finally smiled, resembling the fresh newborn who stumbled upon the archivist all those years ago in the dark back rooms of the Hall of Records. Blue optics gleaming in the thin shadows—a trembling voice box emitting a high pitched static when Orion Pax approached him from his workstation.

How did you get in here, little one?’

‘I’m s-sorry!’

‘Sorry? For what?’

‘I s-shouldn’t be here. But my class...they left me behind. They don’t want me…’

‘...Your class abandoned you?’

‘So sorry, Sir. I’ll just leave you to your work—’

‘Ah, I do not mind the company.’ A thoughtful pause. ‘Why don’t you wait here in my office in the meantime, hm?’

‘...Are you sure?’

‘Why not? I could use the company and the silence is killing my processor. Besides, your class should be by this wing soon and you can easily slip in without catching trouble, hm?’

‘I don’t know...I’ve been prone to...chat everyone’s audio receptors to overuse…’

A laugh, warmer than the idles of spring.

‘Well, my audio receptors barely gets any use these cycles, son. I mind not the talk one bit.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Oh! Thank you so much, Sir, um…’

‘Orion Pax. I am one of the Hall’s scribes.’

And a smile back, brighter than the summer sun.

‘B-127.’

‘Ah. Well once you graduate, we ought to find you a proper call sign. One more befitting of a bright young mech like yourself.’

‘You have any ideas, Orion Pax?’

‘Ask me again after you graduate.’

XXX

“Hey, remember our promise all those years ago, Pax?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Have you thought about a call sign for me now...you know, since I won a state award and everything…”

“Smug little thing.”

“Hey, I’m allowed to brag.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. To be honest, I had one from the start ever since meeting you.”

“Yeah? What? Is it cool? Bad ass? Edgy—”

“You remind me of an energon-bumblebee.”

“Oh.” A pause. “An energon-bumblebee?”

“Yes, because you’re so yellow and round and…”

“I talk a lot.”

“The buzzing sound has always been so pleasant to me.”

“Bumblebee…yeah, you know. I see the vision. Bumblebee.”

XXX

Orion Pax recharged, for the first time in years, without dreams.

XXX

Once, we mistook an eternity for a night

Time breaking into a yesteryear

Unreachable, wounded by distant memory

And it breaks again

A gunshot echoing from across the cosmos

Hark, comes the hero

His flag flashing overhead

The dark ocean of sacrifice

And time breaks again

The eternity finally ends

And turns towards the night

With the masters dead

And the Gods gone.

A poem Orion Pax had read many times before, uttering into the empty space as he sat at his usual park bench at the Ark-1 Memorial and watched the black ocean of mirth-lined constellations ebb overhead in a Cybertronian night. The astronomers were probably out tonight, at their gold-crested towers in Nova Cronum with their oculus telescopes—how Orion wished he could join them; the constellations above have always remained a wonder for the bot, the living suns and stars of a universe Primus had created and left behind.

Perhaps, in another life, he was an astronomer. To sit in those looming towers of gold and operate the oculus all cycle, lithographing the new moons and planets and neighboring universes on Primus’ grand map. It would have been a peaceful, serene life, he supposed. Watching from their the other life beyond their empire planet. What did they do? What do they eat? Were they big? Small? Did they also have floating cities ebbing with energon? Were they also made out of Primus’ metallic plating? Did they operate on a republic statecraft or did they sing to the lullaby of war?

Ah, so many thoughts and no answers for it was not in Orion Pax’s position to ask such things. And somehow, this truth made him unbearably sad as though he lost something important to him.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

The sudden comment made the poor archivist turn around with his engines whirling with a burst of exhaust; in the darkness, a figure stepped out into the white moonlight. Red optics of killing strength wondrously kind—a rarity only afforded within this very moment, for the lonely archivist. When he smiled that half-crescent grin, Orion Pax’s spark hot beneath his plating.

“Master Megatronus,” he said quietly.

“Ah. Just Megatronus,” corrected the champion as he approached Orion’s bench. Shadows softly framed Megatronus’ gray face plate, highlight the sharpness of his chin and nose in a way that nearly convinced of Orion of his own weakness. He stopped right at the corner and peered down at the empty space next to the archivist without a word.

Orion Pax smiled shyly back and shifted over; Megatronus took his place beside him, close enough where their digits nearly touched on the bench and their shoulders teasing the tight space between them. The archivist was far too nervous to address the Kaon warrior—why was he here so late at night—and brought his gaze back up to stars, their only witness on such a quiet night.

“Please do not lock your voice away, my little archivist,” Megatronus murmured as he leaned over, elbows propped against his knees. “Lest you would make this barbaric bot yearn even more on a hungry night like this.”

“Oh, thank you mast—Megatronus, for the compliment,” Orion stuttered in response. “I thought I was alone so...you know, sometimes I talk to myself.”

“That poem you recited, where did you learn it?”

“Ah, it was so long ago when I was a student in the Academy of Science and Technology...I found it in an anthology, methinks.”

“Was it the Martial Literature Collection of the Cybertron War Academy, volume 5?”

“Oh.” The archivist finally turned look at Megatronus only to see that he was smiling at him tinged with just a hint of sentimentality. Realization cloaked over the smaller bot, heavy upon the shoulders, and his optics widened. “Oh! Oh, Megatronus, I did not realize…”

“What? That a hulking brute like myself could not write poetry? Capienda rebus in malis praeceps via est.”

“Not at all! I am very well aware of the intense curriculum at the CWA. It’s not all combat. Martial arts also involves a deep practice of understanding anthropology, culture, and literature. As Megatronus Prime once said, ‘a true warrior can wield both the glossa and the spear in the song of war’.”

“‘And language is forever eternal; forever effective in the war on knowledge’,” Megatronus finished with an impressed nod. “It was when I was a student that my instructor had our class year contribute to the CWA continued anthology of martial literature. But I did not realize my little archivist was a fan of my work.”

“I really like poetry,” Orion admitted sheepishly. “I actually read much of it on my cycles off. And during my years at AST, I made a habit of attending readings at the symposium.”

The gladiator's optical ridge arched ever so slightly and the corners of his intact curled up dangerously. He leaned in close until their face plates were mere inches apart (close enough to kiss) and he muttered:

“Poetry is what sets you off, Orion Pax?” Knowledge was dangerous—the archivist was reminded of this. “Shall I recite to you some old poetry of the past?”

“Would you?”

“As long as your audio receptors are open for me, my little archivist.”

Orion Pax did not even bother to hide the fierce blush on his face plate nor how disturbingly loud his vents had gone off in that moment. His optics stayed locked on, as though he were physically trapped, to Megatronus’ own intense stare; a moment passed, and the smaller bot laughed shyly like a newborn bot in spring.

“Why not?”

Megatronus made a soft sound, oh sweet amusement, and sat back with his helm tilted up to the same pattern of stars and planets of the Allspark which graced Orion Pax’s sight for many nights before—and, for once, an apathetic universe turned wayward to passion.

Hither comes the Bard

Upon the World Stage

Master Strings in the Light

Digits Craning and Creaking

From the High Emperor’s Throne

Ah Alas,

So the Bard must sing

Of an Ending

Far and Distant

To The World Stage

Long Departed are the Thirteen

Turned Away is the Emperor

His Throne Empty and Cold

For the End Drawls Near

With Ash and Fire

Thus,

Says the Bard

Come and Dance with Me

For the Curtain Calls

Upon a Tale without Applause

Love was not a wooden cup to fill over time. It was a pair of servos cupped to catch raining energon, watching the pink tears coat the digits and spill all over the ground—unable to be contained. Chaos, the void that eternally hungers; and love was his daughter.

Orion could only describe this sensation deep in his spark, this horribly pained and twisted heat that made the archivist bot feel without his bulking frame. Just bare to see; his glassy optics had to reset a few times as Megatronus, in his own shyness, turned to look at Orion head on. His expression, a hardened mask, glitched faintly with the ghost-passing of fear. And the silence, which followed only made the gladiator visibly nervous.

“...It seems like I have become rusty in—”

“Your poetry is beautiful,” Orion interrupted, leaning in so suddenly that it actually spooked Megatronus. He placed a servos over his chest plate, where his spark pulsed violently, and sighed out. “I have no words for you, only that...that it made me sad and happy and overwhelmed to hear the beauty of your words.”

“Surely, you do not mean it…”

“I think it is a tragedy that you were designated to fight. Please mind whatever thoughts you have on your own life but…,” the archivist’s glossa was fighting back on his next words but the sleeping spirit of idealism long dormant in Orion Pax had stirred, and awoke it did with a whisper: “I think you should have been a writer—a poet. ‘Tis not Cybertron justly the planet of war but also song and philosophy.’ I think it is a waste of your talents to wield a gun.”

When Megatronus did not speak—merely staring at him with his intact firmly shut, an old, familiar shame filled the archivist's hot circuits. Ah, he had overstepped again. And Orion felt himself grow very, very small in the quiet, and moved to leave—

Someone pulled him back in. Something hot caught his intact. And Orion Pax went very still—his frame creaked with the sharp increase of pressure. Ah.

Megatronus was kissing him.

< kiss? >

His processor was running at a thousand miles a second. And despite so many memories, thoughts, and notions scrambling for hold, only one stayed true: Megatronus’ soft dermas was sweet against his—hotter than a brand but as intoxicating as any energon drink from Mac’s bar. Resistance, the ever present killer of passion, died very quick to Orion’s own admission; his optics fluttered shut and he leaned in, allowing the larger bot to embrace him fully.

By Primus, he actually might be a tad bit in love.

Megatronus’ servo trailed up Orion’s neck, clawed digits curling around the base of his throat with a gentle, possessive squeeze—the frightful cold made the poor bot gasp a bit and suddenly, the gladiator's hot glossa forced its way into his open intact, dancing against his hungrily. A grumble purred through Megatronus’ frame as he pushed Orion Pax down onto the bench with his servos still latched tightly around the smaller bot’s throat and wrist tightly.

By Primus, this had become rather filthy fast (was this ‘little archivist’ really this touch-starved? Was Orion so embittered and lonely to forget the touch of someone who actually wanted him for once). Orion Pax wanted to shut off his processor for once—stop thinking!

He could feel the gladiator start to paw desperately at his modesty panel and on another cycle, when his emotions were more controlled, he would have pushed Megatronus away and usher the champion to practice some courtship rational; they were skipping several steps of the Conjunx Ritus, and, oddly enough, Orion did not protest at all.

Suddenly, someone coughed.

Orion’s processor finally kicked in and he frantically pushed the larger bot away, face plate burning hot and coolant fans screaming as he glanced up to see that a third bot had joined them in the moon-kissed park.

A large mech stood before them, his shadow cold and oppressive over their compromising forms; bulky armor plating belonging to that of a truck frame, painted blue and white with the famed gold insignia of the Elite Guard imprinted on his right shoulder. His optics glowed an icy pale as he regarded the pair coolly; when he met with Orion’s frantic stare, that professional-like stoicism turned inward to confusion.

“Orion Pax?”

Recognition also flooded in the archivist's processor and he stood up suddenly, almost in a fright.

D-Dion? What in the world are you doing here?” Orion asked in soft accusation, moving his sights between the elite guard and the gladiator he was just exchanging glossas with a moment ago—Megatronus was simply glaring at Dion with a furious expression, openly enraged to be robbed of his privacy with Orion no doubt.

“I...I was instructed by His Lordship to find the data clerk of Wing O in the Iacon Hall of Records...but I did not think it be you,” Dion explained, shifting his gaze between the pair. He finally settled the entirety of his sights on Megatronus and forced a slight bow. “Nor that you have...company. A thousand apologies, Master Megatronus.”

“And I’d accept them all if you take your leave now, lap dog.”

“Nay, this message is from the Lord Prime himself and you must hear it at once, Orion.”

“Sentinel Prime? He...has a message for me?”

“Affirmative, soldier. Take a listen.”

Dion held out a message data disk and pressed the activation button in the middle. It glowed faintly a dull blue before it gradually whirled off of the Elite Guard’s outstretched servo. The singular lens at the very top began to flash and then shot out a singular laser, which danced in the space between them. It hummed and sparked, slowly constructing a holographic memory: Sentinel Prime’s visage appeared in the courtyard as though he was standing right there with them. The Prime was awkwardly fumbling with his message disk, optics resetting in mild irritation as he looked back to his aides behind him.

Is...Is this thing on?

Yes, your Lordship.”

Is it? Because—oh, yes I see now. Okay, move out of frame, will you?

Sentinel Prime idly shooed the guard of frame and peered back at disc—and what he presumed to be Orion Pax, and flashed a white crescent smile.

“Heyo, buddy! Now I bet your pretty afterburner is wondering: ‘oh my, why is the great lord prime himself sending me a message?’. And, all I have to say is: it’s your lucky cycle. Look, Orion Pax, I appreciate everything you clerks do down there. Shuffling discs. Watching very long, dry documentaries, all that very...fun, fun stuff. Ah, but that’s not why I’m calling!”

Then, Sentinel Prime cleared his voice box and shuffled closer to the camera, a single digit pointed out with a playful gesture.

“Listen, Orion Pax. I want to invite you to my personal office here in the Iacon Senate for a lunch and a chat! Thought I get to know you after all the positive things I’ve been hearing about you. I mean, seriously, everyone won’t stop shutting up about your work. So next chord, I’ll send one of my seekers to chart you to the Iacon tower—my treat, hm? Okay, Sentinel Prime out!

A pause.

“Now, how do I turn this thing off—”

The hologram closed and the memory disk fell back in Dion’s servo. The Elite Guard regarded Orion Pax coolly with just the faintest hint of sympathy (for why did he seem so pitiful) and bowed his helm.

“His Lordship will have his seeker escort come to your recharge unit station so you do not need to head to work. Do you have any questions, soldier?” He asked.

The archivist said nothing at first. In fact, he was not even inhabiting his own frame—Orion Pax was somewhere else right now, probably swimming in the ocean of the Allspark where Primus was shaking his helm at the fragility of his own children. It was not until he felt the back of his own helm hit Megatronus’ chest plate that he was pulled back down to Iacon black night—the gladiator had been cradling him from behind, his glowing optics watching the poor bot from above his shoulder with a fierce, unreadable stare.

“You do not have to go,” Megatronus said softly. “It is an invitation.”

“Well, I would not say invitation,” Dion correctly kindly. “It is His Lordship, after all. Absence will be seen as a...slight on his figure.”

“A slight?” A sharp, cold laugh. “Then tell the Lord Prime that the Champion of Kaon was the one who stole the little archivist away. He may take it up with me...in the Pits.”

“You do not wear threats well, Master Megatronus. I know you have your considerations with—”

“It’s not considerations. I gravely dislike your Lord.”

“He is your Lord too.”

“I didn’t vote for him.”

Orion Pax touched Megatronus’ arm, which was curled around his slender waist gingerly and looked up at the taller bot with a small smile.

“No, it’s okay. I intend to go see him.”

Dion sighed in relief at this. “I will send His Lordship word of your confirmation,” he said.

“Wait, I do have a question.” Orion looked at Dion, watching his face plate closely. It was eerie, how similar the Elite Guard appeared to him. They could be twins save for the fact that Dion was far taller and bulkier than him. Perhaps they came from the same hot spot during their birth.

“Do...you happen to know why he wishes to see me? Any idea at all?”

The Elite Guard’s optics moved away momentarily. “No, I do not. But if I may make a guess at His Lordship’s elusive intentions, you sincerely made an impression on him. I know you have with me.”

Oh right. Orion almost forgot: that one night when he walked home drunk off his processor. Singing to whatever new wave song was just on Jazz’s music box. And then, came that Elite Guard.

The poor archivist hoped his face plate was not betraying any emotion whatsoever, especially with Megatronus watching him so closely.

“Uh. That’s all I needed to hear,” Orion Pax said quickly. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Then I will take my departure. It was pleasant to see you, Master Megatronus.”

“Was it, lap dog?”

“Do not mistake my words. Your particular personality disc is not compatible with mine but from one CWA alumni to another, I can respect your prowess, sir.” Dion paused before stepping forward and shooting the champion an eerily cold look. “But know this: I will not tolerate any violence from you. You may be the Champion of Kaon, but you will be civilized here, sir.”

“Oh yes, I promise to be on my best behavior.” And Megatronus smiled cruelly as his grip around Orion tightened possessively. “Wouldn’t want your master to be upset that I’m playing with toys in his sandbox.”

“Hah,” Dion exuded humorlessly, optics glowing bright in the darkness.

Without another word save for what Orion could assume was a silent communications message sent between the two large bots, Dion mechanically dipped into a practice bow before setting off away from the park towards the Hall of Records.

Orion Pax could only watch the Elite Guard leave, his strong back slipping into the comfort of shadows—he wondered, processor hot with thought—on where else he had seen Dion before. The captain of the Elite Guard was renown in Iacon for his strict demeanor and infamously stern rationale that often bordered on the guard being seen as ‘anti-friendly’. They have not formally met though Orion Pax has watched the solemn captain come to Maccadam’s Old Oil House many times to shut down Jazz’s music, citing quiet groon laws. Then, of course, that one night that Orion made an utter fool of himself in front of Dion.

He probably thought the archivist had a few snapped circuits in his processor.

Suddenly, Orion Pax’s helm was forced all the way up until his optics met with Megatronus’. The gladiator’s expression was still overwhelmingly taunt, as though he tasted expired energon and was forced to swallow it down. He grinned hot with just an edge of possessiveness, curling his digits around the poor archivist's throat.

“Wipe your processor of that hound and his master, my little archivist. I am the only one standing here with you, so think only of me and me alone.”

The champion then leaned down to catch Orion’s slightly open intact with his in a hungry kiss. Orion Pax gave no protest or resistance; he moaned into the touch, optics shutting as he surrendered himself once again to Megatronus’ hot embrace.

A voice echoed somewhere deep within; it was scolding him again like vexed father to his reckless son. This irritable bundle of nerves forming Orion Pax’s usually sensible conscious had whispered to him in warning, one he would surely ignore:

What happened to practicing courtship rationale?

XXX

“Ayo, what’s been eating you, Orion?”

Bumblebee had been sent to Kaon this orbital cycle for a specialized mission: to assist with the Iacon communication team on the construction of a new radar beacon at the underground sector, and Orion Pax had not properly recharged in three cycles.

Maccadam’s Old Oil House was empty at this time though Orion chalked it up to the Unification Day party happening in downtown Iacon square. He would have joined with Jazz had it not been for his processor wandering on what could be happening to Bumblebee at this very present moment. Was he safe in Kaon? Was his cabin filter strong enough to withstand the smelt and ash of the city? He was such a young bot, Orion was not so sure if he knew how to get around on his own.

Someone’s digit tapped on the rim of untouched cup of energon in front of him; Orion’s tired optics riveted up to meet with his weary expression reflect on Jazz’s visor.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” the archivist said, resting his chin on the palm of his servo.

Jazz gave a noncommittal sound as he fiddled around with the controller to his music box. A tune switched on and sounded a techno-pop beat into the empty space of Mac’s bar.

“Really? Because you been staring at that exact spot of the counter since you came in here. Why don’t you lay it on old Jazz, brother.”
“Do you want the long or short version?”

“Give it to me big, baby.” He paused; a mischievous smile slit across his face plate. “I can take it.”

“Alright,” Orion sat back and stared at Jazz lazily. “Blessed be the curse of parenthood is the mercy of the elements; when Vector Prime begins the count; so does the cycles—and hunger are the wheels of times; pointed to the young and the newborn—”

“Pax, speak normal to me, brother. I ain’t got time for one of your weird poems—and don’t start citing ancient Cybertronian either,” Jazz said impatiently.

“Fine. I’m worried about Bumblebee,” Orion Pax admitted with an elongated sigh. “They sent him to Kaon.”

“To Kaon? Primus, that’s like sending a energon doe to the Dinolands.”

“Their beacon tower got destroyed so they need to construct a new one. He left me a comm message before he left…”

Jazz whistled sharply through his dentas, shaking his helm in slight disbelief. After a moment, the silver bot shot Orion Pax his usual easy smile—the same one that often graced the nervous bot in their academy cycles right before a semester exam, and he leaned forward.

“Ah, your kid will be fine, Pax. He’s got a good helm on those shoulders and Kaon ain’t too bad as long as he stays away from The Pits,” he said encouragingly.

“He didn’t even mention when he will be back…”

“Shouldn’t be too long. Primus knows His ‘Lordship’ likes his fancy towers up as soon as possible. That bot’s one quick expansionist.”

“Right. Sentinel Prime…”

“Evening children.”

The automatic door had whirled open and in stepped the medical bot, Ratchet. His ambulance frame—probably a sheen white in his prime cycles—had taken on a noticeable level of dents, scratches, and discoloring on the chest and shoulders. Even the red medical insignia engraved on his shoulder guard were worn down to just barely a silhouette. The old bot gave a long sigh, his hydraulics squeaking with every step, as he approached the counter top.

“Damn doc, you look worse than usual. Got a spark eater at the clinic today?”

“Don’t ask, Jazz.” He sat down next to Orion, nodding to the archivist with a tired smile. “Just get me the usual.”

“You got it, Doc.”

“Orion, are you well? Any more strange dreams?”

“No more dreams,” Orion said quickly, drawing squiggles in the condensation puddles beneath his cold cup of energon.

Ratchet’s optical ridge arched. “Are you sober, son?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then don’t lie to me. I’m older than Sentinel Prime himself, you know.”

“Ah, lay off of Pax, doc,” Jazz said at the end of the bar, pouring out a hot cup of energon from the tap. “His kid was just deployed to Kaon.”

“B-127?”

“Bumblebee,” Orion correctly gently. “He’s off for his big job right now.”

“Oh Orion, you’re too young to be a parent.” Ratchet paused just so he can catch Jazz’s toss of his mug down the table. The medical bot stared at his reflection in the steaming hot drink, a weary smile tugging on his intact. “That said, Bumblebee does very much love you. It’s strange to think about considering that most of our newborn never once see or meet their hot spot caretakers.”

“Never met yours, doc?” Jazz asked, coming in close with a cock of his helm.

The doctor gave an exasperated sigh, curling his digits around his drink—more so to absorb the warmth. “No. Though I was the hot spot caretaker for many bots like yourself. Never was allowed to meet them, though. They were taken away after their construction to be activated.”

“I think you make a great uncle,” Orion Pax said passively with a smile.

“You mean the cankerous uncle to disrupt all the fun parties,” Jazz added, snickering to his servo.

“‘Ours is the nature to be wield pessimism in an unkind, brutish universe’,” the doctor quoted dryly before taking a sip of his mug—his phrasing was once spoken by Alpha Trion (whom Orion Pax should definitely not remember and reminded his processor of this fact).

The silver musician looked to Orion with a half-smirk. “Told you, Pax.”

“Speaking of parties, I half expected the oil house to be closed for tonight. Why aren’t you kids down in the square with the rest of Iacon?” Ratchet asked matter-of-fact.

“Who says I ain’t going? I’m here for another groon or so, close up for old mac, and attend the real noise at midnight,” Jazz explained with a wave of his servo. “Gonna bring out my string piece and level the whole skyscraper, doc.”

“Orion?”

“I plan on heading back to my unit and recharging for the night,” the archivist said simply for he was not adept at parties or large gatherings really. In truth, crowds and loud noises made him extremely tired and anxious. Also, an unspoken truth being that he did not know how to party, something Jazz always made fun of him for in their younger years.

The musician clicked his glossa. “Bro, I said you can just hang on my arm the whole night. I ain’t gonna leave you alone. Don’t want another bot trying to drag you away when you’re dead drunk like the last party,” he said and leaned in close to Orion with his digits rapping along the counter top. The archivist could not bear to check out his worn-down reflection again so he kept his optics down to his own servos, something he knew would just upset his old friend event more—the silent rejections, which followed them since youth.

“Be careful this time around, Jazz. I wish not to attach your arms back into your shoulder sockets again because the party got too loud,” Ratchet warned coolly with a wag of his digit. “You know His Lordship detests having that much bass close to his precious tower. Prowl’s also on patrol for tonight.”

“Frag, I’d welcome it. That cop’s got a metal rod so far up his afterburner, it isn’t even funny anymore.”

“Listen—”

The automatic door whirled open again; silence blanketed the room heavily as two bots entered the bar, their heels clicking harshly against the steel floor without a single greeting. Orion followed Jazz and Ratchet’s wayward stare to their new guests and he recognized one of them: the blue bot with the clear-windowed chest plate and the completely veiled face plate with both his intact and optics shielded by a mask—he was there the cycle Orion was speaking to D-16.

The bot beside him—presumably the dominant of the two considering his sharp, condescending stance, was a flight-capable mech considering his sleek frame. His large white wings stuck out at his sides like a cape and the bot’s face plate revealed a dangerously bemused persona from just the perpetual half-smirk on his face alone. His redden optics slithered all over the room until it landed on the three bots watching them from the bar.

And he smiled wide.

“Ah, what an empty night, am I right, Soundwave?” The jet bot started sweetly, holding his arms out in dramatic welcome as they approached the bar. “Surprised to see some face plates still around, with the Unification party going on and everything.”

Jazz made a sound. Unpleasant and grating. “Oh. Ulchtar—or should I say, ‘Starscream’. Back again, I see?” He said, disarmingly frank.

“Am I not allowed to return to this fine establishment? And here I thought Old Mac was welcoming to all bots regardless of their chaste. Or perhaps, I was mistaken,” the one called Starscream replied calmly, placing a servo over his chest plate as though Jazz’s reply had offended him.

Ratchet reset his optics twice before sitting up proper. His expression was cold. “We can coexist fine. My young friend here just needs to mind his glossa, sir.”

“Oh, yes, that’s what we want to! To coexist! Now, Jazz, why don’t you grab our usual and bring it to us in the backroom, hm? Tut, tut!”

The musician shot a nasty grin back at the bot before spitting at the ground and stalking off towards the taps. Orion stared after him, wondering what was it about their new guests that could cause his old friend to be so riled up. Of course, he needed not to ponder anymore on this for Starscream’s gaze inevitably left Jazz’s retreating figure and landed right on Orion Pax.

His optic’s inner lens dilated until nearly his entire vision appeared dark; his smile suddenly left its falsified friendliness towards a predatory cruelness and he stepped forward, looming over the sitting bot with his servos latched onto each other.

“My my,” Starscream started playfully, tilting his helm. “Would you look at this: you’re Orion Pax, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Orion answered level-headed and moved to down his drink.

“No questions on: ‘how did you know?’ or ‘have we met?’”

“I have been the victim of much reunions as of late so I suspect this is one of them.”

“No, actually—we never met. But I heard of you from a very powerful master of ours. And he’s not one keen on sharing so I was simply dying of curiosity to see the bot that enticed him so.” A pause; then Starscream let out a dry huff. “And I’m quite unimpressed at what I’m seeing.”

Orion Pax was very tired. “Okay. Thank you, sir. You may depart from my side now,” he said dryly.

“I mean, he could have anyone, really,” Starscream continued, unmoved. “Perhaps someone more fitting of his goals. You’d just be an outright distraction. Ah, but who can fault our lord for having such weakness.”

“Are your audio receptors failing you, son?” Ratchet asked sharply, glaring at Starscream with his grip on the mug tight and ready. “He said for you to leave.”

“Hush, you old cog—I’m going now. Wouldn’t want to fall under the same spell he did.”

Starscream gave Orion Pax one last spiteful grin before sauntering off with the one known as Soundwave following closely behind towards the far corridor of the bar, and disappeared out of sight. Jazz came over, holding a tray of energon drinks, and gave a big sigh into space.

“Glad y'all met Starscream.”

“What a nasty mech!” Ratchet hissed, considerably rattled. “Don’t tell me he’s a patron of yours.”

“Primus, no! That crooked cog and his boys have been coming in recently for these weird underground meetings. They ain’t the type to sit and chat over good music.”

The doctor looked over to Orion Pax, his dull optics whirling curiously.

“He mentioned a master of his being acquainted with you.”

Orion downed the rest of his drink. “I know no such mech,” he admitted coolly.

He hoped he did not know Starscream’s master considering how nasty the jet bot was to him just now. Any leader of mechs like that was probably an equally cruel one.

“I’m telling you, brothers—something is coming. It’s in the air, man. All these meetings in Old Mac’s bar, growing unrest in Kaon, Sentinel Prime making less public appearances. Between us, there’s bound to be an explosion of chaos.”

“Now you sound like Prowl,” Ratchet remarked with his optical ridge arched.

Jazz scoffed at this. “Whatever doc—I said what I said. Now y'all watch the bar for me real quick while I go feed our ‘wonderful guests’ in the back, you hear?” He said offhandedly and turned to head towards the back.

Orion Pax’s helm buzzed irritably; he touched his forehead with his digits and felt that faint rumble of his processor overcharging—by Primus, he can’t be this drunk already, it was one drink. In an effort to ground himself, he turned to speak to Ratchet who was still mumbling irritable over the earlier troubled interaction earlier. The archivist sighed out, hoping his vent fans stayed quiet this time.

“Doctor, are you finding joy at the medical bay?” Orion asked simply, resetting his optics.

Ratchet perked up and tilted his helm slightly at his inquiry. “Where did this come from?” He asked.

“You seem unhappy there.”

“If you had to contend with the blasted system that controls me, you’d also be ‘unhappy’, son.”

“System?”

“What? Did you think I could do whatever I want in the bay?”

“Oh, I’m sorry…”

The doctor pressed his helm against his servo while the other gripped his now empty drink tightly. A particular moroseness had engulfed him once more, not so rare to the medical bot, and Orion watched as Ratchet’s voice box fell to a very low murmur—just a whisper in the dark of the bar.

“Let me share with you a story, Orion Pax: I had a mining bot scheduled to come see the medical bay for, what his supervisor proposed to be a ‘minor processor glitch’. I met with this bot—he’s young, Orion. Bumblebee’s age cycle, I think. A fresh graduate from the vocational academy. Anyway, he came in and sat down, told me that there were cycles on end where he had a certain...melancholy in his processor. It made him work slower, sloppier, and he made too many mistakes for his mining unit to ignore. Well, of course, I put him under and ran a SFC scan on his processor disk…,” he trailed off, tragedy weighing heavy on each word as his optics trailed up and stared off at the far wall past the counter. “You know, I graduated AST with many, many cycles ago—before you were even constructed, Orion. Seen ripped arms, snapped helms, aged-related burnout...but by Primus and the Thirteen, I am still not used to see...software failure on a processor.”

“Software failure?”

“Our processors allow us to feel many things: love, anger, sadness, joy...but when their software begin to fail, those emotions become...cumbersome. Dangerous if left untreated. For this young bot, he was feeling such an overwhelming sadness every single cycle with his processor failing to equip him with other emotions to balance. It didn’t help that all he does is work in those dark, bottomless mines, gets paid the lowest wage due to our suffocating caste system, and barely gets a cycle off. Anyway, I sent my report in to his supervisors and the mining department, and requested that he’d come and see the bay every chord for internal software treatment with our psychologist, and that he would be prescribed some energon shots for his processor…”

Silence.

“Ratchet?”

“They denied me, Orion,” the doctor said in finality; he looked even more older than he was in this very moment, as though he aged ten life cycles from just the sentence alone. He wiped his intact with his arm and sat back, shaking his helm slowly. “They told me it was unnecessary for him to come back and seek treatment as it would affect his mining unit’s orbital cycle quota. Instead, they just wanted the temporary energon shots and that was that.”

Ratchet tipped his cup back into his intact again; there was nothing left. The doctor shook the remnant out, only a few droplets, and allowed the mug to idly fall from his loose digits and onto the counter. And he laughed loosely with a roll of his shoulder.

“Anyway, he came back for the shots but that was it. I told him that he could still see me if he needed anything and we could try to find another solution but his supervisors wouldn’t give him any more time off for medical aid. Then, one cycle, while I was closing up, that young bot came in again in the middle of his work shift. He was...oddly happy. Calm. Relaxed. Sometimes, that’s a sign, you know. That they made peace for what’s to come. But, I missed that sign. Because that night, he…”

Ratchet said no more.

Instead, he dropped his helm between his servos and sat there. His vent fans were humming deep within his core. The sound of a spark breaking and pulsing quietly. Orion Pax was no stranger to tragedy (think not of Alpha Trion) and not knowing how else to comfort the old doctor, he slowly placed a kind servo on Ratchet’s shoulder guard. In turn, the doctor’s optics shifted slightly between his spread digits, glancing right at Orion with a rare soft look.

“Afterwards, I just...stopped caring,” Ratchet continued wryly. “The medical bay became a prison for me and, well, it was easier to pretend to be apathetic. It makes denying young, sick bots all the more...bearable.”

“Ratchet, have you thought about leaving to start a free clinic?”

“I—no, it’s such a foolish notion. Me in a free clinic…”

Orion Pax leaned forward, giving the doctor an encouraging nudge. He gave a sweet smile, digits curling into Ratchet’s dented shoulder guard for he saw through him effortlessly and unerringly—an infant dream that just needed some more help hatching out of the egg.

“Why not?” he started lightly, “you have years of experience, the reputation to start, and, most importantly, you’ll actually thrive if you’re not under the tight thumb of the Iacon Medical Bay.”

“Huh.”

“W-What?”

“Nothing.” Ratchet shook his helm and actually laughed like he meant it. He smiled at Orion Pax, optics soft and relaxed. “You remind me of an old friend, Orion. He said the exact same thing when I first joined the bay.”

“So you’d consider it?”

“Let’s say, I’ll give the idea some...renewed thought.”

“Man, those afterburners could go suck on a rusted cog!” Jazz announced all too loudly as he stomped back into the bar. He violently tossed the empty tray into the open sink and went right up to the pair, the bot’s intact twisted in a deep grimace that was considerably rare for the musician. Jazz grabbed a bottle of energon from the adjacent fridge, cleanly flicked off the top, and downed the whole thing in just under a minute. Orion could not help himself but giggle when Jazz took a loud gasp and slammed the empty bottle on the table.

“Trouble with customers?”

“I’m not meant for this, Pax! I should be up on stage, channeling out those good tunes! Instead, old Mac being out of town means I have to contend with some of the nastiest bots to emerge from Iacon’s pits. Do I look like Prowl? It’s not like I can beat them to death with my baton and claim justice—I’m a lover, brother!”

“Hey, just a few more groons and you can retire to that big Unification party,” Ratchet reminded, rather amused at the whole prospect. He then turned back to Orion with an optical ridge slightly arched. “Will you be going, son?”

Orion shook his helm and already moved off of his stool with a minor stagger. He regarded his friends with a steady gaze—as steady he can with how overcharged his processor still was from the one drink—and he placed a single servo up in farewell.

“Sorry, but I think I should head back to my unit now. Tomorrow, I have to wake up extra early to help a councilor locate a particular data disk from the back rooms,” Orion explained simply.

Jazz scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest plate. “You’re never fun, brother.”

“Are you well enough to get home on your own? You’re not thinking of transforming, are you?”

“No, no, my recharge unit is very close!” Orion said, stopping right at the edge of the automatic doors. “Besides I like walking—it lets me stargaze.”

Ratchet made a gesture with his servo. “Remember: if you always keep your optics up at the stars, you ignore the ground below you,” he explained.

And Jazz clicked his glossa. “Geez doc, you’re just full of philosophical stuff tonight, huh? See ya later, Pax.”

XXX

The night air greeted the archivist like an old friend; a touch of frost accompanied by a placid stillness that made it one perfect for an idle walk. Orion started down the lonely road back to his unit—the streets were utterly empty save for the occasional flutter of a wrapper dancing in the night breeze. In the far distance of the lower city was a great blare of golden light, which bathed the Iacon Square in a heavenly veil followed by the periodic cheer of the crowds down below. Orion only attended one Unification party in his life cycle and even now, he could still hear the vicious bass blowing out his audio receptors to this cycle. Luckily, he shouldn't be disturbed too badly tonight while attempting to recharge.

The bot gave a lonely sigh, shaking his helm before looking back up at the white constellations. The Primes could be seen tonight—taking their place up beside Primus’ cosmic throne. Those long, quiet summer nights in youth spent stargazing with his father as the elder told him all the stories of the their constellations, his aged digit dragging across the black sky and recanting mythology to the young bot’s audio receptors.

The dark sister Quintessa and her cursed creation of the Quintessons in a distant, black planet spinning somewhere in the cosmos; Vector Prime disappearing behind the veil of time itself, said to forever wander between the white realms of space, peering into the eternal mirror of his own design; Liege Maximo’s infamous trickery against his siblings—Orion Pax still remembered each and every one of them, now living inside of him as their descendant.

Of course, on solemn nights like this the ocean above—black and endless—ushered unwanted recollections resurfacing; an old nemesis returning renewed, reminding Orion Pax of what he has lost and what he has forgotten but how could he ever remember?

He was told, once, as a newborn of Cybertron’s birth. It was said that Primus himself transformed into the planet so his thirteen children could start the first seeds of civilizations to outlast even the stars themselves. However, there was another legend far more terrifying that still ached deep within his core years after:

Cybertron, the great gray star in the cosmos, was the eye of Primus himself. And the world Orion stood upon was simply a passing dream unraveling from the slumbering God. One cycle, he will wake up and all will be one.

Till all are one.

A sound interrupted Orion’s quiet thoughts. The bot stopped and looked over his shoulder but he saw nothing but shadows and bare spaces. Around him, Iacon’s cold winds bristled around his bulky frame, her whistle eerily malicious for such a dark, peaceful night of stars.

Orion reluctantly continued on, this time keeping his gaze straight and leveled. He could not allow his processor to wander again.

Another sound—a pede-step.

“Who’s there?” The archivist demanded, spinning around to greet—once again—that unbearable emptiness of the streets.

Then, someone laughed.

From an alleyway just a bit of the ways down emerged four bots dressed in long, black cloaks, which veiled their helms, and started slowly towards him. Orion quietly swore to Primus beneath his breath and turned around only to be stunned. Another four bots has slipped out of the alleyway in front of him, their optics glowing red beneath their hoods, as they blocked Orion’s only other route of escape.

From behind all their backs stepped through a single bot—tall in that way, which could only rival Dion himself. He was sharply plated on all sides in a war jet’s jagged frame; marred, worn-down battle armor a deep, blood-purple that bulked the bot’s size considerably, especially with the clicking rotating of heavy artillery on his thick cabled forearms and shoulders. The hulking bot stepped forward, the power alone rumbling the ground beneath them, and he licked his sharp dentas slowly with a manic, hungry grin upon the sight of Orion Pax.

“Ah, a lonely cybertronian lamb. So small and sweet. Brittle armor. Thin energon veins. I bet if I squeeze you, you’d make the most beautiful sound in all of Cybertron,” he started in a deep voice so instinctively destructive and perpetually vicious that Orion Pax could not imagine such a creature understand love in the slightest.

“What—who are you?” The archivist asked, feeling his spark pulse dangerously under the bot’s eerily frost-cold steely optics.

And the giant bot gave a short laugh, the sound alone cutting through the air. He then showed his dentas, white dagger sharp, and wetted his dermas slowly.

“Such boldness from a little thing. Do you not know fear? Shall I teach you fear? This one may call me Overlord of Kaon.”

Overlord?

By Primus. “No...you’re,” Orion started, shaking his helm in disbelief—where was his gun? Why wasn’t his artillery coming out? “Megatronus kill you in the Pits years back.”

It was a famous battle live broadcast on the Cybertronian Network a year ago; Orion was there with Jazz and Prowl in Old Mac’s bar, watching the whole show, and saw the legendary gladiator thrust his entire spear through the brute’s chest—a silver glossa coated in loose coolant, probing out the end of a dying, shattered spark.

Overload smiled slightly at this, sucked in his cheeks with an impatient grimace, and his gaze swept all over Orion Pax’s stilted figure darkly.

“No,” he said simply. “He failed.”

“...So why are you here in Iacon?”

“Chaos is God, sweet little bot; your city is a non believer. I have come to convert.” He tilted his helm as a predator does when watching their prey. “And I have heard that Megatronus has a new toy.”

“I am not his Conjunx,” Orion corrected sharply, finally able to get his laser guns in his arms out—it would not be enough to even scratch Overload’s heavy armor but he had other ways to protecting himself. His processor whirled with the coming of a most dangerous notion.

“Matters not. Megatronus hates sharing. And I like stealing.” Overlord took a single step forward and held out a single servo to Orion, palm up beckoningly. “Come along little bot.”

“No.”

“No?” A laugh. “It was not a request.”

“And neither is my consent.”

“You are such a strange, strange thing. Tell me, sweet lamb: what will do you? You do not have a choice here.”

“I do have a choice,” Orion countered, allowing his lasers to heat up audibly in warning. “And do you know why? Because you are asking me—enacting this game. Perhaps you may be humoring me as a cybercat does by playing with its live feed, but nonetheless, you have unknowingly granted me a turn in this battle. If you truly wanted to catch me, you would have done so already and end the parley. It is evident that our strengths are not so wholly aligned so I should be no challenge to you. But instead, you reveal yourself to me so willingly, open intentions as bare as our under cabling. So what I will do next, tyrant, is propose to you back a challenge.”

Overlord’s left optical ridge arched at this but the continuous grin across his lilac face plate meant that Orion at least intrigued him with the prospect in the time being. The archivist knew well the intersection they stood on—the winding dark streets and the other residence units in this part of Iacon; that was his only hope.

“You seem to be the ilk to enjoy a good chase,” he started cleverly. “See that tall white tower in the distance? If you can catch me before I reach it, I’ll go with you without complaint. But I managed to reach it first, you have to let me go.”

“Interesting.” The large bot’s intact curled up towards a sneer and he peered all around to his lackeys, red optics clicking with every scan. “Now, why don’t we make this wager more interesting, pet. Let everyone here have a chance in this game of yours—gives these scrap some incentive to impress me.”

“Fine.”

“And alt-mode?”

“Sure, why not.”

Orion rolled his shoulders in slow, methodical circles as his pedes kicked against the streets. Deep within, he could feel his spark throb violently, screaming at him for the coming of a terror, which already turned inward into boldness (‘be wary of overconfidence’ the Senator once lectured him one fine summer); Overlord chuckled with his helm thrown back and closed his servos into tight fists. They stared at each other, the stalemate of silence thick and palpable.

His laser guns gave a sharp click—signal ready.

Finally, Orion Pax said:

“Okay, let’s start.”

Without another second, the archivist violently shot the ground beneath him in quick succession, sending a bellowing flurry of smoke and ash and burning asphalt up in the air. The thick veil kicked up further at the last of Orion’s shots into the streets; he could hear them the dense cloud—the confused clamoring of bots stamping around with some even slamming into each other based on the abrupt cries of pain in the suffocating smog followed by the crash of metal bodies stumbling over the broken up potholes in the ground. Orion quickly dashed out the smoke and into the clear street just on the other side.

He gave a bit of a leap, feeling his body full apart and back again in a quick transformation—all eight wheels practically skidding up more dirt and smoke on the pavement before a red semi truck took off down the highway in a blur. Neon street lights flashed over him on the eerily empty road; in the lower city below the hill, Iacon Square roared with a thunderous cheer, and Orion Pax thought it was cruel that on the only night he was being chased, there was utterly no soul around. Somewhere behind him came a fierce screech; Orion bent his side view mirror.

The smoke and ash suddenly dissipated with a gust of wind; a giant dark-violet jet had risen from the chaos, back-lights illuminated with a malevolent hum before it shot forward followed by an entire troupe of jet fighters—frag, they were all flight bots.

Orion barely gave his disadvantage any more thought as he shifted his gears to the 10th and zoomed down the highway with just the threatening buzz of his pursuers above head.

<Orion Pax! Foolish little lamb! The skies are my domain, you will not escape me!>

Overlord boomed out with laughing static leaking from his communications; the great tyrant’s oppressive shadow practically blanketing the semi truck racing down the highway below him. The archivist gave no response, finding wisdom in the act of silence—up ahead came the two exits: one leading further down the highway and the other exit through the tunnel to the Senate housing. Scorching wind from Overlord’s jets kissed the tail end of Orion’s alt form—the predator practically in the right position to scoop him up and away.

<Overlord, how big are you?>

<To flirt whilst in a chase—I can see why Megatronus took a liking to you.>

<Answer my inquiry.>

<Far grander and larger than you will ever be, pet...>

<Perfect.>

Before Overlord could ask, Orion Pax immediately took a sharp left to the tunnel exit. He listened as the jet made a painfully horrid roar, funneling a pool of black smoke in an effort to halt his speed before crashing over head. Some of Overload’s smaller jets followed the truck into the tunnel, their irritable buzzing like energon flies in the thick of summer.

Their side jet fuel fiercely bit into the sides of Orion’s form—frag flight bots—and he gave a thunderous roar of his horn, watching as some of the closer jets suddenly jolted uncontrollably from the echoing sound. They swung back and forth, unable to grasp control, and before Orion knew it, most of his smaller pursuers ended up crashed into the tight tunnel walls. Red hot bursting clouds sending fire and smoldering debris on the tunnel road.

A tower glistened in the near distance—white and teal like a beacon probing from Cybertron’s core itself to touch the moon. It’s ethereal light, a welcome sight, as Orion finally exited the tunnel to the empty road beyond. He was so near now, freedom laid just beyond.

A laughing, panting roar sounded in his comm.

<ORION PAX! CLEVER BOT ARE YOU—BUT I SEE YOU>

Oh great world eater; shadow of Primus; terrorizer of good and tyrant of civilization,’ Alpha Trion once quoted, uttering the namesake of Primus’ brother, Unicron—and Orion could not help but spill philosophy as his heat shields roared with flames, practically shoving his truck form forward with the violent jet of death right above him. In times like this, Orion Pax really wished he had been constructed as a speedster instead—what kind of data clerk needs to be a giant semi truck?

Suddenly, a harsh nudge from Overlord completely tripped Orion’s driving.

He lost utter control. The world was spinning—he was spinning, right down the highway, leaving smokey skid marks all over the asphalt. Above in the black ocean of stars, he could hear the tyrant laugh out wickedly—the cruel song of a hunter overwhelmed with the thrill of the chase.

Unicorn, was that you?

Orion couldn’t even stop for he had begun to violently roll on his side—glass and parts flying with every slam—all the way down the freeway road where the thin steely gates of the white tower stood in aesthetic protection.

<Foolish scrap! This chase ends now!>

Suddenly, Overload’s jet flew real low—right at the level where Orion was currently rampaging on the road and gave another violent shove to the truck. The pain was indescribable really. Orion never saw combat: AST was for, as the students of CWA say, ‘glorified desk jockeys’. The only real physical pain he felt when a brokenhearted Alpha Trion had slapped him for remarking on his lack of worth.

Oh. He remembered now. Where was Alpha Trion?

He died. You know this. You were there.

Soft memories emptied and ripped as Orion Pax crashed through the guard rail and tumbled from the overhead pass to the dark streets below. Just missing the tower gates by a few feet.

Ah. He lost this challenge. Shame. He should have known better.

<Yes. You should have know better pet>

In the smoldering heap of a nearly totaled truck where blue coolant and engine oil leaked out slowly in a puddle—a single wheel still spinning in space—Overlord’s jet hovered close to the ground before seamlessly transforming back into his figure. A shadow even greater than the darkness itself. He stood in front of the overturned truck, a feral grin across his face plate, as he brought his digits up and licked up bits of Orion’s spilled coolant.

And the tyrant sighed out, ever so pleased.

“You taste amazing as well,” he bemoaned, an audible quake ripping through in his voice box. “And I am impressed, Orion Pax—no one has ever came this far from escaping me, but in the end, it’s all a useless affair. At least, you entertained me. Now, come along, my sweet lamb: we can pay a nice visit to Pharma to fix your pretty self up.”

I’m sorry Bumblebee—I won’t be here to welcome you back with open arms after all.

Halt!

Suddenly, a blast of white light engulfed both of their visions in a sheer blink. Orion could not really see or hear that well anyway, consider that the crash itself had knocked out one of his audio receptors alongside severe damage to both of his optics but he was able to just make out—in the glare of spotlight—a blisteringly-white space jet hovering overhead from the tower. It’s sheer power alone sent waves of slashing wind against them and Overlord gave an irritable sneer as the jet slowly touched down and transformed before them.

Ah, it’s you.

Through the curtain of black smoke and scorched cinder stepped out a figure untouched by the violent aftermath. A kind sight to Orion Pax’s broken sight, as though Primus himself has sent down a messenger himself. There standing before the hulking Overlord was a tall striking bot of pure white plating—sharpened around his frame like wings, accompanied by teal-colored segments and lime highlights at the chest and shoulders. His arms were paired with the presence of two razor-sharp gliders, which twitched slightly when he placed his servos on his hips and cracked a dangerous half-smile at the looming bot before him.

Senator Shockwave.

Hot, smoldering vexation flooded palatable on Overlord’s face plate, having been denied his meal by the sudden intervention and he stepped forward with his shoulder artillery rotating and clicking into place.

“Move over scrap. This has nothing to do with you,” he warned coldly with a snarl.

The Senator cocked his helm innocently, an all too obvious tactic of feigning ignorance as such was his way. “Oh? And what makes you say that? From where I stand, I am witnessing a potential crime happening on diplomatic territory,” he said simply with a flick of his servo.

“Diplomatic territory?” Overlord scoffed mockingly. “What kind of authority do you wield so loosely to threaten me?”

“Oh, just enough to warn you that if you hurt my precious friend in any way, I can have you sent off to the Institute for punishment.” He placed a kind hand on Orion’s damaged grill, shooting the overturned truck a protective smile. “You, my most feral bot, are speaking to a member of the Cybertronian Senate.”

Irritation soiled to raw, black rage; Overlord’s optics lowered to two thin red slits and he showed his dagger-sharp dentas.

“Ah. I understand.”

The purple bot then stepped back, giant wings flashing up with the jets roaring red with fire. He pointed to Orion Pax with a single digit, his expression twisted to both slight admiration and murderous instinct.

“You clever minx...understand this, my pet: this will not be the last time you see me and the next time around...I will not make the mistake of underestimating you again.”

His jets finally roared; red smoke bellowed out in a blistering hiss, hot and furious as its master, as it engulfed the area in an oppressive cloud.

When it all cleared, Overlord was gone.

The Senator gave out an audible sigh, more so out of relief, and went down on his knees to put his arms awkwardly around the tip of Orion’s damaged hood, where black, ebbing engine oil continued to leak in a growing puddle. He laid his helm against the truck, humming.

“Oh, my Orion. Look what trouble you gotten yourself into now. Can you hear me? Hm? Worry not—I’ll fix you right up for sure. Just go to sleep and let old Shockwave take care of everything…”

Orion finally shut his optics down, allowing the warm darkness to seep in slowly like an old friend.

XXX

Oh scrap!”

The tumble Orion Pax took was not a bad one. When the bench snapped, he merely rolled onto the grass, body flailing awkwardly as he landed a few feet away. The harsh blare of the afternoon sun had mysteriously went dark over his figure and when the archivist finally composed himself, he reset his optics only to see that a bot was looming over him, blocking out the red blossoming facade of the sun. They stared at each other; Orion opened his intact and closed it again. Shame filled his face plate when the other bot gave a laughing smile.

“Afternoon my good sir. I see you have taken to the grass for a most wonderful nap,” said the stranger, chuckling without malice.

“Yes, it was an immediate solution to, um, that.”

“The bench? Yes, this might be the...30th time that leg snapped.”

“Oh.”

He stretched out his arm out towards Orion, servo open with the digits beckoning at the fallen bot. The stranger gave a wry smile and winked.

“Thank you,” Orion said and accepted the servo gratefully, allowing himself to be pulled back on his pedes. He looked over his shoulder, groaning at the sight of grass stains on his back plating—what a way to embarrass himself since graduating from the academy.

“Are you new?” asked the stranger, his steady optics shifting carefully from Orion’s flustered face to where his servos patted the back of his thighs down nervously. Orion looked up and the bot switched to a practiced smile.

“O-Oh, you can tell?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Not that it is a bad thing! I come to the Hall quite often and this is the first I seen you around.”

“Orion Pax,” he offered with an outstretched servo that is the least grass-stained.

“Senator,” his small-time savior replied and accepted the shake happily.

Orion immediately went still. His intact dropped but no words came out—just a long hiss of his voice box failing to produce any speech. This went on for a good minute or so with Orion’s servo going slack in the Senator’s, something that made the white bot laugh out heartily.

“I...apologize for the inconvenience,” Orion managed to utter quietly.

“What inconvenience?” The Senator asked, tilting his helm. “I’m not doing my job proper if that bench snapped off again.”

“You’ve been all too kind, Senator. I should return to my work now…”

When Orion Pax tried to retract his arm away, he found that the senator was still gripping his servo tightly; The Senator suddenly pulled the bot towards him and gave such a brimming white smile that it could rival the sun itself—at this close up, it probably did.

“Wait,” urged the Senator, digits squeezing into the metallic flesh with a keen impatience. “Forgive me but...I could not help but noticed that you here the last few nights as well. Stargazing?”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Unintentionally. But, really, I thought you were kind of an...odd fellow.”

Orion managed to wiggle his arm out of the senator’s vice and shot Iacon’s politician a crippling, severe look. Fortunately enough, he still had enough sense to keep his words mildly cordial but already decided it was time for him to leave.

“I should say the same for you, Senator Shockwave, considering how long you have become overly acquainted with my nighttime routine without my consent. Now, please excuse me: I need to head back into the Hall now—”

“If I fix the bench, will you come back and watch the stars again?”

“Your humor is noted, senator, but not reciprocated.” Orion moved to return to the Hall; he stopped, one last retort on his glossa and he looked over his shoulder. “Besides, did you not try to fix it 30 times already?”

“It will work on the 31 st .”

“And what makes you say that?”

The senator smiled gently and winked at him.

“Because you will be back and you will stay.”

“Says a politician of the Senate.”

“Says a new friend.”

XXX

You.

Hey You.

Yes You.

Gotten yourself in a spot of trouble, hm?

The others have been talking

Not too impressed with what they’ve been seeing

But not I

You’re playing the long game, pal

I respect the caution of time

Now listen here, young one

For it’s my time now for flex divine poetry

Aye, comes the Knight

Full of fire and hardiment

And forth unto the darksome hole he went

Down the abyss

Into shadow

Into night

Into emptiness

Until he was nothing

But a thought

XXX

“Orion Pax.”

The voice, which called out to him was not a kind one but it was familiar nonetheless so he allowed himself to be stirred. The first thing he saw was his own internal systems rebooting: optics flickering white and coming online, and the ever slow stir of his engine humming with an awakened heat. The first bits of imagery which processed through his sight was that of a dim ceiling with dented, blemished panelings—thin blue trails of aged energon running behind the open cracks in old piping—a clinic.

“Orion.”

Ratchet’s clinic.

“You’re awake. I know you’re awake. Get up,” the doctor ordered with a loud, shuddering sigh. He sounded so tired, the edge of sleep threatened on each and every word. And Orion wanted to obey but he could not get a feel for his body yet no less his frame.

“Give him some time, doctor. He just activated, hm?”

“I know, I know but I...I worry after a surgery of that length, Senator.”

“You did a fine job. Sincerely, I owe you a debt that cannot be repaid.”

Orion finally could feel his digits snapping into connectivity; his whole body, eerily foreign to him in that moment, creaked and groaned with the faint roar of a spark jolting him towards panic—and slowly, ignoring the pain throbbing in ever single live circuit, the archivist managed to sit up from the operating table. Ratchet and Senator Shockwave greeted his flickering sight with the latter giving a mild wave.

“Ah, there you go, my Orion. How do you feel?”

“I feel alien,” Orion stuttered, hating how even his own voice box echoed strange in the air.

“That’s normal,” Ratchet said, stepping forward to the table with his data pad out. “You were in reconstruction surgery for nearly two solar cycles. I practically had to replace your frame and some internal parts from the ground up.”

“M-My frame?”

“Yes, you will definitely feel out-of-body for some time until you adjust to your new body, Orion. Now why don’t we test some systems out? How are your optics? Any discoloration?”

The archivist looked all around the room; it was the same color as it has always been, this broken-down, dimly lit berg. He then met with Ratchet’s severe stare and shook his helm.

“Everything looks fine. No flickering or glitches…”

“Good. Now why don’t you step down from the table—slowly now! Just to see if all your new joints are working as intended.”

Orion Pax gave a long sigh, slowly clenching and unclenching his digits methodically into fists. Even they feel cold, a biting reminder that his spark was inhabiting a brand new body that seemingly could not make sense of him either. Then, he gripped the ends of the table and pushed himself off.

The first betrayal was that of his legs—pedes trembled under renewed weight since surgery and Orion immediately tumbled forward with a yelp.

Senator Shockwave dove forward and caught the bot in his arms; he smiled fondly at Orion, a remark buzzing between their C0MMlinks: <my, aren’t you a newborn doe?> before helping the blushing bot steady himself with a pat on his cheek.

“Yes, that’s also normal,” Ratchet sighed out, clicking another box on his data pad. “You will need to some physical therapy with us for at least seven solar cycles. It will certainly help with getting you used to your new alt mode.”

“I have a new alt mode?”

“It’s still a semi-truck, kid. Just...different.”

“Wait.” Orion snapped his helm back and forth between Ratchet and the Senator, his spark pulsing with cold dread. “Is there a mirror? May I see a mirror?”

His two companions shot each other quick, unreadable looks before the doctor reluctantly stepped towards the back of his clinic. As he did, the Senator came right up to Orion, gently taking his loose servo into his with an affectionate squeeze. His smile, still warm, seemingly faltered a bit with a touch of sadness:

<I’m glad you’re alive, Orion. It would break my heart if you deactivate from such a terrible accident>

<I caused you so much trouble, Senator. Please forgive me>

<There is nothing to forgive, my bright star. I should be asking for forgiveness for not coming sooner.>

Senator Shockwave brought his other servo up and cupped the back of Orion’s helm, gently guiding their foreheads together. Orion found a shy smile tugging on his intact, enough to usher a bit of heat to his friend’s face plate and the Senator gave a relieved laugh—the sound alone akin to crystal wind chimes in the summer.

There was a scraping sound and when both bots looked up, they saw Ratchet dragging in a full-length mirror around the operating table. The doctor placed it gingerly against that back wall and took a step to the side, gesturing for Orion to approach carefully.

“Now, just...take a moment, would you? Let me know if there’s anything you want changed,” he started with a cough into his fist. “I honestly think I did a fantastic job but you be the judge, Orion.”

The archivist stared at the mirror cautiously before moving forward, his wounded spark bleating and whirling and surging hot with every cautious step. Even just the act of moving felt strange, like he were operating an external machine with their own commands per limb. Finally, in the silence of sighs, Orion Pax stepped into the dull reflection of the mirror’s facade.

Something glitched in his processor.

He never considered himself to be an ‘attractive’ model (whatever it meant to be attractive these cycles). The archivist was too squared and bulky in the ways that mattered, with a paint job too muted and dull to attract any wandering optics, with an alt form that made absolutely no sense for his occupation: heavy-duty transportation, sure, if he worked down at the docks or the mines but he was a lowly data clerk in a job that was far too cushy for his constructed function.

Every time Orion saw his reflection, he would pull away as though stung by fire’s kiss—he had no interest seeing how plain and boring and tired he always looked. Of course, the archivist always questioned why some bots expressed any interest in him.

Senator Shockwave included.

Standing now, the only thing Orion could think of was: who is the stranger in the mirror? There were elements to Orion Pax that still remained: the red and blue paint scheme, the semi-truck framing, the general unity of his figure. And yet, the sheer foreign nature of his new body could not be ignored: how the individual parts of his anatomy, once outdated and ignored, had suddenly made themselves more known: two exhaust heat shields probing out from his lower back shone a clean-silver beneath the florescent lighting, highlighting every small port of the metal; his wheels against his back legs and shoulders were larger and darker now with a deeper tread pattern, held on by metallic rims.

Finally, it was the matter of his frame itself: it had been completely replaced from the ground up. Fire-red paint fresh with a coat of protective varnish, showing off far more color than he was used to, paired with his thick windshield chassis, which covered an odd empty space in his chest right in front of his spark chamber. His frame’s edges, at the shoulders, arm guards and legs, bore a sleeker edge compared to his former geometric bulk. When Orion tilted his helm to the side, he made a small noise of surprise—his blue helmet now bore rabbit-like antennas at the side...which he found out on the spot that he could move autonomously.

A warm laugh tickled the back of his neck and Senator Shockwave was standing right behind him. He rested his chin on Orion Pax’s broad shoulder and curled his arm around the astonished bot, cupping his face plate with his servo.

“You look lovely, Orion.”

“I...This is me?”

“Always has been.”

Ratchet coughed again behind the pair, more forcibly. “Do you find anything disagreeable with your improved body, Orion? I can try and make some adjustments,” he said.

“N-No! Not disagreeable. I’m just surprised...how did you afford any of these parts? I don’t think the Hall of Records would supply to you anything beyond the standard basic.”

“Thank your politician friend here.”

“Senator?”

The Senator shrugged causally in the mirror’s reflection, his grin so wide and infectious that it betrayed any attempts for the bot to mask his thrill in this story. He then leaned his helm against Orion’s, clinking their sides with a hum—and Orion’s antenna shifted nervously at the contact.

“I had funds to burn, Orion: think nothing of it,” the Senator said with a laugh.

“I...By Primus, I look so different, Senator. I mean, I could not even recognize myself” The archivist brought his servos up, pawing at his enlarged windowed chassis nervously. “W-Why is there an empty space here?”

“Ah.” The Senator let out a short huff of breath. “That empty space. Right. Well, it did not feel appropriate to just have your wonderful spark chamber exposed with your new windshields so I added a rather large cover…”

Orion blushed, optics shifting to the side. “I suppose that makes sense…”

“Prowl will see you in the coming cycles regarding the attack,” Ratchet interrupted the pair, wiping his digits of the dried bits of oil still stained from the recent surgery; his perpetual stern gaze softened, for a ghost of a moment, and he regarded Orion closely. “An attack. A rarity to hear you of all bots to fall into such a thing. What exactly happened?”

Orion gave the Senator a passing look. “How much was told to you already?”

“Just the basics. Said you were being accosted by some hulking brute on the highway.”

“Ah, he looked familiar,” the Senator remarked, tilting his helm up curiously. “I could have sworn I seen him somewhere...”

“Overlord.”

“Excuse me?”

“Overlord,” Orion repeated again, the name alone bitter and unpleasant on his glossa as though it were a thin razor he needed to swallow down. “He’s a gladiator from the Kaon Pits.”

Was a gladiator.” The Senator waited for the archivist to say more; he crossed his arms and leaned forward, slightly bemused. “You’re telling me that he’s alive?”

“Yes.”

Ratchet was the one out of the three that appeared the most distraught. His optic grew wide and bright, the blue visage of terror filling in the space of his distance lens and he started to fidget with his digits as he approached Orion slowly.

“No, that can’t be. I-I saw him die. I was there in the mortuary with my team. We declared him dead.”

Orion shook his helm, antennas tweaking a bit. “That’s what he told me,” he reaffirmed tightly.

“What could he possibly want from you?”

“I don’t know.” The archivist trailed off, hesitation plain on his glossa.

The brand new circuitry laced around his processor begins to spin to new senses and flashing in his memory was brusque words of Overlord to him: No. He failed. An utterance so thick with sweetness that behind the warm, slithering veil inlaid thick venom—hatred raw and old and forever scarred deep within the bot’s light-less spark. Overlord did not care much for Orion Pax—perhaps at the time—for his true target was the Champion of Kaon himself.

But, in a sport of wisdom, he decided against telling his friends. The very last thing he needed them to know that Megatronus, underground suzerain of Kaon and Polyhex, was attempting to court him.

“Well, I’d suggest you allow the Senator to escort you home. One last act of kindness before he returns to the famed bureaucratic life of Iacon,” Ratchet remarked, his tone light like a stone being skipped across a river; he shot the pair a kind if not weary smile and nudged towards the door. “Your prescription is some actual proper rest, Orion.”

Senator Shockwave offered his servo out. Unusually ill-practiced and natural—the shedding of his porcelain mask of white, revealing nothing but that languid tenderness that unveiled itself only in their intimate times of privacy; he smiled shy and Orion accepted it back with one of his own.

The night greeted them like an old friend—with song of the streets and neon lights and the coolness of stars. Purple-blue skyscrapers hovering from floating jagged cliff sides, black serpents dancing and weaving in the space beyond them where highway beams of commuters a lit the sky, and the unbearable chill hovering like a blue-gray veil right below Iacon’s canopy.

Senator Shockwave walked beside him, his arms oddly loose at his sides. It was a rare sight, really, for one of Iacon’s leading bureaucrat to be so relaxed as though he were simply lounging at home. Of course, it made Orion rather flustered to see this side of his most powerful friend, where a small voice of guilt whispered in his audio receptors that it was forbidden to bear such a relationship. Their castes were so wildly detached that Orion had caught, once in a while, the confused, disgusted stare of one of the Senator’s aides.

Shockwave looked to him. “Orion, you’ve been quiet.”

“Sorry. It’s the new body.”

“Sure.”

Suddenly, Shockwave placed a cold servo on the back of Orion’s neck, digits curling teasingly against the soft cabling. The archivist was not at all perverse by touch in the slightly—it was the Senator’s unique charm to be so physically affectionate though he suspected that most of it came from his need to be amused constantly from Orion’s reactions. Their optics met; Shockwave’s, a gentle green that was a fair replacement for the lack of nature in Iacon and he smiled—it was too far serene and still for it to be anything innocent.

“Tell me, Orion Pax of Iacon, what would urge the incarnation of Overlord himself to chase you through the empty streets on Unification Day, hm? I’d consider that pure blasphemy to engage in such games,” he started, his voice oddly clipped in the night.

Orion sighed. “You don’t believe me,” he said matter-of-fact.

“No, I don’t. You’re poor liar. Strange your old friend Ratchet did not catch on.”

“He probably did but it’s easier for him to keep his dermas shut.”

“Speak to me, my bright star,” Shockwave urged flatly, coming to find impatience in Orion’s secrecy. “Before I find out for myself. And you know my own investigations do not bring me much joy in the discovery of their results.”

“I thought you enjoy the hunt, Senator,” Orion shot back, his glossa sharp on the last word to remind Shockwave of his perpetual status of power over him, friendship and all.

“I’d rather hear it from you myself.”

“Ah, and how will you wrestle this information from me? Unless you are all debate and no action?”

This comment made Shockwave frown; his digits, still coiled around the back of Orion’s neck tightened, and he leaned forward until their foreheads touched in that familiar language only know between the two of them. A name rose from Shockwave’s throat but it was caught between his teeth and he could not managed to say it. Orion spoke for him anyway.

“Listen: I have made a rather...perplexing friendship with an individual whom Overlord held a bitter grudge against. Unfortunately, this seemingly communicated that I was somehow special to this bot and thus, I became a target. Are you happy?”

“No, because you just admitted to being a target, Orion Pax,” Shockwave quipped humorlessly, optics dull and slanted cold.

“Goodness, Shockwave, can’t we have a normal conversation for once without you fretting over me like a hot spot tender?”

“You’re a target.”

“I’m fine—alive.”

“A target.” A strange sound wrestled out of the Senator’s voice box like an echo. Suddenly, anger flushed raw on his handsome face plate, a thought struck him cold that only Orion could see up close. “He will come back for you.”

“I’ll be careful,” Orion bemoaned; debating with the Senator was exactly what he imagined Bumblebee felt like during their bursts of parental hostility. A wall—all walls.

“Who is even this ‘individual’ whom you have become acquainted with? If Overlord is their enemy, then association with them must be equally dangerous.”

“Shockwave.”

“Am I wrong? I know my enemies well. I keep them close—their seats are next to mine in the Senate. Their faces are imprinted in my processor so I cannot forget their slight should one is made. But Overload...well, your new friend is not a very good politician for he makes enemies loosely.”

Orion shut his optics, more so to avoid the cold leer Shockwave was giving him in that moment.

“You haven’t forgiven me,” he said, allowing the cold feeling to touch his spark.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Because I rejected your offer for us to be spark mates.”

With this, Senator Shockwave released Orion Pax. He stood in the dark, where a crown of white stars framed his helm. Despite their closeness, he seemed so far away, as though standing just in the horizon where Orion could barely make out his figure. And in those shadows, optics glowed a low green, wandering along the ground without reason or aim.

“I love you,” was what Shockwave said, echoing himself years back. Voice still fervent with worship and ache and terror so deep, he was tumbling down the abyss of his own mind. “I never stopped loving you.”

“I know,” Orion whispered quietly.

“Why? I...why?

“We’re not the same caste.”

The Senator laughed mirthlessly. “Come on. Do not tell me you’re a functionalist now—one of those old cogs who believe your alt-form and caste level is what dictates your life. That is an absolutely shite response, especially for you, Orion,” he breathed out.

“You can have anyone,” the archivist reminded him.

“I want you.”

A pause; Shockwave laughed again and shook his head. “I’d be easier if you just tell me that you don’t love me back.”

“I do love you,” Orion said without hesitation.

“But you cannot find it in yourself to enter Conjunx Ritus with me?”

When Orion Pax did not answer, Senator Shockwave did something most unexpected: he leaned forward and caught the archivist's dermas in a harsh kiss. A strangled noise choked from Orion, more so out of surprise and he hardly had the time to push his friend away before Shockwave stepped back. The Senator licked his bruised dermas slowly, face plate noticeably flushed, and he gave a detached laugh that sounded close to a rattle.

“I’m still a bureaucrat at heart, Orion Pax. And you owe me for your pretty, shiny new body. So consider that your payment.”

He showed the white of his teeth and something dark stirred in Orion’s core.

It felt like a warning.

XXX

There were ten messages left behind on Orion’s terminal and he did not need to know who it was to overlord his systems with this many ‘Attn’ subject liners; he propped himself down, still feeling stiff from the newly installed hydraulics in his spine, and merely scrolled down his inbox without touching any of the messages.

Megatronus had long departed to Kaon after their last conversation, having cited some business that he needed to take care of without a word of his return—not that Orion was tracking the solar cycles of the gladiator's absence, no not at all. But Pit season has long ended and the archivist had allowed himself the indulgence of wondering what sort of business he could be attending with that much urgency.

Again, Orion Pax tried not to let his mind wander to Megatronus; some distance to think would do them some good. Still, curiosity was the glitch with only a singular relief and, trying to spare himself the potential loss of discomposure (and emotional overload), Orion only listened to the very last message sent from Kaon—received a few cycles ago during his reconstruction surgery.

The terminal whirled to life, blue static dancing across the screen, before it settled on a message box; a serpent of a message spilled out slowly, every word bleeding into Orion Pax’s unwavering optics.

In the dark,

Sodden-optics—gray-blue

Rain falling, a silent lake

A veil over skyscrapers

Quakes in the lonely spark

In the night

A voice, song sweet

Glitching in the processor

And the siren calls

Sea-foam gentle against the cliff side

In the space

Emptiness of stars

Absence of the touch

Is far more crueler

Than void itself

So come gently

In silence and fear

So come gently

In mercy and love

Orion sat there for a minute longer than he expected, just the dim hum of the terminal singing into the space, into the silence. He then touched his chassis, feeling the thick windshields thump faintly with the pained lullaby of his spark—irritable thing!; Orion was not so locked away in his dark library that his processor could no longer function properly.

While he did not know Megatronus as long as he did (evidently), there was strange, unexplained aspect of the warrior that Orion could not ignore—they both had been seeking each other in the dark for years, only now being able to find each other. And as much as Orion wished to deny that he was weak against the wave of affection, Megatronus proved to be a very persistent enemy.

In fact, the rest of his inbox seemed to be poetry, sent on different cycles around the thick of the evening; the gladiator must have been inspired by their last chat, now taking to a night-time hobby of literary seducing him from a whole other city. Orion touched the side of his helm with his digits, staled by his own inaction and the bizarre heat caught in the pit of his throat; he sat there, mildly stunned, and after a moment, he reached over and started to type.

C0MMlink_encrypted entry: Approved for [USER_OP013]

Host: User_D016

IP_Unknown [High Clearance Required]

D016 – Identify yourself and explain how you were able to contact me. You are not in my contacts.

OP013 – I received your poetry.

D016 – Orion Pax?

OP013 – It’s lovely.

D016 – I cannot believe mine optics. Is it truly you?

OP013 – Do you write other mechs sad romantic poetry? I am insulted, Megatronus.

D016 – Oh my little archivist. I missed you dearly. Your visage bleeds into my processor. You have been so bitterly cold to me, to leave my messages without a reply. I suppose you must enjoy our game.

OP013 – Hardly, Master Megatronus. I just came into office now and opened my terminal.

D016 – Where have you gone, Orion?

OP013 – It is a very long affair and I’d rather tell you physically

D016 – Is that an invitation?

OP013 – Would you accept?

D016 – You know mine answer; I wish to know if you sincerely want me there.

OP013 – Yes.

OP013 – I want to see you, Megatronus.

OP013 – Hello? Are you still there?

D016 – Apologies, my little archivist. I was just saving a copy of our conversation.

OP013 – Stop. I dislike flirting over C0MMlink—save your poetry for the next time you come into Iacon.

D016 – I will do more than flex poetry with you, Orion Pax.

D016 – Expect me at your doorway by five moon cycles. Unfortunately, your Lord has made a mess of things here with this communication beacon they’re attempting to set up so I must stay longer.

OP013 – Oh? Is everyone safe?

D016 – Relatively.

D016 – This ongoing absence from the sweet warmth of your side is far fouler than Lord War himself.

OP013 – I said to save your poetry, Megatronus

D016 – Have you thought about it? Conjunx Ritus?

OP013 – You are so very impatient. All of this we can speak about when you are in Iacon.

D016 – Orion Pax, you can be a cold, cruel mech at times. Your apathy stings worse than any blade.

OP013 – Then let me mend your easily inflicted wounds. Come to my side, Megatronus.

OP013 – Maccadam’s Old Oil House. Have you heard it? Meet me there in the late evening when you arrive to Iacon.
D016 – Not your unit?

OP013 – My berth? My, that is not a fair place for conversation now unless you aim to use your intact in a different way.

OP013 – Megatronus.

OP013 – Please stop saving our conversation.

D016 – Maccadam’s Old Oil House. Understood.

OP013 – Wonderful. Have a peaceful recharge, Megatronus.

D016 – I wished to speak to you all night, my little archivist. Alas, you leave my side again in this lonely long dark without warmth.

OP013 – Then come search for mine servo in the night. Good night, Megatronus.

Orion closed the C0MMlink before the gladiator could respond, feeling a tinge of victory over his further denial of Megatronus’ desires. It was only once the terminal slowly shut down, casting the office in the dimness of its usual darkness, Orion’s voice box gave a weakened whine. The sound alone nearly frightened him—his own capability for feeling.

Conjunx Endura. The thought never crossed his processor once. When Senator Shockwave, on a quiet evening of stars on their bench in Ark-1 Memorial Park, asked the archivist to be his conjunx, Orion responded the very same as he did with Megatronus: he laughed. Not because it was funny.

He simply did not think such a question would be asked for him.

Was Orion Pax even capable of love? Of course. He knew this well. There was many friends he considered to be members of his own family; Bumblebee, Jazz, Ratchet, Old Mac, Prowl, Alpha Trion—the very few relationships he bore close and sacred to his spark.

Senator Shockwave and Megatronus, however, brought forth a dark, wild confusion within him, one that often at times, he wished not to think about. Orion could say that he loved the Senator like a brother—like kin, but that would be a lie.

And Megatronus was a different beast in of itself.

By Primus, Orion did not need this. He just came back after a tortured encounter, had his entire frame replaced from the ground up, and he was still set to see Sentinel Prime within the chord.

And Bumblebee was still in Kaon without any word of his status.

Perhaps Jazz was right: something was shifting in Cybertron’s core. Discourse, confusion, and the unknown were slowly whirling out of control and no one, not even Sentinel Prime himself, could tighten that leash anymore towards a temporary normalcy. And now this lowly archivist was caught right in the eye of the storm with little way out.

A C0MMlinks blinked through his processor:

JZZ08 – Old Mac’s tonight? Doc told me what happened.

OP013 – Sure, why not?

JZZ08 – Come talk to me, bro. See ya.

Orion Pax sighed and returned to his work. Today was going to be a long, dreadful cycle of oppressive thoughts.

XXX

Orion.

Dear Orion.

Yes, you, child.

Come closer.

Have you forgotten about me?

Ah, do not weep

For I do not hold blame

You still yearn for my voice in the night

As such is a child to their parent

Lost in the mist of time and space

Listen my Orion

And remember well

Even if you cannot remember me;

Since the dawn of The Architect

quem semper acerbum

semper bonoratum (sic, di, voluistis) babebo

We have been wading through dreams

From the ocean we mistook for a lake

He fell first, our white king

On cold land reclaimed for our Father;

O misero frater adempte mihi!

Second went our protector, armored purple

Gone mad with grief and love

Omnia tecum una perierunt gaudia nostra,

quae tuus in vita dulcis alebat amor

Third perished our bright sister

Blessed blacksmith—anvil now cold

alloquar? Audiero nunquam tua verba loquentem?

Our clock master followed

Blinded by ambition, disappeared with time;

Then our dark witch departed

Hatred cold in the spark; Quintesson children wielding mother’s grudge;

And there, our wizard of forms vanished out of memory

Legacy alive in inheritors of the new cycle;

Rage did our beastly brother to his end,

Kin of the spirit realm and father of predators;

And to our laughing brother in the cold spark of space,

Master of disguise and forever bemused;

Forever broken by the fall of our little brother

Small in form but grand in spark;

Hail and pity the madness of our great betrayer

Lives now in darkness and dystopia

Until there were two left;

I remember him well,

Mischievous, clever brother of creation

You went from this place

Shepherd disguised, still spirits smelling

at certe semper amabo

And there was I

The historian

Recorder

Archivist

No warrior

No wizard

Knowledge outlives legacy and time

APPELLOR REX OZYMANDIAS REGUM

ASPICITE O MEA FACTA ET DESPERATE POTENTES

But there is a thirteen

This was told to us the first Dawn

Another to come

Martyr and lamb

To inherit the title

And usher the final stages

Of The Architect’s design

Orion,

I am sorry

That this cursed inheritance

Lies in our dynasty

Ille solus nescit omnia

XXX

Orion Pax was crying when he awoke. He was not sure why he was crying. When Sentinel Prime’s seeker came to escort him to the Iacon Senate, he was still wet with coolant.

The seeker supposed it was from the joy of meeting a Prime himself.

Orion did not correct him.

XXX

“Whoa. You look...different. New paint job?”

Orion Pax should not be so surprised by Sentinel Prime’s casualty. Unlike the Primes that came before him, he did not represent the antiquity of Cybertron’s golden age nor was he an originator of the Thirteen Primes. Still, he embodied the divine nature of Primus himself, chosen to shepherd Cybertron to prosperity, and Orion supposed that Sentinel’s carefree demeanor was a breath of fresh air in terms of leadership.

He eyed Dion’s striking blue visage, standing guard in the far corner of Sentinel Prime’s golden-veiled office. The hulking elite guard was incredibly still, optics straight-forward on a cold, stony face plate, which made him resemble closer to a statue now that Orion entered into the space.

Though, for just a ghost of a nanoklik, the guard broke his neutrality and met with Orion’s passing glance—they both looked away quickly and the archivist settled his nervous gaze on Sentinel Prime seated at a large rock sleet, which had been evidently formatted to function as a table. There was plates of high grade energon cubes—radiant pink—on platinum platters; Sentinel was drinking from a clear glass when Orion reluctantly approached and gave a low, impressed whistle.

“Seriously. You need to tell me who your auto shop painter is,” he said, nodding his helm up and down Orion’s figure. “Anyway, have a seat. Make yourself at home.”

When Orion tried to sit at the very end of the table, Sentinel gave another whistle—sharp and near-condescending. The archivist looked up, slightly panicked, only to see that the Prime was gesturing to the empty seat right beside him. Orion’s processor screamed at him to just sit down as far from the suzerain as possible. But he knew better than to perform poorly in front of Sentinel Prime—this was not the time to play within his comfort zone.

“I really appreciate you joining me today, Orion Pax,” he started with a crescent moon grin when the archivist finally took seat next to him.

Sentinel rested his chin on his servo idly as though he were prone to boredom but his optics told a different story—always shifting, always searching, and currently they were aimed right at Orion.

“I hope my invitation didn’t spook you.”

“In a way. It was unexpected, my lord,” Orion answered honestly, finding no reason to lie to bot.

This clearly pleased Sentinel for his gaze softened considerably. “And it shouldn’t. I always make time to talk with any member of my Cybertronian family regardless of their caste.”

“That is very open-minded of you, my Lord.”

“Please, call me Sentinel. Here, why don’t you help yourself? This grade of energon is so high that only members of the Senate could have access,” he said, taking a sip of his glass with a smirk.

Orion’s optics shifted nervously to the platter in front of him. He was not feeling hungry but His Lordship was watching him so closely that the command has already been internalized in the archivist's processor; he reached out, took a cube, and took a chomp.

Immediately, Orion doubled over in a violent cough.

Sentinel gave a laugh. “Not used to the high quality stuff, huh?”

“N-No not at all…”

“You’re very honest. It’s good to see a Cybertronian so sincere these cycles. Tell me about yourself, Orion Pax.”

“There’s nothing exciting about me, My L—Sentinel. I am merely a middle-caste desk clerk. I known no suffering, no hardship, or prejudice unlike my kin in the lower castes. You are speaking to Cybertron’s least of concerns.”

Sentinel gave a whistle. “Wow. You really are comfortable in your place.”

“I wouldn’t say comfortable—”

“That’s so good to hear, you know.” He smiled radiant. “So many of your brothers and sisters complain endlessly—citing ‘mis-justice’ and ‘class oppression’ and all these fancy, stupid words that these lower castes have apparently acquired. We always keep them in our thoughts, you know—try our best with them but we have to take care of everyone.”

“Yes, but you cannot deny that they are still victims in a system that does not benefit them.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“Yes.”

Sentinel laughed at this bluntness, throwing his helm back, as though Orion tossed him a joke. Yet his gaze was still lightly affectionate and placid so, for the time being, the archivist was quietly relieved that he did not slight Cybertron’s ruler yet. Sentinel took a few breaths, more so to cool his internal engines, and he grinned at Orion.

“You know, your cadence, way of speech, and even the way you sit—it reminds me so much of Alpha Trion. Have you ever met the late Prime?”

Yes.

Somewhere in Orion Pax’s broken mind, he knew they had already met. A sacred memory locked behind doors, protected by code, for fear of retaliation of a greater power even he could not recall. Where did he meet Alpha Trion? When did he meet him? When Orion’s optics slowly shifted up, he saw that Sentinel was watching him closely with a bizarrely unwavering set of attention; his smile was still present but bore an artificial stillness—a symmetrical, sleek mask to cover a deeper, caustic emotion just bubbling beneath the surface.

“No,” Orion lied cleanly and shook his helm. “He died before I could meet him.”

“That’s right,” Sentinel nodded, evidently pleased with this response. “You two would have never met. What a silly thing for me to ask.”

Behind them, Dion coughed.

“Brother Alpha was my mentor, you know. I trained under him. He rescued me from the Kaon Pits and brought me to the Senate as an administrative clerk,” the Prime continued, leaning back in his seat with his shoulder loose. “Taught me everything there was about Cybertron’s history, governance, and duties. Old cog was an incredibly dry speaker.”

Orion nodded. “I bet. I’m sorry for your loss, Sentinel.”

“He would have liked you, Orion. It’s so funny how…identical you two behave.”

Dion coughed again; he moved his helm to the side and covered his intact.

“Alpha Trion founded the Hall of Records. I suppose all or at least most bots sent to be data clerks were modeled after his personality disk in some way.”

“Hah! You’d say that now but the rest of them are all, mind my glossa, aft kissers. You like them?”

“I work with them.”

“But do you like them?”

“They dislike me.”

“They envy your skill, Orion Pax. Honestly if I had more time to refine our function system a bit more, we could rightfully categorize ineffective bots as disposables next to those damned outliers. Throw them all to management waste for manual labor.”

“Sentinel, that’s rather extreme.”

“Is it now?”

When Orion Pax said nothing, Sentinel downed the rest of his drink and pushed it to the side. He then eyed the archivist, his demeanor suddenly solemn and cold with his optics harshly glint over to two thin blue slits. His Lordship leaned over, his closest servo to Orion closed to tight fist.

“Listen, Orion Pax—they say you have a processor the size of a planet. So let me pick it for this solar cycle: what can you tell me about the Decepticons?”

“Decepticons?” The archivist's optics widened and he cocked his head curiously—one of his favorite history topics from his schooling cycles. “They’re an ancient order, Sentinel. Active during the Golden Age of the Primes under Megatronus Prime. Originally, the Decepticons served as religious warriors who protected Cybertron’s first colonies and assisted with colonization efforts. Of course, over-time, they departed from martial law and settled as an establishing political party, which represented the needs of the low caste colonists in the first Senate. They only disbanded due to Prima Prime and Megatronus Prime’s deaths in the first Quintesson War.”

“Yes, yes, that lot has been defunct for eons,” Sentinel remarked, his voice clipped. “Well, it would be ideal if they stayed defunct.”

“Sir?”

For a nanoklik, he did not speak; he was still staring at Orion but no longer did it seem like he actually saw Orion. He was looking at someone else—something else, through the archivist and whatever visage that greeted him at the end was enough to make His Lordship suddenly stand up with his servos slamming down on the table. Orion jolted but he kept to his wisdom on silence as he watched Sentinel pace around the table, handsome face plate twisted in a mild vexation.

“I’ll be frank with you, Orion Pax. There has been some trouble down in the smeltering fields of Kaon and the western mining cities. No, not some trouble—actual trouble. And it will endanger all of us if we do not kill this glitch at the source as soon as possible.”

Orion’s digits squeezed his bitten energon cube, feeling the heat hum into the metal. “What kind of trouble?” he asked carefully.

“I have been receiving concerning reports for a while now of an underground movement, started by some disgruntled miner in Tarn. A movement to revive the Decepticons. But unlike our ancient political parties, their goals align with absolute chaos: they wish to usurp the Senate, Orion Pax.” Sentinel stopped in his tracks and stared at the archivist. “I hope you realize what this means. Anarchy. Disorder. Destruction. We cannot allow this to happen.”

“W-What? How do you know?”

“I have my agents all over Cybertron, Orion Pax. They’ve been at secret gatherings conducted by this underground movement. They even caught on with growing plots to assassinate our senators. Furthermore, I was able to get my servos on ‘literature’ being circulated around the lower castes. Take a look.”

He took a data disk out from his side and slid it across the table where Orion caught it cleanly. An instinct, raw and ebbing, screamed at the bot to not open the message. To not peer upon their contents because ignorance was a kind, attentive parent while the world burned outside their doors; Sentinel was staring him, his vent fans whirling heavy beneath his broad chassis, and Orion once again reluctantly obeyed the one who held his lease.

The data disk’s screen lit a harsh blue in Orion’s optics before a long message began to be typed out into the space.

I have seen the Throne of the Primes

Gods of the Ancient Age

Carvers of Cybertron’s Rock face

And Fathers of our kin

Aye, I have seen the Throne of the Prime

Empty her seat is; cold is the stone

To the dust they have returned

Absence hidden by the masters

The leash they hold tight

Choking, choking, choking

Are we in the Pits

The masters speak

Guns are drawn

And we rust, rust, rust

Beneath the soil

Unheard, unseen

Our intact filled with rock

As theirs with energon

Where is the sun promised?

Where are the stars?

The night is so long

And we are so far

So bear it aloft, O bloody flag in the night

Let us make light if they will not

Fire and embers a lit

And carve our throne when theirs has been empty since the Primes

From the scraps of the ones

Who held the leash

And let our kin be known

In the new world, a greater world

No Gods

No Masters

“You see what I mean now? Poetry—if you can even call such a thing that, to incite our brothers and sisters against towards violence,” Sentinel stuttered, half-laughing mad with his servo covering his optics; he shook his helm and suddenly slammed a fist on a table—the sound echoing across his entire grand office of sunset drenched marble. “But they listen! Those ash-covered idiots listen! And now, they vandalize my communication tower so my agents can’t report to me. They kill my enforcer mechs and send their helms to my door as a threat. Dangerous ‘literature’ like this has reached Iacon and imprinted dangerous notions into my people. And now, I hear rumors of the Decepticon underground building a resistance hub here in my capital. Do you see why this is a major problem?”

Orion was still staring at the poem: No Gods, No Masters. He has read far too many poetry from CWA anthology series to know the author of this piece. And Orion Pax knew him intimately. His spark practically overloaded with both the danger of this secret knowledge and a greater, hotter emotion which he prayed to Primus, it would not show on his face. Instead, he clutched the data disk protectively in his servos and gave Sentinel a controlled, obedient nod.

“I called you here today because I need your help,” Sentinel said and rounded the table, his digits idly tracing the refined stone top of the table. “No one else from the Hall. Just you.”

“What can I do that my colleagues can’t?”

“Simple: you have a knack for it.”

Orion Pax knew this was not the true answer but he nodded anyway. Sentinel came closer until he stood in front of him, looming over the archivist with his winged shadow blocking out that of the dying sun below Cybertron’s horizon—bleeding a bloody crimson all along the walls and darkening the Prime’s silhouette until the only things that could be seen were his blue optics—his helm crowned red and gold from the windowed sky drop, a king bleeding. Then, Sentinel reached over and placed a single servo on Orion’s shoulder.

“Work with me as my personal research assistant, Orion Pax. Together, we will uncover this Decepticon revival underground together and stamp out Cybertron’s threat for good,” he said—commanded, voice dripping thick with both hatred and want and elation. His digits squeezed the archivist's shoulder blade possessively. “Join me.”

“I...I…”

“My Lord,” Dion suddenly announced, the stark coolness of his voice a sweet coolant over Orion’s smoldering frame. The Elite Guard dipped into a practiced bow on a single knee, servo wrapped around the handle of his hammer, and he continued. “I just received a C0MMLink alert from the Senate. Senator Shockwave is coming to see you—”

“As you see, I’m in a conversation right now.”

“Right now. He’s at the door.”

Sentinel pulled back, expression veiled by the sheer darkness of his silhouette but Orion Pax needed not to know how Lord Prime was feeling at this very present moment. Sentinel’s glowing optics dropped to Orion, wide and colder than steel.

“We will continue this conversation on another solar cycle, Orion Pax. You have my word.” He then turned to Dion and gave a gesture. “See to it that my precious friend gets home safe.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

“And use the office back door. I wished not for our special little senator to catch on to my private conversations anymore than he already does.”

“Yes.” Orion jolted upon feeling a large servo clasped protectively over his shoulder—Dion stood right behind him, peering down at the startled archivist.

“As you command, Lord Prime.”

They did not speak.

Though Orion Pax figured Dion was in no such mood to exchange further pleasantries while ushering him out of the Lord Prime’s office. It was not until the pair were finally outside on the streets below, around the back of the Senate tower, that Dion finally surprised Orion by making a low noise of relief—he leaned against the wall and wiped his helm with his arm.

Orion Pax said nothing. He simply stared at the Elite Guard who, by all accounts, appeared rather despondent at the moment. Dion had an honest aura to him that calmed Orion in a way others could not. There was not even a ‘metaphorical’ mask in place to shield his expressions for he simply refrained from indulgence until he was ‘off-duty’ it seemed; his spark pulsed low, his intact remained low and neutral, and his optics looked to scan than to judge. Even now, when his gaze flickered up to Orion, all the archivist could feel was the cool observation of a sentry.

“You are too honest, Orion,” Dion said as he stood up to his full height.

“Not entirely,” Orion said. “I did not tell him everything.”

“Fair. But do perform with some discretion. You speak to Cybertron’s Prime, not your friend at a bar.”

“Ah. You find some fault with my words.”

“I worry for your safety,” Dion said as they began walking back to the direction of the airfield where Orion Pax had been dropped off by a jet seeker.

Orion arched his optical ridge. “Are you suggesting that Sentinel Prime would have been slighted by my honesty?” He asked quietly.

“His Lordship is not one for debates. You are merely fortunate that you caught him on a good solar cycle to practice a philosophy discussion.”

“So...what do you think?”

“I think nothing; I serve my Lord and caution others to do the same.” Dion paused. “With equal care.”

“But you were eavesdropping,” Orion pointed out matter-of-fact.

“Unavoidable.”

“Still. You must have opinions.”

“His Lordship’s offer to you is a decision you must make alone, Orion Pax.”

“And you will not give me your thoughts? Not even a notion?”

“No.”

Orion suddenly felt a surge of indignation—a rare irritation—and even rarer was the boyishness that followed for he leaned over and said rather threatening: “If you don’t tell me, I’ll try and kiss you again.”

“You are behaving like a sparkling, Orion,” Dion retorted feebly but his face plate, warm-coated and scrunched with growing concern revealed enough. And that alone seemed to explain everything about the Elite Guard to Orion. But he continued. “But, if you insist.”

“I insist.”

“This stays between us.”

“Naturally.”

Dion’s optics wandered up towards Iacon’s horizon line, where the small diamond fractures glitching into the space glistened upon the gentle tangerine hum of a low sun. He was searching for something—someone, rather for Orion could recognize his own methodical look on a stranger’s face plate well.

“I have served Sentinel Prime since Alpha Trion’s death many solar cycles ago. He does not remember my name.”

“Dion?”

“Ultra Magnus,” he corrected gently. “The designation given to me upon my entry into the Elite Guard. It is a tradition among CWA graduates to abandon their original names for one that properly reflects their new roles in Cybertronian society. Alpha Trion gave me mine.”

Silence suddenly suffocated the space between them; the one called Ultra Magnus allowed a bit of his resentment, cold and dark, to smother his optics for a brief second as he looked down towards his pedes.

“His Lord Prime does not know my name. Nor the names of those who work for him. We must be good soldiers. He gives orders and we follow. The master points and the gun shoots. And those whose names he does remember are simply deigned, in his mind, to be greater...actors in this invisible game of war, which I struggle to understand.”

“And the Decepticon underground?”

“A potential threat to our national security though their philosophy is popular among the low caste for a reason. I see no reason why we cannot just start a dialogue with them considering all this unrest. Though, I suspect His Lordship finds their existence to be a…,” he trailed off, struggling to find the right word to describe his half-finished thought.

“A personal slight,” Orion added for he already knew.

“Yes. As you say.”

“I think I understand now. Thank you, Ultra Magnus—”

Dion,” the Elite Guard corrected quickly. The slip of his accent, dead and buried, had betrayed his past to Orion Pax within that moment: he was there before, in the same bright hot spot they were forged from bits of dancing sparks. He was there when Alpha Trion taught them arithmetic and language on those late solar cycles where the sun hid behind the skyscrapers, blood crimson seeping around their edges. His true tone, now retreating back behind the stony utterance of a stoic bot, had forcibly peeled back the locked walls of Orion’s processor where a plethora of images flashed behind his optics: two newborn bots sitting side by side, listening to the quiet stories of their aged father.

Without looking at him, Orion said, “Okay, Dion.”

“Allow me to escort you to your unit,” the older bot suggested.

“No, there’s no need. Jazz has a concert tonight at Old Mac’s so I think I will head there.”

“Oh.” Dion stepped back, arms at his side awkwardly. His expression was still muted yet Orion knew he was disappointed. “Very well then.”

Orion arched his optical ridge. “Would you like to come with me, Dion?” he asked unable to contain a smile.

“No. I am on duty and personal recreation is not approved.”

“It’s not personal recreation if Sentinel Prime’s special guest is requesting an escort to a location. You do not have to step inside.”

After two beats of contemplative silence, with Dion’s exasperated stare pinning Orion to the ground he stood on, the former’s shoulders loosened and he stepped forward with his servos on his hips.

“Fine. Let’s go,” he said beneath his breath.

“You seem awfully displeased to guard me, Dion,” Orion teased with a half laugh.

“Do not mistake my feelings of frustration to be from a lack of care.” Hurt flushed raw across Dion’s face plate and his optics went dark with an old, unreachable sort sentimentality. “I would never allow any harm to come to you, Orion.”

“I know, Dion.”

And Orion knew this to be true as it always has been since the beginning.

XXX

Orion Pax,

I am fine. Do not worry about me. Send no reply.

B-127

XXX

Despite the heavy crowds in Old Mac’s, it was bitterly cold tonight.

Too many helms bowed in groups, murmuring to each other in whispers and hushed conspiracies. Optics twitching and darting back and forth in search for unknown enemies in the dark. A figure came in through the automatic doors—frantic gazes flickered in unison to the sight of a striking enforcement officer standing at the entrance (why was he here). When he refused to meet any of the patron’s stares and made his way towards the more empty counter, the flurry of optics moved back into their individual groups and the whispers continued.

Orion, too, found himself disquieted as he made idle circles on the bar from the bits of spilled energon. His own optics worriedly locked onto Jazz’s shadowed bent-figure on the small stage of Old Mac’s, slowly strumming a long-necked string piece that hummed static into the air every time his digits plucked a blue-cast line. It was a lonely, sad song, ill-suited for the usually lighthearted bot and Orion knew not to make of this besides feeling the abyss in his spark grow wider from the sheer isolation of it all. Beside him, a seat was taken—a close presence blanketing his in an old, warm comfort.

“Orion,” greeted the voice in false idleness; low and graveled from a constant tension upon the voice box than a natural trait.

The archivist turned around and greeted the sharp gray-eyed stare of Iacon’s captain of police, Prowl. The mech, appropriately framed in a white-black patterned patrol vehicle, bore a sharp blood-red chevron on his helm that made him appear more like a Cybertronian hawk from close up—something Orion always humored himself into staring at during their long conversations. Of course, it was simply the standard of bots from Praxus but Orion liked to think that his friend had a sharper design than most from that city-state.

Though now, there was a noticeable tilt of the chevron’s right wing with long white scratches and dirt smudges all over Prowl’s usually polished frame.

Orion did not bother to hide his quiet scrutiny at the officer’s (subtly) beaten figure before he leaned forward and physically fixed the chevron’s right wing.

“Thanks,” Prowl uttered sardonically before grabbing Orion’s half-drunken cup of energon and downing it with a single movement, door wings twitching with irritation.

Prowl had entered Orion’s life in a most unorthodox way though it was perhaps his way. It was the prime of their schooling cycles at AST where Jazz had decided to commit to his already concurrent streak of rebellion by dropping out of the academy to pursue music—a notion heavily criticized by their peers. Still, Orion made it a point to take his best friend out for dinner and drinks at Old Mac’s to at least celebrate Jazz’s open courage (and possible indictment for abandoning his occupation).

The party was a private one, mostly consisting of their academy and vocational friends. Old Mac had supplied them with an experimental drink called: ‘The Spark Exhauster.’ A mistake, of course, was for both Jazz and Orion to down three in succession without rest. By the end of it, Old Mac had kicked out the intoxicated sparklings for throwing up screws and bolts on his tables.

Orion only remembered a little bit from that walk home—specifically that a junior officer from the Iacon Police Academy had stopped the pair from going for a ‘swim’ in the nearby energon canal just for Jazz to remark with a burp ‘I’ll swim in your canal’ before burying his helm in said officer’s chest plate, completely passed out.

Many kilocycles later and Prowl had forgiven his friends for their foolishness, citing that everyone needs at least one bad night of poor choices—makes his job more useful.

“Long cycle?” Orion asked, resting his chin on his servo.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why is it so busy in here?” Prowl asked without answering Orion’s question, slamming the cup down on the bar with a low sigh.

The archivist closed his optics. “Kaon Mine 4.”

“Oh.” The officer went quiet before he nodded gravely. “Yes, I heard.”

“Jazz had to turn off the C0MMlink channel and is playing music to help with the mood.”

“Hard sell considering that the death count just rose to twenty miners.”

Twenty?

“That number will rise,” Prowl said honestly—without malice—and turned watched Orion with his stormy optics hardened. “They haven’t cleared all the rubble yet.”

“Primus…”

The cycles had been slogging on towards a conclusion in a cruel, universe-sense. Violence building up without relief—more news on public riots turning deadly, assassination attempts, and, quite recently, a Kaon mine cave-in. Orion Pax’s processor was already overloaded from his own sense of isolation and discontent; Bumblebee was still in Kaon, eerily silent; Sentinel Prime was awaiting his answer to building a future on uncertainty and suppression, and his mysterious dreams had not stopped.

Alpha Trion was hiding somewhere in there.

“Hey so,” Prowl started, rubbing the loose paneling of his blemished armor awkwardly. “I wanted to let you know that I got some new information regarding that attack of yours.”

“Yeah?” Orion said, more so because he did not know what else to say.

The officer nodded and leaned in close. “Listen: I did this investigation on my own outside the precinct. And after poking my helm around in places I will not say for now, I discovered that Overlord’s tomb in Kaon had been disturbed.”

“Disturbed?”

“Dug up. Emptied. There is no body.”

“So someone took it.”

“Or a corpse woke up.”

“You shouldn’t be telling Orion tall tales, Officer Prowl,” said an aged voice right over Prowl and Orion’s touching shoulders.

They turned around only to see Ratchet hovering over them, the medical bot’s weary face plate slightly splattered with bits of dried of energon. Orion knew him long enough not to ask him anything—he merely scooted his stool to the side, allowing for Prowl to slot an empty seat between them. Ratchet nodded absently with gratitude as he took his place at the counter with a low, inaudible murmur beneath his breath.

Prowl, of course, was a bit crueler.

“Someone deactivate on you, Dr. Ratchet?” He asked a little too loudly.

Ratchet showed him his dentas. “Yes, Officer Prowl. They did. Thank you for asking,” he said in a cold feigned friendliness.

“You’re welcome.”

Orion carefully climbed over the bar counter top, reaching for the drink tabs, and said: “Here, I’ll make you a drink, Ratchet.”

“You’re kinder than most.”

“What’s all this about ‘tall tales’ now?” Prowl demanded with an arch of his optical ridge.

“This idiotic notion that Overlord is alive. He’s dead—I seen it with my own optics.”

“Were you there when his corpse crawled out of the junkyard? Because he’s not there anymore.”

“It’s probably just scrappers, Prowl.” Ratchet nodded kindly to Orion as he passed him a filled cube over the counter top before giving the officer a severe side-glance. “Overlord had many valuable parts on his frame, you know. Heavy armor, gauntlets, energon-fueled cannons—scrappers probably stripped the exoskeleton raw and circulated the parts in the Kaon black market.”

“Wow.” Prowl gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “Never pegged you to be so pessimistic.”

“And I never imagined you be so misinformed but here we are.”

Ratchet tipped his glass over, downing about half of his energon before he passed it over to Orion. The archivist merely gave his friends a troubled yet amused grin before finishing the rest cleanly—as was their ritual when it came to conversations like this: two walls immobilized by their own sense of stubbornness.

The officer scoffed, shaking his helm with his optics wandering along the darkness of the bar.

“I care not for what you say. I saw it myself: his junkyard was empty and Orion’s description matched Overlord perfectly. He has managed to evade death.”

“So let us say your theory is correct: not only do we have a potential revolution on our hands with the amounts of riots and shootings we have been experiencing across this Cybertronian front, we also may have an extremely vengeful gladiator wandering around attacking data clerks,” Ratchet started, his breath harsh with exhaustion for the conversation.

“Just Orion really.”

Jazz strutted behind the group, his string instrument thrown causally over his shoulder—none of them noticed that the music had long ended though the smoke and ash of the bar still remained as morose as it did when they entered. He shot a half smirk—more so at Prowl who scowled at the musician before he cocked his helm towards Orion.

“This bot has always been a magnet for trouble since his reconstruction,” Jazz remarked coolly.

“You do me a disservice, old friend,” Orion retorted weakly, already filling Jazz a glass of energon from the tap.

“Am I wrong?”

“You’re not one to speak of trouble, Jazz,” Prowl warned with a mean sort of smile.

The musician feigned a shock expression and placed his servo over his chest plate, intact hanging open. “Moi? What an insult, officer! My record is as clean as Sentinel Prime’s aft.”

“So you’re a dirty criminal,” Ratchet added with a rare touch of humor in his voice box.

Prowl chuckled at this. “Naturally. He’s always been an anarchist,” he said.

“Do you hear this?” Jazz asked, looking at Orion desperately in an exaggerated manner. “The cop, of all bots, is accusing me of injustice.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“The police is not exactly for the people, you know. Why do you think y’all are called ‘law enforcers?’ It ain’t no old riddle, officer.”

Prowl shot the bot a deep, embittered grimace and leaned over with his optics narrowed into thin blue slits. “Watch your words, Jazz. I am very proud to serve Cybertron in this way.”

Jazz said nothing at first; he accepted the outreached glass from Orion—a poor peace offering to placid the conversation. He swirled the cup, half-smiling, before tipping the rim against his soft dermas and allowed the energon to flow into his intact in careful act of theatrical performance. Orion, of course, stayed silent when he noticed Prowl watching rather intently from his seat—optics wide and unwavering. Jazz then straightened back up, licked his dermas of the remaining pink liquid, and passed the cup into the officer’s limp servo.

“Sure Prowl,” he started with a click of his glossa. For a moment, everyone could catch the winking glow of his optics beneath his visor. “I’m glad you’re proud of your work. If anyone could make police brutality look sexy as hell, it’s you.”

No one said anything for some time, until the automatic door whirled open and in stepped a lone, hooded bot. Orion audibly breathed out his relief as he rapped his knuckles on the counter top and gestured the new visitor over.

“Take any seat here at the counter,” Orion said, not minding the sudden shift into a bartender shift—Jazz seemed too occupied by Prowl’s white-shelled expression of utter shock (and another deeper and darker emotion) to work. “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

The bot at the door stared at him from the doorway, red optics fixed on the archivist tightly, before he nodded and strutted over.

Orion watched as the stranger moved to the very end of the bar and gave his friends an idle nod before leaving their jilted conversation circle, which started back up with Ratchet’s usual sigh of mild contempt: “You kids need to settle things in berth and leave this bar alone. I am far too old to be caught in the middle of this waste of a Conjunx Ritus.”

“Yeah officer—you’re upsetting the doctor here with your PDA.”

Shut your intact!

“I’m sorry,” Orion said once he came towards the end of the bar, shooting the stranger a troubled smile as Jazz and Prowl began to throw insults at each other. “It’s pretty rowdy tonight, you know, with the mine tragedy and everything...can I get you something?”

“You’re not the usual bartender,” was all the stranger said—his voice sounded rather familiar, echoing in the back of Orion’s processor like a warning. Still, the archivist smiled back and stayed at his spot across the bot.

“No, Old Mac is on vacation and his sub is...well, he’s on break as you can see and probably hear. But I’ve been behind the counter before so I can help you! Any requests?”

“Hm. Yes, actually—just one.”

“Tell me.”

Suddenly, the bot reached out across the bar and clasped his servo on top of Orion’s—those silver claws pressed flat in between blue digits affectionately. Orion could feel a hot surge touch his antennas and before he could protest, the stranger tightened his grip and pulled the archivist forward. A gentle yet thirsty thrust of a kiss caught Orion off guard, the momentum threatening to overlord his already pulsing spark. The sharp teeth that caught Orion’s dermas was impossibly hot, hot to the tip of his digits to his pedes and his frame was burning and crawling with the need to be ripped off and his body beneath touched and squeezed. It was, utterly, an extremely familiar feeling that made the archivist very confused and very scared—he’s been here before.

All at once, the fear of the moment outweighed his own dirty need and Orion suddenly shoved the stranger back, equipping his arm cannon and pointing it at the bot. But the archivist did not mean it as a threat, just a way to put distance between them.

There were several harsh clicks and before Orion could register it, all three of his friends were behind the hooded stranger, their own guns out and pointed at his helm. The bar went utterly silent; all optics on the group in both a mixture of hot fear and trepidation. No one breathed. Not even a murmur.

Prowl spoke first, his voice box utterly ravaged. “How dare you assault my friend. Unveil yourself so I may drag you into custody myself,” he ordered, door wings twitching and optics narrowed to thin white slits.

The stranger did not speak. He was staring at Orion, red optics bright and hungry, and smile utterly bemused.

“Come now,” he started playfully and reached to push his hood off. “Would you want that, my little archivist?”

Everything in the world seemed to grow quiet yet Orion’s body grew very loud, his vent fans absolutely screeching into the suffocating space as everyone gawked at the bot before them. Jazz dropped his arms, limp at his side, and uttered all too loudly:

“Megatronus of Kaon?”

The gladiator hummed pleasantly as though he did not have a wave of wide-optics miners and three guns aimed at his head and nodded. “What? I was in the neighborhood and thought I stop in. Am I not allowed that courtesy?” He asked, still staring at Orion.

Hardly!” said Ratchet, suddenly enticed by the bot as he looked to Prowl desperately.

“That doesn’t erase the fact that you assaulted him,” the officer growled. “Now get your aft up and put your arms behind your back before I beat you into that position.”

“See Prowl, this is what I mean—”

“Shut your intact, Jazz! Now get up, Megatronus!”

“Prowl, no.” Orion suddenly said, holding his servo out with his arm cannon retracted. “Don’t.”

“Why not?! Just because he’s champion of the Kaon pits? The potential next Prime? Please—he’s been trouble since the Tarn riots and now there’s a reason to drag him to Kup,” Prowl said, laughing coldly—the thrill of it all pulling back the already cracked mask of the officer’s psyche. Even Jazz and Ratchet appeared alarmed by their friend’s sudden show of aggression.

Orion quickly shook his helm. “He committed no crime,” he heaved.

“Please, he sexually assaulted you—everyone here saw it.”

“No, he didn’t!”

“And what makes you say that?!”

Orion’s processor was running past eons at this point, whirling so fast and hot that the world around them came to a stop. He saw them—the miners. Huddled masses of dirtied, world-weary bots watching the group with frantic, fearful white optics. Workers of the lower class, readers of anarchy poetry, and dreamers of a different world. Miners who silently begged Orion to protect their underworld leader, their expressions bordering on dark desperation. Many ready to stand up and fight and shield the gladiator with their weakened, battered frames, knowing that Prowl would still defeat them.

And then, there was Megatronus. He was calm. He smiled at Orion, knowingly, for he finally caught the poor archivist in a trap he had laid out since the beginning. And there was no moves left on the chessboard save for one.

“He did not assault me, Prowl,” Orion said finally, his spark coming to a slow crawl, “because he is my Conjunx Endura.”

What?” Ratchet said, utterly astonished.

“We’re together.”

Orion moved his gaze over to Megatronus and found the gladiator sitting there as still as a statue—red optics painfully clear, and all the teasing and mirth gone from his blanked expression. And the archivist bit his dermas, struggling to make words out of the scorching war raging inside his chassis.

“I asked him to meet me here tonight. It seems like I may have...forgotten about this visit,” he added quietly.

Prowl’s arms reluctantly dropped alongside the unison of sighs across the entire bar. “You’re fragging with me,” he hissed in utter disbelief.

“No—”

Megatronus took Orion’s chin in his servo, clawed digits sharp yet gentle against his frame, and kissed him again. This time, Orion allowed the gladiator's soft dermas to settle against his, the warmth ushering him to close his optics and surrender himself physically. A shared sigh slipped between them, a murmur into the dark, and a silent song—a C0MMlink message echoed into Orion’s finally calmed processor.

<You’re finally mine. Mine.>

When they finally pulled away—who pulled first—Jazz pointed at Orion with a funny grin on his face plate.

“Yeah, he ain’t lying,” he said faintly. “Look at him, Prowl. Brother is practically overheating. He hasn’t looked like that since the Senator proposed.”

Ratchet sighed through his intact, still addled by the reveal itself. “It appears so.”

“Hm.” Prowl stepped back, expression dark with both disappointment and disbelief. His intact twisted to a hot grimace. “This is a surprise, Orion. You never told us.”

“My sweet spark has recently accepted my servo,” Megatronus said cordially, smirking at the group—his grip was still tight around Orion’s wrist like a hot brand. “And engagement announcements in a downtown mining bar is hardly appropriate but here we are. Satisfied, Officer Prowl?”

“No, I’m not. But I must admit defeat for now.” Prowl’s harsh almost smoldering gaze sliced through Orion’s frame like an energon blade and he added coldly. “But rest assured, my friend—I will protect you, even from the lies you may throw my way out of that merciful spark you bear!”

Prowl hardly gave Orion any time to retort back before he suddenly smashed his glass of energon on the counter top, sending pink liquid everywhere before stalking off outside the bar. Jazz called out to him and shot them a troubled, bemused look, and went after the officer with his instrument trailing behind him. The bar was still so quiet—their audience awake and watching them for the next show. Ratchet stepped back and pinched the bridge of his nose, optics shut tight in sheer irritation.

“Orion. I think you and your...conjunx should stepped outside for a bit.”

“Yes, I think that is for the best...”

Megatronus gave no protest; he merely a smile, as Orion came around the counter, took his servo and lead him out of the backdoor of Old Mac’s.

Perhaps Jazz was right after all.

XXX

Megatronus’ grip was burning into Orion Pax’s frame; the archivist was more afraid than he had ever been in his life, but it was the kind of eager fright that came with dark anticipation and a bitter, ravenous hunger.

Orion dug his digits into the loose dents of the back alley wall he was shoved against as Megatronus cradled his helm and kissed him deeply, licking his wounded intact like a starved beast. A clawed servo possessively curled around the back of Orion’s neck—keeping him immobilized against Megatronus’ heavier, dominant frame as the gladiator's glossa slipped into his gasping intact and curled against his. Orion could only shut his optics and panted at the brush of Megatronus’ glossa on his dermas and dentas.

And he whimpered—trembling as Megatronus’ other servo travel down the archivist's stomach where all the heat began to pool against his modesty panel, clawed digits teasing, coaxing. Orion’s pulse was loud in his audio receptors, numbing the blurred rush of the neon streets at the alleyway’s ends. Suddenly, a sharp cold pierced through the thin layers of his neck cables; Megatronus had reached over and bit down hard.

It had hurt enough to force a gasp from Orion and enough to snap him out of his frenzied daze. He then pushed the gladiator away and collapsed against the wall, sliding down while his coolant vents roared into the chill of the night.

Megatronus stood there, equally dazed and still so lucid from the hunt. His optics reset twice before he slowly went down on his knees and reached out to Orion, digits beckoning.

“You shy away from my touch, little archivist. My frame is cold without you,” he muttered maniacally.

Orion clasped his servo over the place where Megatronus bit down and found warm bits of energon staining his digits. “B-Before we go any further, we should talk,” he said a little brittle,

“Then talk. My patience grows thin from your absence.”

“What happened inside, I mean…”

“Oh yes.” Megatronus tilted his helm ever so slightly, wickedly bemused. “Your companions are interesting.”

“Protective,” Orion corrected sheepishly, wiping his intact with his arm.

“Yes. Protective. And I cannot blame them for who would not want to covet such a sweet creature like yourself?”

“It’s just…I never told them about you. So please, if you find yourself resentful over their actions tonight, blame me.”

“Ah, as if I could ever blame you.” The gladiator took Orion’s trembling servo into his with a possessive squeeze. His optics blazed red, devastation and love no longer distinguishable from each other in facades.

And Megatronus smiled, suddenly appearing boyish and shy. “For you are my Conjunx Endura now,” he said breathlessly.

Shame burned Orion Pax’s face plate hotly, enough where humming waves of a fever glitch passed through his processor in intervals of three nanokliks. Ah yes—how could he forget? Orion Pax’s most impulsive speech yet—how Alpha Trion would be rolling around his grave at his son’s foolishness.

“Oh, Megatronus.” Orion shook his helm and tried to pull his servo away. “I-I only said that to spare you from Prowl’s zealousness. He would never have let you otherwise.”

The gladiator held on tight, his grip iron-clad. “No.”

“No?”

“You declared it yourself. In front of your beloved friends and my fellow miners of lower Iacon. That you and I are promised,” he said all too calmly for Orion’s comfort. It was not until the gladiator pressed a kiss to the back of the archivist's servo that he felt it—the thinly veiled and near-pleading desperation just ebbing beneath Megatronus’ mask.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, deeply afraid.

“Megatronus.”

“Do you intend to play with my spark, Orion Pax? Your friend mentioned that you were given a proposition by a senator—how many other bots do you have knocking at your berth door, begging for these lovely digits, hm?”

A cold shiver ran down Orion’s spinal frame, a twist of hurt and disbelief. “This may surprise you, Megatronus, but I am just a simple clerk. This fantasy of yours that I am somehow gathering proposals is utterly comical,” he retorted harshly.

“So you will be mine then as you so openly declared,” the gladiator said once again.

“I did that to save you.”

“You are saving me by keeping to your promise.”

“We are speaking in circles.”

“Then you won’t be mine?”

“I...I…”

Orion did not know what to say. He sat there, against Old Mac’s back alleyway wall while Megatronus knelt in front of him, their servos still latched together. Somewhere near them, a harsh hiss of steam pooled out from the slightly ajar crack of a manhole, sending smoke up into the night sky. Above, no stars can be seen—the city lights had veiled them from their sight.

“Tell me, Megatronus,” Orion started quietly, his optics meeting the gladiator’s straight on with a sudden surge of gentle strength, “are you the one leading the Decepticon movement?”

Megatronus did not laugh. He stayed there, still, and eerily quiet. After a moment, he brought Orion’s digits to his dermas and murmured into them, breath kissing along the metal.

“Yes. I am,” he confessed.

Orion’s spark sang. “The poetry…”

“That is mine, yes.”

“I was told that it was one of the tarn miners who started the movement.”

“And that information is correct.” Megatronus lifted his helm up. His expression cast dark and solemn, optics brighter than any of Cybertron’s suns and stars—bleeding into Orion’s gaze with want and passion and radiance. “I was—once—a miner in Tarn. After millions of years, I crawled out of that pit on my own, through the corpses of my brothers and sisters left to rot in the dirt by the Senate. And I promised myself—promised them, that I would rise to a high enough position one cycle to challenge the masters themselves. So I fought. I slaughtered and brutalized for entertainment and they changed my designation to fit my new role in our broken, golden world.”

Suddenly Orion knew. He sat back against the wall, terrorized and utterly a lit with the heat of his engine roaring loudly into the space of the alleyway.

“You’re D-16,” he said out loud.

Megatronus smiled. “My old designation. We met once before during one of my underground meetings here. I still use that old name with my fellow freedom fighters—to always remind myself of my roots. I may be Megatronus of Kaon, Grand Champion of the Pits, but I will always be D-16 of Kaon Mines 4. Born of the dirt, raised in the dirt,” he confessed proudly—zealously.

“W-Why?”

“Why the movement?”

“No, that I understand but…” Orion trailed off, his breath irregular and shallow. The confession was hitting the poor bot harder than Overlord himself and all he could do was sit there and hope his self-repair processing would catch up to the silent panic quaking through his frame.

“Because I love Cybertron,” Megatronus answered for him; he reached out and cupped Orion’s cheek. Thumb caressing the archivist's dermas sweetly, as though he were the most precious thing in the entire universe and beyond. “Because no one should have to live their entire lives on their knees and servos, choking on a continuing tightening leash held on by masters who cared not for their kin. Who eat and sleep and laugh while newborn sparklings starve themselves in dark places.”

“Megatronus…”

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” Megatronus uttered; for a nanoklik—a ghost passing through the night—the gladiator had become the miner.

D-16 who woke up in complete darkness, servos clawing at rock and dirt, while his siblings collapse around him from exhaustion and abuse. Where the stars could not be seen from the black, embittered smoke, which perpetually rose from the smeltering fields. A miner muttering to himself, to his collection of hopeful poetry, in hot shadows of future where they could see the sun and stars again.

No Gods, No Masters.

Orion suddenly sent Megatronus sprawling on his back with a gentle push. Before the gladiator could speak, Orion fell on top of him and caught his dermas with his in a desperate kiss. The archivist was burning hot as he wrapped his arms around Megatronus’ shoulder and licked his sharp teeth hungrily. He felt it, Megatronus’ amused and victorious laugh rumble between them as his clawed servos ran down Orion’s sides, digits digging into the incredibly soft mesh where the slender waist met the hip—and the archivist whimpered with half-tears.

Slowly, with Megatronus chasing after his bruised dermas, Orion fully sat back and cradled the bot’s bulky form with his thighs squeezing the sides of Megatronus’ pelvis. There was a faint click, barely inaudible in the smoldering heat of their breathing, but Orion’s modesty panel slid open and there laid a sight so filthy, the archivist wondered if someone else was occupying his body—his hardened spike, small bio lights humming eagerly and already drenched as it began to drip slowly on Megatronus’ stomach in want.

Megatronus made a sound unlike him.

“You are beautiful,” he choked, sharp static singing from a rusted voice box. He then reached up and gingerly latched his much larger servo around Orion’s. “The most beautiful, purest being in the entirety of Primus’ dark maw and beyond.”

“Reciting poetry already, D-16?” Orion groaned, feeling his hungry value squeeze on nothing—begging to be filled.

Suddenly, something hard and powerful smacked Orion’s aft and he practically squealed from the touch of heat; he looked over his shoulder and saw that Megatronus’ own modesty panel had retracted, revealing the gladiator’s large, near-intimating spike standing proud against him—twitching and alive. When Orion looked back, he saw that Megatronus was watching him with the widest, brightest optics he had ever seen—his face plate hot and absolutely flushed.

Oh.

Orion leaned over, a rare strength ebbing in his throat, as he trailed his servo down the Megatronus’ broad chest plate.

“You like that, don’t you?” He whispered darkly with a laugh. “When I call your old designation.”

“Orion…”

“Do you want me to take your big spike, D-16? Do you want to see me ride you raw and hard until you overload everything inside of me? Give me a sparkling right here in this dirty alleyway of a bar? Is that what you want, D-16?”

“Yes! By Primus’ divine aft, yes!” The gladiator growled, impatience and want and broken-machine instinct roaring in all part of his circuits so vividly that dark smoke hissed from between his sharp teeth.

Orion lifted himself up, his vents practically screeching to high violent speeds, and slowly sank down on the fat head of Megatronus’ wet spike—fully skewering himself. There came a prickling pain that sent rushing waves of pain throughout Orion’s trembling form, enough to steal the gasp from the pit of his throat.

Somewhere down below, he could feel the sharpened tips of Megatronus’ digits run over the most tenderest parts of him, where the soft cabling mesh laid exposed from bits of his heavy truck frame. And the sensation alone finally forced the archivist to choke out audibly, his body twitching uncontrollably. He could feel every part of Megatronus’ thick spike hardened inside of him—his processor coming to blank white spaces, unable to compute anything in that moment save for pure, utter sensation.

Megatronus gritted his dentas and gave a tight hiss. “You’re milking me too hard, my little archivist,” he groaned, throwing his helm back to catch his breath.

“I...I am—was sealed,” Orion croaked, resetting his optics one at at time—his vision was too watery.

The gladiator took a nanoklik before he peered back at the straddling bot, utterly astonished.

“Do you jest?”

“N-No...”

“By Primus, you are not lying.” Megatronus’ disbelief turned inward into sharp cruelty; a half-crescent moon of a smile slit across his face plate and he squeezed Orion’s soft hips in warning. “I will be gentle as best as I can, my Conjunx.”

A lie.

The first thrust made Orion cry out, his shoulders seizing up and shaking when he felt his node penetrated harshly—and there came the quickened, near-punishing pace as Megatronus began to bounce the archivist violently on his lap, forcing a flurry of gasps out from the poor, teary-eyed bot. Fire had spread from every part of his body, blazing and twisting the initial pain to an intoxicating pleasure, which addled Orion’s overworked processor; he was so close to shattering, this tortured raw thundering that ripped deep into his core—nodes screaming deep within and pleading for release. And Megatronus held him still, his claws piercing through that soft mesh as he continued to pound up into Orion’s tight value.

Frag, your body is pure poetry,” the gladiator gasped out with a half-laugh.

Orion wanted to speak but he could not. It was impossible. He was clawing pleadingly at Megatronus’ thick forearms, gasping for breaths that never seem to come in to his vents. And he never felt so filthy in his entire life cycle—never felt like a stranger in his own frame. He was so full, Megatronus was hitting in so deep, and every push and pull made Orion see more stars in a night without them.

“I-I’m close,” Orion gasped out, matching Megatronus’ brutal speed by riding it out fully, bouncing on the gladiator’s lap. “I-I can feel it!”

“Overload, my star—I want to hear you, see you, feel you!” He growled out with a choking shudder—Orion’s value squeezing every bit of his spike, sensory nodes singing with over stimulation.

Everything was boiling over. The peak of the sensation had reached a red pressure deep inside his engine—devastating and scorching—and broke through the final walls of his psyche. And before Orion could register its force, the bot threw his helm back and let out a choked cry, heat shields loudly screeching out gusts of smoke followed by the roar of flames.

A liquid heat ebbed deep into the pit of his stomach and Orion Pax suddenly felt very tired and very sleepy.

“Orion,” Megatronus whispered, notably quiet. He reached up and cupped the archivist's wet cheek tentatively. “Are you okay?”

Orion reset his optics but he still could not see clearly. Everything was smudged across his vision, watercolors washed where lights danced across the horizon lazily. The only thing he could make out from beneath the ocean’s depths was Megatronus, the gladiator’s severe yet handsome face plate watching him in grave concern. Ah, they were the only two mechs in the universe, as lonely and afraid and in love as Primus and Unicron. Orion let out a weakened sound and fell forward, landing right on top of Megatronus with his face plate buried in side of his neck.

Megatronus reached over and stroked the side of Orion’s helm, a laugh rumbling deep within his chassis. “My sweet Orion, you were wonderful. I am honored to have been your first—and your only.”

Orion still did not speak. The alleyway was still so dark and empty. The adjacent streets at the end was suddenly devoid of rushing traffic. The only thing any of them could hear was the distant hiss of stream escaping a manhole. As though the universe itself was holding its breath for two lonely lovers.

Finally he spoke. “Old Mac’s alleyway.”

“Yes?”

“I never...I thought my first time would be elsewhere…”

“Anywhere in this universe would be equal to the Allspark as long as it is with you,” Megatronus muttered, pressing a kiss to Orion’s wet cheek.

“Is it always like this?”

“In an alleyway? Ideally no—that’s why we have berths.”

“No, I mean...this feeling.” Orion Pax lifted his helm up, face turned to Megatronus, and felt the tears fall idly from his optics onto the gladiator’s chest plate. “I feel scared—my spark is still burning.”

“Only with someone you care about,” Megatronus said as he wrapped his arms around Orion, and tucked him in close. He smiled fondly at the archivist, as though he were the only bot to exist in this life cycle, and guided Orion’s servo to a place right on his broad chest plate. “Can you feel it? The heat of my spark singing. It desires you—desires to become one with your spark.”

“Megatronus…”

“We were meant to be Conjunx Endura, my little archivist. Deny it as much as you like but this time together has proven as much: your willingness to sacrifice your status for me, the confessional of my secrets, the comparability of our engines—you cannot turn away from me anymore.”

Orion shook his head, his after-interfacing processor spilling shame and fear deep into his core like venomous bile. “Ne piu l’estima poi che presa vede, et sol dietro a chi fugge affretta il piede…,” he uttered the old Cybertronian ballad lucidly, wayward morose lyrics dancing in the cold air.

“No,” Megatronus said suddenly, optics wide and enticed. “No. I will never throw you away. I have always loved and wanted you since the cycle I saw you.”

“This world will change,” Orion said gravely. “You aim to shape it. Mechs will die. Systems will fall. The dynasty and dystopia of the Primes usurped in the name of freedom. Will I not simply be a distraction to your ambitions, Megatronus? An obstacle for the new world?”

“My world has will never exist unless my conjunx is standing beside me. My dreams have always included you with me—hand-in-hand, as we build the future together.”

“And if I refuse? If I stand against you?”

“Do we not desire the same thing, Orion Pax? Have what you told me all these many cycles not been your truth?”

When the archivist did not speak, Megatronus pulled Orion in for a kiss. It was soft and fond and calmed the terrorized waters of his spark.

“I know you do,” he whispered when they pulled away, optics locked onto each other, taking in their joined lights. Megatronus held the archivist's face in his servos, entranced. “I know you dream too. A world without kings or thrones. Where our kin can move freely without punishment. This dynasty the Primes left behind will fall and we can rebuilt together...if you will be my conjunx.”

“Megatronus.”

“Yes, my sweet spark?”

“I rode you in the back alley of a bar,” Orion breathed out, face plate red.

And Megatronus grinned wide, the wicked visage iconic to his destructive victories in the Pits where his opponent laid at his feet in pure scrap.

“Well. I suppose that’s one way to answer the question, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Please shut it.” Orion paused for a bit, more so to wait for his vent fans to calm. He then raised his helm and caught Megatronus’ bemused stare at him. “I don’t want to be bonded with you…”

“But—”

“Here,” he finished quietly.

They stared at each other, muted, before Megatronus pressed a chaste kiss to the archivist’ cheek. “I understand,” he murmured subdued. “This soiled alleyway is not the best place to solidify our romance.”

“Hardly.”

“Then, would you agree to formally undergo a Conjunx Ritus with me?”

Orion could not help but laugh, more so at himself. “Aren’t we working backwards?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably in Megatronus’ lap. The gladiator’s spike was still skewered deep inside of him so every movement let out a restrained groan to which Megatronus merely smirked at.

“I suppose so. But we’re hardly conventional mechs.”

“No, I suppose we’re not.”

At one of the alleyway ends, a speedster mech zoomed through a puddle, throwing water over an unseen pair who began to complain and berate harshly. Orion leaned back, sighing out slowly, and trailed his digits idly down the side of Megatronus’ broad chest plate. The gladiator watched him in a dark worshiping gaze of a zealot.

“Yes,” he finally breathed out. “I would be honored to enter Conjunx Ritus with you, Megatronus.”

“My star, the star of my optics, my sweet spark,” the gladiator babbled, slowly rising up and carefully cradling the smaller bot in his arms. He was laughing, this alien sound rising from his throat and peppering in the space in the rarity of the pleasure itself.

“I will prove myself to you even if it takes ten of millions of years. And when Cybertron itself is liberated from the leash of the Primes, I will have you stand beside me to witness the new world we build together as equals and eternal mates. This I promise to you,” he whispered like a prayer.

“You and your poetry,” Orion stuttered, leaning his forehead against Megatronus’ so their optics locked. “But...yes, I would love to stand beside you in a unified Cybertron.”

“Then it is our oath.”

He smiled, oddly sweet and fond, before closing the space between them to a soft kiss—their sparks singing in unison through joined chest plates. When Megatronus pulled away, for just a nanoklik, his optics dropped down with dark want and he chuckled.

“I forgot to mention earlier but I adore your paint job.”

XXX

Once, we mistook an eternity for a night

Time breaking into a yesteryear

Unreachable, wounded by distant memory

And it breaks again

A gunshot echoing from across the cosmos

Hark, comes the poet

Words bleeding across the page

A revolution breaking from the stone

And time breaks again

The eternity finally ends

And turns towards the night

With the masters dead

And the Gods gone

Ah, this kin of Unicron

Poet without piety

Speaks well of prophecy

Inlaid with ambition

But throw caution

Kin of Primus

O Brother of ours

Inheritor, successor

The eternity we mistook for a night

Will turn with time

Towards a finality

Where all the battles

Wars and struggles

Come to a close

For The Architect wakes

The eye stirs

And this short dream

Ends with a yawn

Ah.

Do you hear that, Brother?

War is coming.

The spark has been reclaimed.

And you need to find it.

XXX

<WARNING MANDATORY ANNOUNCEMENT TO ALL CITIZENS OF CYBERTRON>

FROM THE OFFICE OF HIS LORDSHIP, FIRST SENATOR OF CYBERTRON AND THE REVERENT THIRTEENTH PRIME

STANDBY FOR LORD SENTINEL PRIME

TO MY BELOVED FAMILY, ON THIS SOLAR CYCLE, I COME BEARING GRAVE NEWS;

THE MATRIX OF LEADERSHIP HAS BEEN STOLEN FROM THE PRIME VAULTS. THIS ACT OF TERRORISM AND TREACHERY AGAINST OUR GREAT EMPIRE AND FAITH WILL NOT BE IGNORED.

THUS, I, SENTINEL PRIME OF THE THIRTEEN, DECLARE A PLANETARY STATE OF EMERGENCY. THE GOVERNING OFFICES OF CYBERTRON MUST ABANDON ALL CIVIL DUTIES AND PREPARE FOR PLANETARY RESPONSIBILITIES.

THE MOBILIZATION OF ALL OFFICES UNDER THE SENATE ARE EFFECTIVE AS OF THIS ANNOUNCEMENT. INTELLIGENCE AND COMMUNICATION SECTORS ACROSS CYBERTRON WILL REPORT TO THE DIVISION OF SECURITY AND INVESTIGATION IN THEIR RESPECTIVE CITY-STATES; LOCAL MUNICIPALITIES MAY REPORT TO THEIR REIGNING CITY: IACON, RODION, TARN, KAON, VOS, CRYSTAL CITY, POLYHEX, PRAXUS, NOVA CRONUM

ALL DISPATCHED COMMUNICATION TEAMS WILL BE RECALLED BACK TO IACON IMMEDIATELY FOR NEW ASSIGNMENTS.

ALL ARCHIVAL HALLS MUST REPORT TO CYBERTRON HEAD ARCHIVIST CODEXA IN IACON.

ALL MILITARY SECTORS MUST REPORT TO GENERAL KUP IN IACON.

REST ASSURED MY BELOVED FAMILY—THE MATRIX OF LEADERSHIP WILL BE RECLAIMED, THE THIEF OR THIEVES WILL BE SWIFTLY PUNISHED UNDER SOLUS PRIME’S JUSTICE: BLOOD AND EXAMPLE

ON THIS SOLAR CYCLE, CYBERTRON WILL BE AVENGED.

THIS I PROMISE YOU.

STAND BY FOR MORE ANNOUNCEMENTS.

XXX

“My students, we live in an epoch when, owing to the liberties of our past wars with the Quintessons, we abound in incredible examples of this curse: there is nothing found in Prime histories more extreme and brutal than what we witness every single cycle.”

“There are souls bearing a nature so bloodthirsty and cruel that the act of murder is as simple as breathing; sympathy and empathy are seen as weaknesses and now, we settle ourselves in hot spots to properly educate our newborns towards apathy in the hopes of control. There are the things I fear you all will face after you leave the Academy—the facade of Cybertron now turned inward to Unicron himself, unable to see Primus’ light. There will be hatred, violence, and death, especially towards those who remain on the margins of society. Towards the unknown and outliers. Like you all.”

“So please, when you leave this classroom on this very solar cycle, think not of those who wish to do you harm and control you but the communities you fight for and protect. Change happens slowly and sometimes without any difference to what you see now but it still happens. That is sole consistency I want you all to believe in sincerely. Change.”

“And I expect great things from everyone here. Even if, by some circumstance, I no longer remain to see it myself, I will always be with you all. Class dismissed.”

Orion Pax leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed (digits rapping along his forearms, the poor attempt to keep his hysteria at bay), watching with fondness as the current AST class had already started to gather their things for the next course. Right at the front of the auditorium where the board terminal flickered with the tattooed decorations of a long ethics session stood the instructor, a sweetly fond sight to Orion’s optics.

Quietly, while giving some of the passing students a few nods (their hushed whispers of boiling anxiety peppered into his audio receptors—they’re so scared), he quietly made his way down the stairs and towards the dip where the center of the classroom laid. The professor’s sharp back plates were turned to him as he bent over and attempted to turn off the terminal; Orion stood directly behind him and cleared his throat.

“Just a nanoklik and I’ll be with you.”

Orion said nothing; he leaned against that wall and watched with some playful mischievousness; the terminal danced and whirled irritably with noticeable age, before clicking shut, and the professor turned around with a practiced smile on his face. Immediately, that white grin dropped and the bot took an awkward stumble back at the sight of Orion so close to him.

It was a prize to see Senator Shockwave caught off guard.

“By Primus, Orion,” Shockwave hissed and shook his helm quickly. “Announce yourself next time!”

“I’m sorry Senator, I couldn’t help myself,” Orion said with a small laugh and pulled his friend into a tight embrace, digits drawing small semi-circles into the politician’s backside. “You set yourself up for an ambush.”

“Getting older, you know.”

“We’re the same age.”

And Senator Shockwave bumped foreheads with the archivist affectionately before stepping back. His face plate was twisted in his usual humored self-defeat and he sighed out. “Yes, well, being a member of our most esteemed government has, ah, forced this handsome frame to take on a few cycles faster than the average bot.”

“And you’re teaching too.”

“It’s my academy, Orion—am I not allowed to instruct?”

“Doing two occupations at once. Now how can any Cybertronian keep up with you?”

“Possibly that Iacon Formula One racer, Blur. I hear he’s trying to get his brewery license.”

Orion did not reply right away, merely turning his helm to catch the last of the students filing out of the room. Impatience weighed palatable on his shoulders for the Senator gave a nonchalant hum. The auditorium doors then gave an audible click; Shockwave grinned at Orion with a locking remote in his servo. He then shifted close to the archivist, solemn, with a sharp glint in those cold optics.

“We can speak freely now. It’s safe here,” he said slowly, understanding.

Orion reset his optics. That icy dread had climbed up his protoform spine in a slow, embittered crawl, just like many cycles before, and the sensation was enough where he had to lean against the back wall to keep his composure. Senator Shockwave’s own demeanor seemed to mirror his.

“You’ve come because of the announcement,” the Senator spoke for him and mimicked Orion’s own position at the wall with his arms across over his chest.

“So it is true,” Orion said softly, his voice box far too weak that even the words itself sounded more like a murmur on the wind.

“Yes. The Matrix is missing. Sentinel Prime thinks it to be theft.”

“Is it not? The Prime Vault which safe-houses the Matrix is impenetrable. No one can enter unless they are a member of the Prime dynasty,” the archivist reminded his friend, rubbing his arms nervously at the fact.

All sparklings of Cybertron were taught this during their primarily education: the Prime Vault was built by the surviving Primes of the First Quintesson War to protect the Matrix of Leadership after Prima Prime’s death—awaiting the cycle that the promised ‘Thirteenth’ of the Primes would emerge to reclaim their place as Cybertron’s shepherd.

That Thirteenth was Sentinel Prime. Everyone knew this.

“Well, some gusty bot or bots apparently were able to bypass the ancient safeguards because it’s gone.” The Senator’s optics flickered to the locked doors of his classroom before back to Orion, his intact pulled into an all-too cruel grin. “Maybe the Matrix just walked away.”

“Senator, please.” A pause; Orion could feel his spark pulse painfully and he winched. “So...what happens now if I may ask.”

“The Senate will close all public hearings and we’re being dispatched to all major city-states to look over search operations. As far as I know, I must stay here with Sentinel but who knows what might happen. Have you gotten word from Codexa yet?”

“Yes. She’s ordered for the closure of all record halls to the public, and that we could only accept orders from Sentinel Prime himself.”

The Senator’s smile faltered. “I see,” he murmured.

“At least Bumblebee will be home soon,” Orion sighed out and touched the sides of his helm. “That is my only relief. He has been away for too long.”

“Celebrate your reunion as soon as possible. Knowing Sentinel, that sparkling might be reassigned elsewhere the moment he lands in Iacon.”

“Is that true?”

When Senator Shockwave shrugged all too idly, Orion could feel that dread along his spine coil darkly into bitter resentment, and it slipped up to his throat and out his intact in sharp accusation that even surprised him.

“Senator, you know more than I,” Orion said coldly.

The Senator eyed him warily; a catlike blankness slipping over his face plate for a nanoklik.

“That I do. But I am not sure if I am ready to release that information yet.”

“What, I—”

“Not because I am bound by my oaths but because I…” He trailed off, his glossa licking his dentas in search for the correct words. The act itself was a rarity but did not distill any sort of joy for Orion in seeing it: Senator Shockwave seldom hesitated with his words in the many vorns they knew each other.

“I fear for you, Orion Pax.”

“Excuse me?”

The mood between them set like a tether snapping. And Orion knew that they both could feel the change, the sudden collapse of a lunar cycle upon them where there was nothing but the crawl of shadows ebbing in every corner and crevice. The Senator no longer seemed familiar to him, in the comfort of old friends and to-be-lovers—instead, he appeared alien and distant. A stranger whose visage invoked a sense of danger for the unknown.

“Knowledge is dangerous,” he drawled. “You of all bots know this. If I should relinquish the truth to you, you will also be in danger.”

Shockwave. Are you in danger?” Orion asked straightly.

“Yes.”

His voice cut across the auditorium in its cold near apathetic confessional; he then left the wall and walked right up to Orion. Slowly, almost mechanically, he took the archivist’ face into his servos and brought their foreheads close until it was just each other’s optics filling their vision: blue to green.

“You felt it too, haven’t you?” The Senator started with a whisper. “The planet is changing. Waking. Violence is climbing all around us and the Senate is telling veiling the flames and corpses with false promises and mirrors. But you know better, don’t you, Orion Pax?”

Yes, he did know. He’s known since the dreams.

“War,” was all the archivist could say because it was the one and true response to the inquiry.

The Senator let out a soft noise from his throat and it sounded like a broken laugh. “Yes. War. And with the Matrix gone, Sentinel is gonna to point his digits at someone or something,” he explained maniacally, optics narrowing to thin slits—almost a silent murmur passing between them: you know who he will blame.

Orion brought his servos up and wrapped them around the Senator’s forearms with a squeeze. “Then we must locate the Matrix. We can prevent this war from breaking out, Senator,” the archivist urged in his heated desperation.

“Oh, my greatest hope, my star...war is already here. It’s been here long before our time. When Alpha Trion stood alive in the world, the last remnant of the Golden Age. It is only now Unicron’s children has finally breached the surface and ride across our cities in a fiery blaze of hate, corruption, and evil. And our Sentinel Prime at the helm.”

“What are you talking about?” Orion shook his helm, even as his own voice pleaded for him to listen. “Alpha Trion left Cybertron in peace when he died. He appointed Sentinel Prime himself to be our planet’s peace keeper—you know this. He would not have done so if he did not believe Sentinel could be a Prime.”

The Senator appeared appalled by this for he staggered back, arms loose at his sides and digits twitching. “Is that what Alpha Trion told you?” He whispered in palpable dread.

“I...don’t know,” Orion admitted quietly, dropping his gaze down to his pedes.

“By Primus’ aft you don’t know—he was your father, Orion.”

Orion mumbled to himself; something about Senator Shockwave’s accusing tone wedged itself underneath his armor plates. The lack of memory of said father cackled at his discomfort, this knowledge he was supposed to have of his childhood utterly erased. The details have always remained foggy—he knew some cold facts: Orion Pax was constructed from the Iacon hot spot, attended the Cybertron Academy of Science and Technology, and began work at the Hall of Records shortly after graduation. Besides that, any sort of memories between his construction and school cycles were all blank. But he never questioned it for it just seemed natural. To forget.

Senator Shockwave let the silence hold as his optics scrutinized Orion closely. He then reached over once again, closing the space between them, and those long digits swept a line down from Orion’s forearm to his wrist. The thumb that pressed against his energon pulse reminded Orion faintly that this bot once proposed to him in another life. An oddity.

“You...you forgotten, haven’t you?” Senator muttered in muted shock.

“Yes. I...It wasn’t intentional,” Orion admitted under his breath. “But I do know that we knew each other in some fashion.”

“He raised you, Orion. He was your hot spot tender.” A pause; he craned his helm back, optics resetting twice. “H-How did you end up knowing somehow?”

“Dion—Ultra Magnus. We had a bit of a reunion.”

The Senator nodded absently. “Ah, Alpha Trion did tell me he raised two bots from the Iacon hot spot but I did not know the other was our rising Elite Guard,” he said, subdued.

Someone laughed right outside the door of the auditorium, echoing down the stairs to the pair who stiffened in unison at the sound. The Senator then dropped his servo from Orion’s wrist and gestured to the bot to follow him.

“I said this auditorium is safe to speak but if we must discuss the late prime himself, we should head somewhere else more...remote. Follow me, Orion.”

Orion Pax merely nodded in agreement and hurried after the Senator as they quickly exited the classroom. Out beyond past the academy windowed walls, the blood sun was setting down the horizon line, casting all Iacon’s neon skyscrapers and stretching highways towards a blanketing darkness—the evening was crawling to them, inch by inch, but even Orion knew that neither of them had the luxury of time now.

Not with this.

XXX

The Ark-1 Memorial Park bench.

Orion’s favorite spot to stargaze during his lunar cycle breaks and where he and Senator Shockwave gathered the most for their long conversations. Where Megatronus during his visits to Iacon Hall of Records would spy on the lonely archivist from afar, affections brewing towards uncontrolled desires. It was also an unpopular part of Iacon, considering that the energon bar next to bench has not opened in the last five kilocycles due to lack of pedes traffic.

The Luna 1 and Luna 2 moons hovered close behind each other, their cosmic lights bleeding purple and magenta ribbons across a black ocean of white stars. In the distance beyond, central Iacon stood, the eternal glowing city that never sleeps in a field of pitch darkness save for the ebbing trails of highway lights exiting out of Iacon and into city states beyond.

Senator Shockwave’s jets burned the grass below him as he landed, transforming halfway to seamlessly come up standing on the pavement. Headlights harshly shone behind him and Orion Pax quietly pulled up in his revived alt-mode and transformed back to his mech form. Around them, the park remained dark and empty save for the glow of the sister moons above them.

Their bench awaited them.

“It’s a beautiful lunar cycle,” Shockwave said shyly as he sat down. And this was Shockwave saying this and not the Senator—a distinction Orion had subconsciously created since they met.

Orion sat down beside him, resting his sore back plates against the bench with a groan. Indeed, it was beautiful—the constellations above Cybertron were white and vivid without clouds or fog. The twin moons shone a flush of magenta and lavender on their visage as a ribboned dance of violet space ash and dead stars twisted around them, resembling an aurora borealis. Further in the night sky was the small dots of neighboring colonies just beyond their reach and, nonetheless, in sight.

“He died on a night like this, you know,” Shockwave started quietly, craning his helm up to the ocean above them. “It was so pitch black, you can see planets from millions of light years away. Just an abyss...”

“I don’t remember that cycle.”

“Hm, well, I think you would. Considering your obsession with astronomy, you would remember such a night.”

“They said he died during recharge,” Orion recited, at least recalling the commotion at Old Mac’s once the news broke out. Many a bot broke down crying, optic fluids decorating the scratched up metal flooring of the bar. Orion was not sure if he cried though.

Shockwave’s chest plate gave a strange noise and Orion realized that his friend’s vents had whirled to a painful wheeze. “Ah, that old story?” He said caustically.

“S-Story?”

“Alpha Trion is a prime, my dear Orion. Effectively immortal. They cannot pass by any normal means. Remember that it took a whole planet of Quintessons to kill Prima and Megatronus. Vector is fragging around somewhere in the confines of space. And Alchemist probably walks among us with a new face plate.”

Measured, Orion Pax repeated quietly: “Story.”

“Yes. The Senate told everyone that our last prime passed away due to age-related burnout.” Shockwave shot the archivist a white smile, bitter and harsher than high beam lights. “He was murdered.”

Murdered?

Ah. Somehow you know this.

“I…I do not...how? How?” was all Orion could stutter, feeling himself grow smaller with each nanoklik at the revelation.

Shockwave merely stared up into space. The twin moons faint light illuminated his sleek frame with shadows highlighting every sharp edge and corner of his body. His jets had cooled down considerably, just barely humming with thought, and the gliders at his forearms twitched with the coming of a thought—a confessional right on the glossa.

Instead he laughed without mirth.

“How indeed. How can one kill a prime? Mind you, Alpha Trion was not a matrix holder—that privilege went to his brother, Prima. But he was Primus’ direct child nonetheless. So how can be he killed, hm?”

After two beats of strained silence, his stare moved from the constellation to Orion, pinning the bot on the spot. Shockwave was handsome, always has been, and Orion could not help but consider that he looked even better when he was not playing the politician for once.

“Alpha Trion was found in his office, laying dead in a pool of his own coolant and energon. Nothing was stolen or broken save for him. And the only other person in that room was…”

“Stop. Don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Orion. Sentinel was the one who stumbled on the scene. This was all I know.”

“No, you are not telling me this…,” Orion whispered so low that it was practically inaudible.

He was not hearing this. He was not remembering this. This revelation was merely speculation—for there was no chance in all of Cybertron that he had witnessed his own adopted father’s death. Where was this memory? How many vorns did he go on with such a horrible ignorance? How long? Where was he? Why was he still here finding out now?

“He made me promise to watch over you,” Shockwave continued numbly. “I think...he was afraid.”

“So that’s why you approached me…”

“I wanted to do so earlier at the funeral—to give my condolences but you weren’t there.” He cocked his helm, the pressure behind his optics heavy and dark. “Sentinel said you were still recovering from shock at the medical bay. And when you did wake, you just...shut down whenever someone brought it up. So we all thought you wished not to speak on him anymore—”

“You knew. Is this supposed to make me feel better? That it turns out, I’m just some sort of naive amnesiac?” Orion Pax said. His glossa was dry. His voice box sounded too cold and foreign in the air.

“No,” Shockwave said and scooted closer to the archivist. “None of this is supposed to make you feel better. But allow me to defend myself by saying that we all just assumed you wished not to mention him. You always seemed so...distant—broken whenever his name was brought up.”

The processor of the subject will desperately struggle to blockade memories if it senses danger. Is that not simply a most inconvenient and protective measure of our forms? Orion?

“You knew.”

“I knew.”

Silence. It cut through the space between them sharper than any energon blade. Nearby, a highway clicked into place as a squad of neon black-lit speedsters zoomed up into upper Iacon with an audible roar. How many times have they seen this scene before?

“So.” The back of Orion’s throat tasted of expired oil. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Shockwave’s optics flickered down to the ground. “Honestly? Keep quiet for your sake. The public was told one thing, Sentinel told us another, and only you know the truth of Alpha’s death. A truth that, conveniently, is lost with time,” he said with a self-crippling smirk.

“You know more,” Orion replied this time without accusation, more so wonder.

“My brightest hope, this is where the information might...endanger you. Because you too will become my accomplice. And there is no going back after this.”

Above their helms, a star shot across the sky before dying off in a wink. Orion did not speak and the silence itself remained contemplative. In truth, he could not trust himself anymore. The safety and simplicity of his life was inlaid with ignorance. The privilege that came with his mid-caste lifestyle to hide in his hobbies of reading and stargazing.

Megatronus, D-16—the lowly miner from Tarn who immortalized the dead and the Senate’s apathy through his poetry. Who led the underground movement to revive an ancient party set on the destabilization and disenfranchisement of the ruling state. Who had to fight and kill his own kin in the Pits for the enjoyment of the upper castes until he climbed up that long ladder to public renown. No, D-16 and Megatronus could not afford ignorance like Orion—he was constructed in the dark and smog where no one can see stars or moons or even the sun. There was no Alpha Trion to educate him or a promised occupation inside warm, well-lit walls. He could not afford to adopt sparklings like Bumblebee because they probably would have died down there from a lack of fuel.

By Primus, what was Orion Pax doing here?

“Tell me,” he commanded in a voice that was both his and not his.

Shockwave stared at him before looking out to Iacon. Their city, golden glowed and obsidian built, felt further away than ever before.

“I believe Sentinel Prime is behind everything,” he said, beat.

“Everything?”

“Well, continuing the work of his predecessors but still at the helm of much of our tragedy. The riot shootings, the rewritten labor laws, the rise of functionalism,” Shockwave’s optics radiated cold in the dark to Orion Pax—his servo reaching over and clasping on the archivist's shoulders tightly, “and perhaps, even Alpha Trion’s death.”

“And the Matrix of Leadership?”

“Maybe so. I see no reason to trust him. Alpha Trion died before he could announce the next Prime you know.” A laugh, brittle cold and humorless. “Sentinel named himself under the support of the Senate. And that was before my entry into politics.”

Orion did not hide the whiplash of emotions that washed across his face plate, from the earlier anger to striking shock to now, a very persistent weariness that made him sleepy—that he wished to recharge in his berth and never wake up.

“I had no idea you knew this much,” Orion mumbled, feeling his body waver.

Shockwave scooted closer, allowing the archivist to rest his helm on his shoulder guards. He smiled and too showed a notable fatigue that he had been so cleanly hiding probably since they departed from AST.

“Believe me, I wished to tell you but…well, I also did not wish to drag you into something that will blow up. You deserve to live a peaceful, comfortable life.”

Everyone deserves to live a peaceful, comfortable life. No matter what alt-mode or caste they have. Everyone deserves to be free.”

“Now you’re sounding like a Decepticon.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Shockwave laughed; the warmth that made Orion dizzy had returned in full followed by a quiet pride that they could only express between each other. Slowly, he wrapped his arm around Orion’s slender back side and pulled the sleepy archivist in, their helms touching. The only sounds, the shared lullabies of their vents humming.

“No,” Shockwave whispered. “It is the best thing.”

“So. What do we do now?”

“We wait. Practice patience. If the Matrix really is stolen, we must observe our beloved ‘Prime’ close for any cracks in this facade of his. The Matrix gives him his power, this tangible tie to the legacy he so dearly wishes to be a part of.”

“And if it’s not actually stolen?”

Shockwave did not speak right away. And, in the corner of Orion Pax’s optics, he could see that slow, thinning smile slit across his beloved friend’s face and realized that the Senator had returned in full—the perfectly constructed mask slotted back in place.

“Well,” he started, shoulders trembling with the coming of another laugh. “We just have to see now, don’t we?”

Orion lifted his helm from the Senator’s shoulder, peering at him worryingly. “W-What does that mean—”

Someone laughed behind them, the deep, guttural sound forcing Orion’s processor into a premature signal of danger for he shot up and whipped around with his guns drawn up. The Senator followed his gaze and immediately froze up. A towering shadow loomed a few feet from the bench, blood-red optics leering at the pair with a white crescent grin stretching from one side to another. No one moved, they all stared at each other, the silence torturous, and the mood downright suffocating. Then, the stranger stepped into the moon light, slow as a hearse.

Overlord,” Orion breathed out, his engines revving hot and loud.

The world had tilted on its axis as he stared down his attacker, that whistling heat twisting knots into the static seams of the archivist's processor. Pleading with him to escape and hide somewhere that the hulking tyrant may never find him again. But he had not forgotten Senator Shockwave, who stood up from the bench and merely scrutinized Overlord with a passively cold look as though he were an unwelcome house guest.

The tyrant cocked his helm—animal-like curiosity—and gave a low chuckle.

“I am pleased you remember me, little lamb. Though, from our last encounter, I suspect you would never forget this face,” he remarked, his voice just kissing along everyone’s frame like a cold front of pin needles. His optics slowly trailed down Orion’s figure, glossa running over his sharpened dentas in a deliberate act of starvation show. “And have you become ravenous since then.”

“My, it seems like we do have a stray dog problem in this city,” the Senator remarked disdainfully.

Overlord sneered at him. “And you brought your...politician friend for unwanted commentary. How quaint.”

“What do you want?” Orion asked loudly, hoping someone nearby could hear them.

“I have not insulted your intelligence, Orion Pax. Do not insult mine. You know why I have come,” he said, clicking his glossa in disapproval.

“Attempted bot-napping right in front of me? I was not aware that our criminals have become so brazen,” the Senator said, stepping a bit closer to Orion; his own artillery were humming, green bio lights blinking with the slow up charge of heat.

“My patience has run thin. I will not fail this second time around.” Overlord stepped forward, his single pede enforcing enough strength to send a quick rumble across the ground. He grinned knowingly at this, dentas white and sharp, and lifted a single arm with his digits beckoning sweetly. “Come with me, Orion Pax and I will not harm this Senate dog.”

“I’m standing right here, Overlord,” Shockwave called out, moving right in front of the archivist with a half smirk. “You dare threaten me?”

“We’re not on diplomatic grounds. And you are utterly alone.” Another step, the tyrants’ heavy artillery on his back began to flare violently, with the coliseum of flames spinning at the maw. And he laughed, this long and mechanical sound like metal scratching against each other, sending sparks in the dark.

“All alone. Just you and me.”

“Orion, let’s go.” We can make it back to the nearest police station in a nanoklik.”
Orion stood his ground, barely inching when the Senator tried to pull him away. “Shockwave—no. No, he’s a flight frame. I won’t make it,” he said, his processor racing to that disastrous race that sent him flying off the highway. Deep in his spark, he knew he would not make it, not with his alt-mode upgrades and all.

Overlord hummed. “Listen to him, Senator. It would do you some good,” he suggested and took another step forward.

“Why? Why do you want him? If you need a hostage, take me instead!”

“No. He won’t care if I steal you away. But this one…”

“Senator Shockwave, please leave—I’m begging you!” Orion ordered harshly, hoping that, for once, Shockwave’s political sense of self-preservation would kick in. Let the Senator slip in; let the mask fall, and for his friend to get away out of Overlord’s reach.

Orion Pax cannot lose another.

“Frag that!” Shockwave hissed, optics glowing bright and manic with wrath. He grabbed Orion’s arms and gave him a shake. “I did not crawl out from the dirt and crawl all the way to power just to watch someone precious to me be taken away again!”

Senator—”

He did not finish his words. In a move Orion could only describe as a first-time impulse, Shockwave quickly lifted his arm up and shot a readied laser at Overlord. The green beam of pure weaponized energon shot across the park in a blur and struck the tyrant’s face plate head-on, exploding in an electrified cloud with black smoke rising up from the mess.

Then followed an echoing sound—a roar turned to a wet gurgle.

Shockwave took Orion’s servo and stared the bot down.

“Drive.”

XXX

Orion never drove faster in his life. The world around him was practically a blur of neon lights rushing past him. And he was fast—faster than he could ever imagine.

But was he faster than a war frame jet?

“Primus bless these exterior acceleration upgrades,” Senator Shockwave had shouted against the rushing wind. The bot, to Orion’s despair, was clinging to his alt-mode’s semi truck bed attachment as he patted down the overheated speed rockets on either side of his frame.

In the far distance came a second roar, loud enough to shake the ground itself. A burst of purple flames sending waves down the freeway—someone lifted off.

“I told you to leave me!” Orion bellowed from his alt-mode’s radio system, sending panicked stars of static. “You should have listened!”

“Well, you know I don’t! Just keep driving!” Shockwave leaned down against the truck’s back wall, the sleek laser rifles on his backside slowly clipping up on his shoulders and positioned up to the sky. And he gave a loose, shaky laugh and said: “I’ll keep the fragger at bay.”

The radio flickered and squeaked. “You’re crazy! Insane!”

“Yes, yes! Call me as many names as you like!”

<ORION PAX!>

Overlord had already snapped into his jet form—a dark triangle zooming across in the night sky with folded out wings blacker than shadows. He practically shot from the park in an explosion, sending ash and fire in the viciousness of his speed alone; Orion moved his side view mirror and nearly swerved when that triangle had grown bigger, suddenly trailing just a few miles behind him.

Shockwave!

“On it.”

The lullaby of lasers sung high-pitched in the air as the Senator sent out a flurry of energon beams up into the sky, joining the stars as newborns. Overlord’s jet quickly twisted and spun around the torrent but it was enough to slow the bot down—for just a nanoklik.

<FOOLISH SENATE DOG! YOUR AIM IS POOR! LET ME DEMONSTRATE!>

A short hiss in the sky; then there was a quickened blur. Suddenly, the left side of the road exploded in a purple cloud of smog.

“Watch out!” Shockwave cried out, holding onto the truck’s sides.

Orion gave a harsh swerve as burning debris danced and spun around the freeway, reflections on his windshields of broken asphalt and the ground itself cracking before him. He could smell his own tires burning rubber in a desperation to stay on the road.

More lasers shot out from Shockwave, raining beams of light at the approaching war frame jet. Then, Overlord dove down close to the freeway and sent out another explosive shot from his artillery. It struck the right side of the freeway and Orion’s wheels screeched, casting blackened marks on the asphalt.

The tyrant cracked a thunderous laugh, his jets roaring so close to their audio receptors.

<FUTILE! FUTILE!>

His oppressive shadow raced over Orion and the jet landed down right down the freeway where he transformed back into his bot mode—his razor sharp smile bleeding against the lunar cycle shadows. Shockwave grabbed the truck’s burning heat shields and bellowed to the radio system inside: “Full gears ahead! Run that fragger over, Orion!”

Gear 10.

Orion was not sure if his new frame could take a direct collision head-on but trusted the Senator, trusted Shockwave who built Orion from the ground up that he knew that his upgraded semi-truck alt mode could manage such a thing. The freeway dipped to a downhill slope, Orion allowed his engine to roar with speeds picking up to the max—and Overload stood there, smiling wide, and lifted his arms up in the coming of an embrace.

He never felt it coming.

Orion crashed his entire figure—heat-shields roaring with flames—right into Overlord’s chest plate. The tyrant gave a pained sound of surprise, the momentum spinning hot, and Orion could feel his alt-mode still moving against the enemy, shoving him down against the freeway.

His wheels slammed against Overlord’s face plate and he spun them frantically, sending smoke waves up in the rising pressure before riding off from the fallen warlord and back down on the freeway in a rampaging blur.

Primus, what was that?

Orion started to laugh uncontrollably.

“Shockwave! Shockwave, did you see that?! I did it!” He cried out in an overwhelming fever.

The archivist was laughing so hard that, for just a nanoklik, he barely realized that no one answered him back.

Silence.

Dread replaced glee and he came to a screeching halt, transforming half-way during his controlled drift—servos pressed down against the burning asphalt. Orion Pax heaved out audibly and lifted his helm up to the scene beyond him.

The smoke cleared. And there, standing in the burning rubble with the flames and smoke smoldering up to threaten even Luna 1 and Luna 2 with their blood-black veil, was Overlord. He stood, silhouette darkened by the firestorm behind him, but Orion could still see everything: the tyrant’s face plate was hanging by just a slither of rubber at the chin, revealing the cabled exoskeleton underneath with those bleeding optics and sharp, animal teeth in a perpetual smile. His entire frame blacked tar with deep tire tracks and laser burns decorating his chest and arms—many parts completed destroyed upon impact, leaving just his protoform. But Overlord remained standing; he cocked his helm (if he could smile, he would) and held up his arm, showing the stunned Orion an offering from the worshiper to the God.

“Put him down,” Orion said breathlessly; his white-set optics burned at the sight of Senator Shockwave danging limply from Overlord’s grip by his arms. The bot shook his helm, slowly waking back up, and tried to kick himself free but the tyrant’s vice was too tight.

Overlord opened his exoskeleton’s intact and let out a cackle.

“I warned you, little lamb. I told you to come with me if you wished to spare the politician,” he said—his voice box proved to be damaged in the collision for his exposed throat gave out a harsh screech with every word.

Orion’s spark pulsed dangerously—he could not hear himself speak.

“I’ll go with you. I’ll go with you so let him go!” The archivist urged desperately.

“No, Orion! Get out of here!” Shockwave cried out; his jets roared in a frantic attempt to fly free but this merely sent him failing in Overlord’s tight grasp.

The flames were dancing. Orion cannot see the stars anymore from here.

“Negotiations are over. I underestimated you once. Never again.” Overlord then lifted Shockwave high in the sky; his other arm transformed into a cannon and he aimed it right at the Senator’s chest plate. It began to heat up quickly. “Now, let me demonstrate the consequence of your disobedience, lamb.”

Orion started running without realizing it. Where were the stars? The moon? He cannot see anymore in the roar of his spark to a thunderous roar—one that emerged from his core and echoed with the grief of twelve siblings.

NO! LET HIM GO—

A star soared across space. It was just a quick flash at the corner of Orion’s watery optics and then sailed right through Overlord’s helm and out the other side. It left no smoke, no fire—just the burst of broken pieces of his bleeding processor out on the other side and it disappeared into the darkness.

Overlord stood there, staring at Orion Pax. His blood red optics ebbed and flickered malevolently before falling dark; his intact letting out a final, metallic wheeze:

M e g a t r o n

He fell forward. Dead.

Orion wasted no time and dashed forward, catching Shockwave in his arms. They both rolled on the ground and skidded across the asphalt before coming to a stop. Pain blossomed deep in Orion’s back plates but he ignored it as he caught Shockwave’s helm in his servos. The Senator groaned out as bits of energon leaked from his intact. The bot’s slightly damaged optics flickered with life (at least one of them) and met with Orion’s. They stared in silence, looked to Overlord lying dead on the destroyed freeway, and then turned back to each other. Orion pulled Shockwave into a tight embrace and allowed their wounded sparks to sing happily in the quiet orchestra of flames crackling.

“Well,” Shockwave wheezed against his shoulder guards in an attempt to chuckle. “I’d say that is deserving of a new paint job, don’t you think, my brightest hope?”

“You and your paint jobs,” Orion muttered, trying very hard not to start crying.

Somewhere nearby, someone stepped out from the darkness.

They laughed.

Orion could not control his body when he threw his arm up, laser cannon already clicking to life. But the stranger standing at the end of his sights made his entire frame collapse in shock; he dropped his arm and slowly stood up, intact dropped.

A familiar, loving face plate greeted his stunned expression.

“M-Megatronus?”

“Evening, my little archivist,” the gladiator greeted casually as though they caught each other during a lunar cycle jog. He smiled sweetly, gently kicking aside broken pieces of Overlord’s frame, and came right up to Orion with his arms spread out.

Orion did not find it in himself to move or speak. He stood there, frozen, as Megatronus brought him into a tight embrace, their sparks humming warm with relief at their respective conjunx in contact finally. The gladiator then tilted Orion’s helm to the side and pressed an all-too sweet kiss to his bleeding dermas.

Megatronus?

“W-What…” Orion started when Megatronus reluctantly pulled away but kept their face plates close with a small smile. “How…”

“I saw you were in trouble, Orion Pax. So I thought I lend a hand.”

He then held up his right arm and Orion’s optics widened at the overwhelmingly long sniper cannon attached on the forearm and probed out a few inches forward like a bayonet. Orion caught his reflection in the weapon’s metallic end and seldom recognized the dirtied, broken bot staring back at him on the other end.

“Megatronus of Kaon?”

Shockwave staggered up to his pedes, holding his limp, broken arm with the other as he scrutinized the gladiator with his one non-bleeding optic. Megatronus peered over at the Senator and gave a curt nod.

“Ah, Senator Shockwave. I apologize for my late arrival, sir,” he said in a cool, practiced voice.

“No, goodness, no—we would have been deactivated if it were not for you.” Shockwave’s single active optic trailed from Megatronus to Orion before landing right where the gladiator’s clawed servos was cupping the archivist's cheeks.

His intact slightly faltered to a thin frown and the mask of the Senator slipped back on cleanly—the cold facade of a politician. And his EM field retracted into itself, just barely conveying to Orion a dark and bitter displeasure.

“We are in your debt,” he said, trying his best to bow.

“Please, Senator. Save your fuel. I’d do it all over again if it means I could protect my conjunx,” Megatronus said, his broad frame practically humming with affection. He then leaned in again to catch Orion’s dermas in another kiss.

The archivist went still; he kept his sights straight because he could feel the heat of the Senator’s gaze burning black holes into his backside.

Orion gently pushed the gladiator away, cheeks flushed and spark ebbing raw. “W-We should focus on getting out of here. The Senator needs medical attention immediately.”

“You’re right. I’ll call us an ambulance bot for a pick-up.”

“What about him?” The Senator said and gestured to the hulking corpse of Overlord behind them. The three of them stared at the body, watching the dead tyrant’s shadow dance on the asphalt with the continuous swirl of flames.

Megatronus looked back at Orion, his expression eerily apathetic. “Leave him to the police and scrappers. That thing can threaten us no longer,” he said far too lightly.

“But—”

Suddenly, the Senator gave a pained cry and collapsed on his knees. Orion had to practically tear himself away from Megatronus’ arms to catch his friend, holding the injured bot close; his EM field ebbing weakly with bouts of raw pain. Energon and fuel started to leak from the Senator’s fresh wounds and when Orion placed his shaky servos over the cuts in the frame, the pink liquid pooled out between his digits. He shot a frantic, pleading look to his conjunx.

“Megatronus.”

“Already calling,” the gladiator said, gesturing to the active C0MMlink blinking at his audials.

Somewhere past central Iacon city limits, the song of a police siren went off, and Orion shut his optics, allowing the cold to wash over him towards darkness.

XXX

Why aren’t you recharging, my little Prime?”

He limped into the cold dark of the room, one pede clacking against the hard metal floor while the other gave a slight drag—a familiar lullaby for Orion who listened for it every lunar cycle. And he did not move, merely watching with a smile as the half-bent figure drew close to his berth and slowly sat down right at the edge with an audible groan of his aged frame. Beside the young sparkling, his older brother was dead asleep—recharging with just a low hum of his juvenile engines.

Was Dion dreaming?

“I’m thinking,” Orion said honestly.

“You should be recharging,” the figure said with a wheeze-sigh, voice box sparking. Still, the warm fondness in the elder’s ancient optics told Orion this as much—he was in a very good mood to speak; to entertain.

“I might recharge faster if you tell me a story.”

“Goodness—not this again, Orion.”

“I’ll be good. Honest.”

“Nec ultra rorem foveo,” the elder groaned out, leaning fully on the sparklings’ shared berth with a shake his helm. “Or ‘And I do not indulge in my faults further’ as the old Cybertronian stoics says.”

“They aren’t in the room with us. They wont judge if you read me a berth-time story,” Orion pointed out, resetting his optics with a sly smile. Beside him, Dion made a noise of agreement, trans passing his dreams to support the younger brother in the present.

Their elder hummed, thoroughly defeated.

“Very well,” he said and leaned forward. His small optics, these blue worn-down and flickering lights in the darkness, always drew in a rare warmth that made the elder appear far, far younger than he was—as though he took a step back into Vector’s time where his lilac frame was not falling apart nor his spark sung weakly cycles on end.

The elder took the sparkling’s small outstretched servo into his and began to recite. And Orion did his usual ritual; he positioned himself on his back plates and peered up at the glow-in-the-dark stars that littered their room ceiling as the elder’s voice touched his audials.

Once, when the universe was an infant

Without suns or stars or moons

Lived two suzerains in space

Brothers as we call them;

For a while, nothing happened

They floated around in the vacuum of the void

Curious and eager

At the canvas they awoke from

Then, one of the brothers lifted his digits

And made a star

‘How did you do that?’

Asked the other brother

‘I do not know,’ the suzerain answered honestly

‘It comes naturally to me.’

And so the other brother lifted his digit

And destroyed the star

‘How did you do that?’

Asked his brother

‘Like you, I also do not know for it comes naturally.’

And thus, the brothers named themselves by their innate curiosities:

Creator and Destroyer

‘Come brother,’ said the Creator. ‘I will paint.’

‘And I will clean,’ finished the Destroyer

So thus came the universe

Came the suns and stars and moons

And planets

Dots that littered the once empty canvas of the void

But they did not stay for long

For Brother Destroyer would clean off some of the old paintings

To make way for the new

But one solar cycle

Brother Creator had painted a planet

Gray-skinned and metallic

In the cold dead of space

And surprised to find

That twelve of his stars had fallen from the canvas

And down to this newborn planet below

Awaking and breathing

Children

His children

And for the first time since his own waking

He did not wish to see this planet go

‘Why do you protect this insufficient planet so?’

Asked Brother Destroyer

‘Are they not fascinating?’ said Brother Creator

‘Fascinating, yes. But they are a worthless lot.’

‘But they are like us. These fascinating creatures. They can create and destroy,

Mirror images of you and I.’

‘But they wield strange customs and traditions where none should exist in space,

Thus, your painting is an anomaly.’

But Brother Creator shook his helm

‘And let there be an anomaly! I wish to see what this planet does.’

‘Then our order is defunct, our control gone.’

‘Do not clean this planet, brother.’

‘You fear me,’ Brother Destroyer said without malice

But with a deep, infuriating sickness he did not understand

To be grief

‘Because I cannot create like you. But I can do no wrong, brother,

For what I do not know what it is

Like you.’

But Brother Creator did not move; he did not abandon his newborns

‘I will not leave them to you. Let our painting grow and thrive

Without our servos

For my children—our children will inherit our mantle of life and death

And finish the rest of this canvas for us.’

And Brother Destroyer did not embrace his kin for his ancient spark

Stung with emptiness, with confusion, with apathy

‘Your sudden sentimentality blockades process,

One cycle, I will return again

And clean the painting myself—

We will start over anew.

Because all of this

Is only a dream

And dreams

Must come to an end.’

‘My twelve children will not combat you in this life,

But I promise you this now;

Their kin, my son,

The Thirteenth,

Will emerge one cycle

To meet with you directly

And preserve the painting eternally

As I say this now, my brother;

Til all are one

Til all are one

The elder came to a quieted stop, his optics centered on Orion’s face plate but he was looking for someone else in that far, unreachable distance. There were stars in those aged optics, a universe that collapsed all around them.

“That, my dear sparkling, is one of the tales surrounding Father Primus and Father Unicron. Two sides of the same coin: the act of creation and the necessity of destruction,” the elder concluded, still searching for the unknown in Orion’s face. “They say that Unicron will return to wipe this entirety of the universe clean.”

“But why would he do such a thing?” asked Orion; he was still staring up at his collection of glow-in-the-dark constellations on his ceiling, at all the suns and stars and moons they planted together. “Does he hate us?”

“No. Unicron is incapable of hate. What he does is because he can and he knows no better. To us, we are merely a...thought. It is Primus who learned how to feel and love through his children and such emotions are confusing to his brother.”

“Will the Thirteenth Prime really emerge one cycle?” asked Dion beside Orion in a groggy voice.

The elder broke his gaze and peered over at the older brother with a funny smirk on his face plate.

“Dion, my little warrior, were you awake this entire time?”

“Just for the story.”

“Yeah! Will the Thirteenth awake one cycle?” Orion repeated his older brother’s inquiry with wide, bright optics—his infant-like EM field humming with impatient curiosity. “Some of the senators told us that it is merely a tall tale.”

“If it was such a tall tale, why does everyone keep referring to the Primes as the Thirteen and not the Twelve?”

When neither brother answered him back, the elder threw his helm back and gave a dry laugh peppered with his usual coughs. Still, the mood was so fondly placid on his face plate and he reached over to pat Orion’s head affectionately.

“I know not if there is a Thirteenth Prime. But what I do know in my very long life cycle is that belief gives us strength. Unity. And peace. So if there are those who sincerely believe the Thirteenth will awake one cycle, then so be it—that knowledge gives them peace. And if the Thirteenth does not exist after all, then let their tale live on to continue giving our kin strength.”

“I think they will come,” Dion admitted quietly. He looked at Orion and smiled. “To come and guide us to a better future.”

“I hope it happens in our time. I would love to see it for myself!”

“And maybe it will, my little Prime.”

The elder then stood up—or tried to stand up but his spine gave a high-pitched squeak. He gave a slight groan and awkwardly staggered back with a servo pressed on his lower back. Still, he mustered enough strength to give the two siblings a kind smile.

“Anyway. No more berth-time stories. Tomorrow will be a very long cycle and you need your fuel. Have a wonderful recharge, my sweet sparklings.”

“Have a wonderful recharge, Alpha Trion,” the brothers said in unison.

And thus, Alpha Trion spoke no more; he leaned down to press a kiss to their helms before hobbling away. Orion Pax listened until he could not hear the tell-tale drag of his father’s limp pede against the floor. When he turned to his side, he could see Dion snuggling against him, fast asleep again. With just a sigh and one last glance to the green-glowing stars on the ceiling, Orion shut his optics and allowed the void of space to usher the sparkling into a warm recharge.

Ten voices whispered to him in the dark.

Permitte divis caetera.

XXX

When Orion Pax woke up, he was hardly surprised to find himself, once again, on Ratchet’s operation table. What did surprise him, however, was the face plate of his amica endura greeting him on the other side.

“Wakey, wakey, Pax,” Jazz sung out with a laugh, leaning over the table with his intact curled into the biggest grin Orion had ever seen from him. The musician’s visor reflected back a truck-frame mech a little worse for wear but it did stir Orion back into full consciousness. His gaze flickered around the space where a miasma of colors wavered in place followed by echoing voices and, when his visual hub finally loaded in, he could see that there were other bots—mostly his friends—standing all around Ratchet’s back-end clinic.

He stared at them; they stared back. And then, he felt a blunt pain blossom at the side of his helm.

“Yo doc, easy, easy!” Jazz exclaimed, stretching his arms out to stop Ratchet from striking Orion with his data pad. “Pax just woke up!”

“I know—been waiting the entire solar cycle to do that!” The medical bot hissed, tearing his servos away from Jazz before knocking his curled fists against the archivist's shoulder guards. You’re an idiot, Orion—an idiot! How many times are you going to end up on my operating table, half-dead?!”

“Ratchet, I’m sorry!” Orion stuttered, raising his arm to soften the doctor’s blows but this did little to lessen his friend’s ‘motherly’ fury.

“I can’t keep having you dragged to this medical bay! What if you actually deactivate one of these cycles, huh?!”

“Ayo doc, leave it!”

Someone else called out from the room: “Hey Jackie, get in here! Orion Pax is awake!”

The sound of stomping pedes echoed into the room and, suddenly, a shorter mech rushed in from the open hallway. He then grabbed Ratchet by the arm and yanked him away with a static-like chuckle, and Orion made a startled sound: this bot’s face plate, instead of containing optics or an intact, had been replaced by an electronic visual hub that replaced his expressions with blinking emoticons. When he met Orion’s awed stare, he gave a happy grin which consisted of two dots and a curl.

“Heya heya Mr. Pax,” said the short gray mech, winking at him. “Don’t mind our princess over here—he’s just tired. Been working you over for nearly two cycles now.”

“O-Oh thank you...uh—”

“Wheeljack. But you can call me Jackie. I actually was inside of you.”

“What.”

“He’s a mechanic.” Ratchet growled and elbowed the gray bot away with a harsh motion before snarling at Orion. “A colleague of mine. We actually operated together on your frame replacement…and your recent accident.”

“You got a pretty protoform there, Mr. Pax. Though it didn’t look so pretty when we peeled ya open. Some crash you took there,” Jackie remarked with a soft laugh.

“This is not funny, Wheeljack.”

When Orion moved his helm to meet with Ratchet’s gaze, he went cold-still. The medical bot’s optics gleamed over with a mixture of exhaustion and another, far rippling emotion that made the archivist feel hollow when he noticed the traces of coolant trails on the doctor’s face plate.

Oh.

“Ratchet, I am so sorry,” Orion uttered quietly from the table.

He detested how small his voice box was, just an echo bouncing around in this dim back-alley room where the overhead light flickered audibly above their helms. Still, Ratchet wavered a bit; the doctor stepped back and folded his arms over his chest plate, optics flickering down to the ground.

It was quiet for a bit—then Jazz gave a loud yawn and stretched his arms out in a comical stretch.

“Well, seems like we’re past the apology phrase, hm?” he remarked before resting his arm around Prowl’s shoulders.

The police officer shoved him off causally with an exaggerated sigh and stepped forward to the bed with his servos around a brightly lit data pad. Standing behind him was a tall, silver bot of a speedster frame that Orion was sure—somewhere in his processor—he had seen before. But who? And where?

“Orion, I am pleased to see you recovered,” Prowl started coolly. “Of course, I should have expected much considering your interesting track record of trouble.”

“Ouch.

“Jazz, shut it—Now, I would have given you some time to recover to share these news since you’ve been out for a few cycles now but, well, I am admittedly impatient.”

Orion’s amica came back into frame, grinning white with a laugh already rumbling along his voice. “It was so important that old Prowler here recharged in the clinic lobby the entire two cycles you were in surgery. He didn’t leave once except to get fuel from the dispenser,” he remarked with a nod.

Prowl spun around, irate. “Jazz, shut it!

“Ah, come on now, officer—you have a real bleeding spark,” Jackie added on before fist-bumping Jazz with his visual hub showcasing a laughing expression.

Orion reset his optics twice at this; he then slowly raised his arm and pointed at the bot behind Prowl. “Who is that?” He asked quietly.

With this, the stranger stepped forward with his arms behind his back upon the verbal permission. In the light, Orion could see that he was young, probably just a vorn or two older than Bumblebee but young nonetheless. His sleek speedster frame—smokey-silver beneath the florescent light—highlighted two blue streaks that ran down from his shoulders to his headlights. His helm bore a chevron like Prowl’s and his door wings were a bit larger and sharper. The bot smiled at Orion, sweet and shy, and gave a practiced bow.

“Designation Smokescreen, sir! I am Captain Prowl’s lieutenant from Praxus. It’s an honor to meet you,” the young bot said in a soft yet cheery voice that further emphasized his youth in a room full of older mechs.

“He’s shadowing me,” Prowl added, shooting Jazz a warning glance.

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you, Smokescreen!” A beat; Orion slowly sat up and clutched his stomach where the pain sang the most. “Uh, but that doesn’t explain things.”

“We’re here about your encounter with Overlord, Orion.”

A nanoklik passed; Orion barely could contain the gradual fragility of his EM field expanding to a surge of panic as his optics suddenly looked around the clinic for other operating tables. A servo touched his arm and he whipped around to meet Ratchet’s overworked gaze.

“He’s okay,” the doctor said knowingly. “We discharged him a cycle ago though he was...adamant. Wanted to wait for you to wake up but Sentinel Prime called him back.”

“H-He is? Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Pax,” Jackie chimed in and gave the bot a thumbs up. “We personally saw him out. The good Senator is fit and shiny again!”

Orion’s vent fans cooled and he nodded absently, retracting his EM field to a just quiet murmur. “T-That is a relief...and what about Megatronus?” he asked the pair.

The name, of course, had this unintended effect of tightening the air in any room for no one spoke at first. Then Jazz gave a low hum, rubbing the back of his neck with that funny sort of smile that told Orion knew was his amica’s way of showing a troubled hesitation. Prowl, on the other hand, was hardly amused.

“Your, uh, conjunx stepped out for a bit. Said he will be back,” the musician explained.

“Hence the reason why we need to grab a statement from you now, Orion,” Prowl cut in, voice short. The data pad in his servos brightened up the officer’s face plate and only intensified the sharp cold intelligence of his leer. He gestured for Smokescreen to approach and added: “About what happened last night.”

“Not much to say,” Orion said with a limp shrug. “The Senator and I were having a pleasant night chat at the park when Overlord ambushed us. Tried to get away down the freeway to central Iacon and I even crashed into him in my alt-mode. And then he held the Senator hostage and, well, Megatronus, he…”

“Killed him. Clean shot through the helm with a high energon sniper rifle,” Prowl finished, typing something down on his data pad. Beside him, the silver-framed Praxian lieutenant watched Orion’s face closely—analytically, in the same coldness as his superior.

Orion nodded slowly. “Yes. So...he’s dead for sure?”

“Ratchet?”

“Officer Prowl here ordered a full body autopsy. He is dead.” The medical bot’s intact pulled into a deep grimace and he crossed his arms over his chest plate, shooting an unreadable glance at Prowl. “Just like the first time.”

The officer tapped his data pad methodically. “Did he say what his motivations are for targeting you?” He asked Orion simply.

Why? Why do you want him? If you need a hostage, take me instead!

No. He won’t care if I steal you away. But this one…

A deep, startling heat pulsed in Orion’s processor and he touched the sides of his helm, groaning audibly. The truth was ripe on his glossa—has been since the first attack but a deep, signaling fear that stopped him from letting it free. When Orion looked up, he saw that everyone was staring at him: Prowl and Smokescreen were still awaiting his answer, those sharpened Praxian optics pointed at him in unwavering attention; Jazz had stepped a bit closer to Orion’s side on the left, his arms crossed over his chest in a feigned attempt to be idle. Though Orion could see a slight tug pulling at his friend’s intact, a silent disapproval for what he could sense to be an interrogation. Ratchet and Wheeljack, on the other hand, appeared to both share a fascination for what Orion will say next and a general apprehension for Prowl’s presence overall. In the hallway came a metallic screech against flooring—someone had opened a door.

“Orion?”

“I...I still don’t know, Prowl. I’m sorry.” Orion said with a shake of his helm.

Prowl stared at him, optics narrowing to two thin slits. He stood there as the overhead light began to audibly sing, flickering static in a struggle to keep the dead-end clinic a lit. For a moment, his optics shifted to Smokescreen—a C0MMlink definitely passed between them, short enough to unnerve Orion—and he looked back to the archivist with a slight rev of his engines.

“Shame,” he finally said curtly. “I was hoping to find out more information.”

“He’s deactivated, why does it matter, Prowl?”

“Deactivated bot still tell tales and there’s a mystery here that needs unraveling.”

Jazz snorted derisively. “Not this scrap again,” he remarked, glossa flicking against his dentas.

“Mystery?” Orion repeated hesitantly.

He had forgotten one key aspect of Prowl that, in the time he and Jazz knew him, proved to be one of his more vexing qualities: his easily obsessive nature over the conspiracy. It, of course, made Jazz an effective officer of the law to investigate and rip apart layers of the mystique, especially if it were tied to the criminal underworld. Prowl was even awarded top homicide investigator five times within in a single vorn, a feat unusual for young recruits into the police force. Of course, this tendency of investigation and interrogation bled into Prowl’s personal life as well—something Orion and Jazz quietly tolerated.

Smokescreen coughed into his closed fist. “We have been receiving word from the Cybertron Department of Justice that there might be some potential key figures of the Decepticon movement hiding in Iacon. When we investigated Overlord’s unit after your first assault, we found some...interesting writings,” he explained.

Orion arched his optical ridge in disbelief. “Overlord is a Decepticon?”

Was a Decepticon. He was personally exiled from the movement by the ringleader himself,” Prowl added and gave a cruel kind of smile. “Apparently for brutality and internal murder. Never thought Decepticons practiced grace in that aspect.”

Jazz was the one who shot Prowl a warning glance, white optics beneath his visor gleaming wildly in a hidden glare. “Come on man, that ain’t necessary,” he said softly.

“Isn’t it? Overlord had survived his fight in the Pits and sworn to hunt down his former master. That scrap was our only lead in finding out more about the Decepticons.”

“Officer, it is most inappropriate to disturb our patient with one of your theories.” Ratchet said, stepping forward to detach all the support tube attached to Orion’s sides. His sudden gentleness was neither a forgiveness or grace but a blend of the two; the doctor guarded himself against the heat of Prowl’s gaze and met him halfway with a severe look of his own. “I only allowed you and your partner to stay so Orion can hear the news on Overlord. You will not turn my clinic into an interrogation room.”

The police officer allowed his engine to rev audibly in the room. He threw his helm back, the shape of his glossa licking the inside of his intact, and scoffed. “How little you think of me, Ratchet, that I would ever put Orion through such a thing,” he said dryly.

Jazz gave a half-laugh. “Come on, Prowler—you have a ‘one track’ mind. Anyone on the road tends to get run over when you’re driving, friend or foe.”

“Do not paint me as this antagonistic force without reason, Jazz.”

“I don’t know. You looked awfully pissed when that big old gladiator was in the room earlier,” Wheeljack hummed nonchalantly. The mechanic’s ear flaps then twitched with the coming of a thought and he tilted his helm up, quizzical. “Goodness, what was his name again? Megaton? Megatonus?”

“Megatronus.”

Everyone’s helms swerved towards the open doorway to where the deep, smooth utterance had drifted from. He was far too tall to properly lean against the doorway so he stood, awkwardly bent over to avoid hitting his helm, and greeted the group’s wayward stare with a forthcoming, near-predatory grin of his own. Then, slowly, Megatronus stepped inside—his oppressive shadow practically blanketing the operating ward from sheer mass alone—and he gave the tiny Wheeljack a side smirk with the sharp of his dentas showing.

“Tron,” he corrected cordially, the flickering light from the singular ward bulb casting glints off the gladiator’s silver-gray frame. “As in ‘electronic’.”

Wheeljack’s visual optics blinked twice. “Megatronus. Got it, buddy.”

“Megatronus of Kaon. I see you have returned,” Ratchet remarked dryly as he finished detaching the last of the support tubes on Orion’s right side; his optics flickered up and all the archivist could read was a bubbling current beneath a deceptively calm lake.

“Why wouldn’t I? My conjunx just awoke from surgery.”

Conjunx. Somehow, the word from Megatronus’ intact sounded far different this time than the plethora of other times he dared to utter it. His glossa was heavy on the ‘C’ and slipped off faintly with the ‘junx’ as though he wished for it to echo into the room and remained afterwards. When Orion took at a look at his friends, scrutinizing their guarded and tight expressions across the room, and he realized that Megatronus was reminding them—of his claim.

“Oh my little archivist,” the gladiator murmured behind him, leaning over and pressing a kiss to the side of Orion’s neck. The sharp end of his dentas prickling along the cabling. His breath was so hot. “I am relieved to see you up. Come now, I’ll drive you home to recover.”

Prowl stepped forward and held his servo up. “Wait.”

“Have you exhausted all of your insults, Officer? Must I endure your ire while my conjunx sits here, still trying to get his visual hub online?” Megatronus said.

“I care not that you will be our next Prime—questions need answering and Orion Pax here has conventionally lost a good potion of his memories.” The officer shot the gladiator a crippling look, a sneer coming on across his intact. “And you. I can’t imagine anyone else more connected to the former Overlord than the mech that ripped his spark out.”

“Prowl, please, leave him,” Orion started and even tried to climb off the operating table.

But Megatronus held him still. Their optics met and the silver mech offered Orion a gentle, reassuring smile. ‘It will be okay,’ he slowly mouthed and the gradual stillness of his EM field to a low hum acted as a blanket around Orion’s shoulders. After a nanoklik, he stepped aside and addressed Prowl and Smokescreen directly.

“Go ahead, officer. I have the time.”

“You will make the time.” Prowl’s data pad lit up harshly and the law mech, despite his far shorter stature to the hulking gladiator, still glared up at him with the same amount of gusto nonetheless. Beside him, the young Smokescreen stayed perfectly still with his servos behind his back; and he stared at Megatronus, expression muted.

What a strange bot.

“What is your connection to the deactivated?”

“As you said, officer: I was the one who tore that scrap’s spark out in the Pits.”

“And you did not have any relations with him before that?”

“Overlord is a tempestuous mech. When our paths did cross, he would threaten and taunt me. So by ‘relations’—no. We were not friends,” Megatronus stated with a laugh.

But Prowl’s severe expression did not break. Instead, he rapped his digits against the data pad in emphasis. “Really? So you two were not collaborators in any sense?”

“Besides entertaining you middle-caste mechs through sport, no.”

“Then why would he come after your conjunx twice?”

A pause.

“Twice?” Megatronus repeated slowly. His voice had suddenly lost its light, near-mocking allure, replaced by a sharp chill that reminded Orion that the bot standing beside him slaughtered daily for his life occupation.

Prowl’s optical ridge arched. “You do realize that this is the second time Orion has been attacked by Overlord?” He said matter of fact.

“...No?” Megatronus threw Orion a wide-optic, paled look. “You were attacked twice?”

Everyone was looking at Orion now. Wonderful. Simply sublime. If the archivist had a traditional family like Cybertron’s high-caste clans, he supposed this was the part where his long-kept secret had leaked out in front of everyone, and now confrontation was near at this climax. Of course, everyone was already on edge due to the sudden appearance of his mate-to-be at the table. Wonderful.

“Yes,” Orion said simply, finally deciding to just answer without hesitation. “Where did you think I got my brand new frame from? Or this paint job?”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot.”

“Yes.”

Megatronus stared at him without expression. Blank. Even his EM field betrayed nothing to whatever feelings he was experiencing at the moment. Utterly nothing but a void.

And that is what frightened Orion the most.

Prowl huffed audibly. “Well now you know. We have it believed that Orion was an intentional target he sought out and not some poor mech Overlord stumbled on during his rampage,” he explained.

Megatronus turned around, his expression still blank. “And you think I might be the reason for the attacks?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” The data pad hummed when the officer swiped to the right, the bright blue hub reflecting in Prowl’s sleek red chevron. And he smiled without fire.

“We found Decepticon literature in Overlord’s unit.”

Prowl!

Jazz drew forward with his servos raised but found himself intercepted by Smokescreen with just a step forward. The young lieutenant stared down at the fuming musician, unmoved by Jazz’s razor-sharp glare from beneath his visor, and he shook his helm slowly.

Megatronus raised his servo. “There is no need for a defense. I understand what Officer Prowl is alluding to,” he said in a controlled tone.

The officer's optical ridge arched curiously. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

Then, the gladiator opened his arms out as though he were requesting an embrace of some kind—in a room of bots that very much and severely feared and disliked him. His smile, triumph and all too confident, was a harsher gleam in the optics than Ratchet’s dead-end light bulb. Orion tried to quiet his spark but he could not—the mech standing before him had become so detached and alien, like a stranger, and he could not even recognize Megatronus’ voice when he spoke next.

“Once, millions of vorns ago, I was not Megatronus of Kaon. Instead, I was a simple miner in the Tarn underground, designation D-16.”

Thus smiled the king at war.

“I am the leader of the Decepticons.”

I Am The One Who Sleeps - Chapter 1 - Anonymous - Transformers (2025)

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