Archive of Our Own ^beta

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New Spark POV

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It all happened so fast after I said yes to Primus.

In an instant, I was thrust into the middle of a transformation: “-REBORN ANEW. OPTIMUS PRIME” roared a chorus of voices, echoing like the pulse of a universe. My feet—no, pedes—touched the ground with a soft, weightless grace, like a balloon deflating gently after floating high. The Matrix of Leadership rested in my hands—no, servos—its radiant light dimming to a soft, steady glow.

I am a Transformer now. A Transformer. Not human.

I am Orion Pax.

When the light finally dimmed, no longer blinding me, I saw them—other Transformers standing in the room. For a moment, I couldn’t place who they were or where I was. But then, Orion Pax’s memories surged through me like a torrential waterfall, seamlessly integrating into my consciousness. In an instant, I remembered everything.

I had been summoned here to provide evidence of the crimes committed by Sentinel Prime, such as the shadow-play experiments. Zeta Prime, Sentinel’s successor, was coercing me to swear the truth upon the Matrix before the Senate Council—a Matrix he had poisoned in secret. The intent had been for Orion Pax to die under its touch, allowing Zeta to claim that Primus had punished the data clerk for falsehoods.

Yes. The Orion Pax of this world had died. That is why Primus placed my soul into Orion Pax’s spark the moment it flickered out.

And now, I was and am Optimus Prime.

The look on Zeta Prime’s face was nothing short of glorious. He was clearly short-circuiting, and so was everyone else in the room. Even the ever-stoic Ultra Magnus stood frozen, his jaw slack and optics wide, utterly unprepared for Alpha Trion’s protégé to be chosen by the Matrix.

“F-…False… False Prime!” Zeta shrieked, his voice slicing through the stunned silence and jolting everyone from their shock. “Guards! Guards! Arrest Orion Pax!”

The guards hesitated, their uncertainty palpable, but eventually, two of them broke free from their daze and began moving toward me.

I wasn’t the least bit worried.

I raised my hand just above my head, then swept it downward, clenching my fist.

“Kneel.”

In an instant, every mech standing in the room was forced to their knees under an immense, invisible pressure, as though gravity itself had turned against them. Cries and shouts filled the chamber as they struggled to rise, only to fail.

The mechs who had remained seated stared in stunned silence, untouched by the force. But the moment any of them attempted to stand, the crushing weight dragged them down as well.

I tilted my chin up, narrowing my gaze at Zeta Prime. From this position, he seemed far smaller, like an ant.

“Your head was too high,” I quipped.

His optics burned with rage, but behind the fiery glow, they flickered with something else—fear. His frame trembled, caught between the crushing invisible force and the weight of his own terror. I could see it, clear as day.

Locking my gaze onto his red-amber optics, I saw it all—his sins, flashing like a torrent of corrupted data across my vision. Each one laid bare, undeniable, and damning.

“False Prime, indeed,” I said, clicking my glossa in disdain at Zeta, my distaste evident. “I wonder if Primus would even consider taking your spark after all the crimes you’ve committed against Cybertronians, Zeta.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but with a simple flick of my fingers, I seized control of his vocalizers, silencing him completely.

“Uh-uh, I didn’t give you permission to speak,” I added, my voice cold and cutting.

“O…Orion…” Ultra Magnus called out, his voice strained as he knelt under the immeasurable force. Though he had stopped fighting it, he remained in a humbled position, his head bowed low.

I felt a pang of guilt for doing this to him, but I couldn’t ignore the truth. Some of the crimes committed by Zeta and Sentinel were his burden as well—born of his inaction and unwavering loyalty to the head of Command. Yet, Ultra Magnus wasn’t entirely beyond redemption. If guided well, his story could take a better path, whatever that may be. Wherever this alternate universe might lead us, I wanted to believe that possibility remained.

Still, I needed to be firm with him. I couldn’t let him believe I was the same weak, old data clerk who had once trailed after Alpha Trion like a devoted shadow.

After all, he wasn’t around anymore.

“The name is Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus,” I said, my voice steady, weighty, “as declared by the Matrix and Primus himself. …Or are you questioning me? The new Prime?”

A flicker of doubt crossed my mind. Why do I sound like the villain here? I wondered, my own words echoing back at me. The weight of my actions pressed against me, but there was no turning back now.

I know the real Optimus Prime would never do this, but damn it, sometimes you gotta play politics and some game of thrones on the side.

Ultra Magnus shifted his gaze toward Zeta, who was clawing uselessly at his vocalizers, desperate to speak. For a moment, Magnus seemed to consider his options. Then, with a heavy sigh, he shook his head, his resolve crumbling. Slowly, he lifted his optics to meet mine, defeated.

“No, Optimus Prime,” he said, his voice steady but subdued, finally acknowledging my title. “I… I understand my place.”

“Is there anyone else here to voice against my position? Speak now,” I demanded, my voice cutting through the silence.

A chorus of immediate replies filled the room, a resounding wave of "no."

With a simple wave of my hand, I released them from the crushing gravity, allowing them to rise. They stood cautiously, stretching and visibly relieved that the ordeal was over. Most kept their distance, their wary gazes flickering toward me with a mix of unease and reluctant respect.

When Zeta attempted to stand, I flicked my wrist, and he was immediately forced back to the ground. He glared up at me, surprise flickering across his features.

“No. Not you,” I said coldly, my optics locked on him.

He simmered in quiet rage, his defiance muted but unmistakable.

Good.

“Today, I declare to all of Cybertron that both the deceased Sentinel Prime and Zeta Prime are—and always were—false Primes!” I announced, my voice ringing with authority.

Gasps rippled through the room, but I paid them no mind, my optics locking onto certain members of the Senate Council.

“And those complicit in the false naming of a Prime will face prosecution,” I continued, my tone unwavering. “And I know who among you is responsible.”

I spotted a few of them trembling in their frames, their guilt practically radiating off them as their crimes flashed vividly before my optics.

To be honest, none of this would have been possible if I wasn’t now fully, 100% attuned to the Matrix—a gift bestowed upon me by Primus. The Matrix wasn’t just a vessel for the memories and knowledge of the true Primes who came before me, though that alone was invaluable. It carried other abilities, hidden strengths I was only beginning to uncover. Perks I would gladly use to prove Primus’ existence whenever necessary.

And perhaps, just perhaps… Megatron might end up liking me.

And Yes. I am a MOP fan.

  ***

“…You’re different now…” Ultra Magnus observed, his voice quiet yet weighted with realization.

“That’s what happens when an ancient artifact decides to remake you and grants you all the powers of a Prime,” I replied, matter-of-fact but not without a hint of irony.

We were in the Hall of Records, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of stored data. Ultra Magnus and I, along with several archivists, were combing through the restricted section, compiling folders detailing Zeta’s long list of illegal activities. At first, the archivists were jittery around me, unsure of how to act. But as the evidence of Zeta’s corruption piled up, their apprehension gave way to righteous fury. Empowered by the sheer injustice of it all, they worked with renewed determination, gathering more and more damning records.

Even Ultra Magnus was beginning to feel the weight of his inaction. I could hear him muttering curses under his breath as his grip tightened on a datapad, the screen creaking under the pressure.

“…Did you know all this, Or—I mean, Optimus Prime?”

“You can just call me, Optimus, Magnus,” I said as those two words were a mouthful in a casual and/or work setting. “And no, I didn’t. The Matrix showed me Zeta’s guilt when I glanced over him.”

“That’s—”

“You’re also guilty for ignoring the signs and for listening to their orders, blindly following them.” I pointed out and I could see him flinch in my peripheral vision. “If you had followed up your suspicions, you could have saved hundreds of Cybertronian lives sooner rather than later.”

My optics drew away from the datapad as I glanced at him whose fists were shaking. His head lowered in shame.

I sighed, the weight of my words settling heavily between us. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh, but Magnus needed to hear it. No one else—not Zeta, not Sentinel—could have chastised him like this; his high position had insulated him from accountability for far too long. Yet, his inaction had allowed the false Primes to corrupt everything they touched.

“Don’t fret, Magnus. I need you in these trying times,” I said, softening my tone to assure him that imprisonment wasn’t my intention.

Ultra Magnus shook his head, his voice heavy with remorse. “I should be put to trial.”

“No,” I said firmly, “you should be scolded for being a fool—which is what I’m doing now.” I met his gaze, unyielding but fair. “I can’t fault you for being solely ignorant. They fooled all of Cybertron. All we can do now is clean up the mess they left behind.”

Magnus sighed heavily, falling silent as he glared at the datapad in his hands. After a long moment, he lowered it, his expression grim.

“What about Megatron?” he asked.

Megatron.

Right now, our world was locked in a brutal civil war against Megatron of Tarn, once a freedom fighter, now the self-proclaimed Leader of the Decepticons after killing Megazarak. Over a year ago, Megatron had slain Sentinel Prime, and since then, his control had expanded to three major cities: Kaon, Tarn, and Vos.

Two of those cities housed critical energon mining operations. With those distributors under Decepticon control, Iacon had been forced to implement strict energon reserve protocols. Resources were dwindling. The comfort and luxury that the citizens of Iacon usually indulged in had diminished to more conservative restraints.

Megatron.

I didn’t want to fight him.

“Ultra Magnus,” I said, addressing him by his full designation, my tone firm. “I know we have troops stationed outside the cities under Megatron’s control. Who is commanding the fleet?”

Magnus straightened in his seat at the question, his professionalism overriding his earlier guilt. “That would be Commander Ironhide, my Prime,” he replied.

I noted the respectful use of the title and couldn’t help but feel a flicker of appreciation. Magnus was beginning to respect me more, but I knew the orders I was about to issue would test his loyalty—and they wouldn’t be easy for him to swallow.

“Have Ironhide retreat. Pull our forces back,” I ordered, my tone steady and resolute. “Then, have him—or someone more tactful—approach Megatron and his Decepticons with a truce. Barter for energon supplies, and in exchange, we’ll pay them with the appropriate amount of alt-mode kits.”

The moment the words left my mouth, Magnus shot to his pedes, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.

“Optimus! You cannot be serious!” he shouted, his voice reverberating through the Hall of Records. A few nearby archivists flinched, ducking their heads in unease. “Offering the enemy alt-mode kits? That would only make them more powerful!

“They are not the enemy, Magnus,” I said carefully, my voice firm but measured. Setting the datapad down on the desk, I held his gaze. “They are the product of a nation long corrupted. They were wronged, Magnus. They couldn’t stand by anymore.”

Magnus’ optics narrowed, his stance unyielding. “Megatron is a terrorist. He has committed war crimes—”

“—War crimes against the previous Primes’ rule,” I interjected, cutting him off. “If Sentinel hadn’t attempted to subjugate Tarn, seeking to silence Megatron by murdering him—because his words and ideals were spreading across Cybertron—then maybe Sentinel would still be alive today. And maybe it would have been me who brought down Primus’ wrath upon him.”

Magnus opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off, leaning forward on the table, my optics locked on his.

“Listen, Magnus. You want to make up for everything that’s gone wrong these past mega cycles? Then you need to do it my way.” My voice was firm but carried a note of understanding. “I get that following the Primes has led you to regrets, but I can’t have that hesitation here—not when I’ve just barely started today. Watch me work before you decide not to follow my orders.”

I straightened slightly, keeping my tone steady. “I’ll take your advice, Magnus. I know Megatron has the potential to become an enemy. But right now, he is not the enemy. To him—and to the cities he’s liberated—we are.”

I let the words settle for a moment before continuing. “I want this bloodshed and discord to end just as much as you do. And that means not dismissing Megatron as some random terrorist who only wants to plunge Cybertron into chaos. Doesn’t his literature—his ideals—speak to something deeper than what he appears to be on the surface?”

Magnus fell into silence, truly pondering my words. A few nano-clicks passed, the air heavy between us, before I gestured toward him.

“You may go for today, Magnus,” I said, my tone calm but firm. “Ensure Ironhide receives my directive. I’ll stay here for a while longer.”

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he bowed his head to me. “My Prime.” The words carried hesitation, but I could tell he intended to follow my orders, albeit reluctantly.

Trust was surely an expensive commodity these days.

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A/N: Hello, trying my hand on a Self-Insert Optimus Prime who is completely different from our usual optimistic Prime.  Hope you at least enjoyed the first chapter. If you did, please leave kudos, bookmark, and comment below! :D I would appreciate the feedback!

Chapter Text

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Megatron’s POV

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“Megatron! Iacon's forces are pulling out!” Starscream announced, his tone brimming with enthusiasm. “You’ve done it! They are cowering before your magnificence!”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. The news was certainly welcome—no more Iacon forces breathing down their necks—but it raised questions. What had changed? Why would Zeta Prime pull his fleet back so suddenly?

The Decepticon command center was in a frenzy, dispatching scouts to confirm the retreat and ensure no traps were lying in wait. Could this be some clever ruse? Or perhaps a secret coup was unfolding within their ranks?

Then, Soundwave entered, striding purposefully to Megatron before dropping to one knee.

“Lord Megatron. I bring news. Zeta Prime has been arrested by a new Prime,” he reported in his signature monotone.

“A new Prime?” Megatron’s optics flickered, his voice sharp with suspicion.

“Explanation: it occurred during the Senate Council meeting hours ago. The Matrix has chosen a new bearer—Optimus Prime,” Soundwave clarified with calculated precision.

Optimus Prime.

Silence fell in the room.

This was exactly why ‘Primes’ were such a hassle—nothing but power-mongering fools wrapped in self-righteousness. No doubt this new Prime would be just as corrupt as the last. Megatron’s frustration simmered, compounded by the lack of any information on this so-called Optimus Prime.

The Primacy as a whole was a farce.

“Under what charges?” Megatron asked, his tone laced with disdain as he sighed at the absurdity of the situation. A new leader in Iacon—what would that mean for them? Would this one spiral into madness like the others, hurling their armies into futile battles?

“For tampering with the Matrix to manipulate the Primacy’s results, as well as conducting illegal Cybertronian experimentation involving shadow-play,” Soundwave answered, his voice steady and unyielding.

Megatron’s optics snapped wide open at the revelation. He had long suspected the existence of secret agents—puppets molded through unspeakable methods, forced to carry out the Senate’s shadowy agenda. Dead-end assassins, once living mechs, turned into hollow instruments of death through brutal experimentation and relentless torture. Rumors of their existence had always swirled, but the Senate had consistently denied them, hiding their atrocities to keep their tools operational.

But this new Prime… he had made the charge public.

“Lord Megatron! Iacon Command is hailing us for comms,” Jetfire announced, his tone sharp with urgency.

Megatron rose from his throne, his imposing frame casting a long shadow across the room. Without a word, he moved to face the comms screen, arms crossing over his chest in a display of authority.

“Patch them through,” he ordered, his voice cold and unwavering.

A moment later, the screen flickered to life, revealing a black-and-white mech with a piercing red visor.

“Megatron of Tarn. I am Lieutenant Prowl. Our Prime has a proposition for you,” the mech stated, his voice cool and measured.

“Oh?” Megatron’s lips curled into a sharp smile as he fixed Prowl with an unrelenting glare. “Is this coming from the new Prime? We’ve heard the news. What does he want?”

Prowl’s expression darkened, his shoulders visibly stiffening under Megatron’s scrutiny.

“…Optimus Prime wishes to barter for energon supplies,” he said at last, the words clipped and deliberate.

Megatron raised a brow ridge, surprise flickering across his face. Of all the things he expected from this new Prime, a request to barter was not one of them. He had half-expected Optimus Prime to demand his surrender outright.

“Oh?” Megatron leaned forward slightly, his voice laced with intrigue. “And what would he offer in return?”

Prowl hesitated, his reluctance evident as his vents shuddered with a mechanical cough to clear his vocalizer. “…In return for energon supplies, Optimus Prime is willing to barter with alt-mode kits.”

The room erupted with shocked murmurs and excited chatter. Even Megatron struggled to maintain his composure, his optics narrowing as he processed the unexpected offer. Alt-mode kits—restricted technology hoarded by Iacon’s military elite—were never handed out freely, especially not to lower-caste citizens or outsiders like the Decepticons.

While the command staff buzzed with celebration, Megatron’s wariness only deepened. The deal was too good to be true. He had learned long ago to distrust Iacon’s generosity.

“I’m no fool,” Megatron said, his voice cutting through the commotion like a blade. “What’s the catch? Hmm?”

Prowl’s visor dimmed slightly as he let out a frustrated grumble. “We, of the Royal Forces, are equally baffled. But the Prime has spoken,” he said, his tone laced with irritation. “These are the terms…”

The enemy’s initial offer was 100 alt-mode kits for six months’ worth of energon supplies. The proposal ticked Megatron off—six months felt excessive for such a meager quantity of those highly coveted kits. He voiced his dissatisfaction sharply, prompting Prowl to unexpectedly open the floor to negotiation. That surprise gave Megatron an edge, one he immediately seized upon.

By the end of the bartering, the terms were set: 300 alt-mode kits in exchange for three months’ worth of energon, delivered to Iacon in manageable weekly shipments. A more favorable deal, though Megatron was still weighing its hidden costs.

“With this trade settled, we also ask for a temporary truce,” Prowl added, his tone firm but measured.

Megatron’s optics narrowed in response. A truce. It was a logical request, one Megatron found himself reluctantly needing as well. With three cities under his control, he was still struggling to stabilize them, let alone appoint competent managers to oversee their operations. His forces were also scraping for energon, and while the trade demanded sacrifice, the alt-mode kits would be a game changer. Military applications came first, of course, but their utility in work and infrastructure couldn’t be ignored.

Still, Megatron couldn’t afford to let the enemy see his need for this so-called truce. A smirk stretched across his faceplates, a calculated display of confidence and superiority.

“I suppose I could grant a bit of mercy,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mock benevolence. “But only until this trade is complete.”

“I’ll relay the message to my Prime,” Prowl said curtly. Without another word, he cut off communications.

A nano-click later, the Decepticon command center erupted in cheers and excited chatter.

“Can you believe it? They’re really sending us alt-mode kits!” Thundercracker exclaimed, his tone a mix of disbelief and amusement. “This new Prime must be out of his mind!”

“I wonder if we’ll get at least one!” Skywarp chimed in, his optics gleaming with curiosity.

Starscream turned on him with a sharp glare. “You idiot! We already have alt-modes. Why would Lord Megatron waste any of them on you?”

“I-I’m just saying!” Skywarp stammered, his voice defensive. “Sometimes I wish I could be a ground vehicle!”

The room buzzed with chatter, but Megatron raised a hand, gesturing for Jetfire to step closer. The mech obeyed without hesitation.

“What do you think of this, Jetfire?” Megatron asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

Jetfire folded his arms, his optics narrowing in thought. “Honestly? I’m not sure. These alt-mode kits could significantly bolster our military strength. But Iacon isn’t really that desperate for energon. They’ve got enough reserves to last at least two or three mega-cycles with their strict rationing protocols.”

Megatron’s optics flickered as he processed Jetfire’s analysis. Then he turned to another trusted voice. “Soundwave?” he prompted, confident that the telepath had been monitoring every nuance of the conversation.

Soundwave stepped forward, coming to a halt beside Jetfire. “Speculation: Jetfire’s assessment is accurate. Iacon is not in immediate need of energon,” he intoned, his voice steady and precise.

“Maybe this new Prime, Optimus, is trying to get into your good graces?” Jetfire suggested, his tone speculative. “It could be a tactic to lower your guard.”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave interjected without hesitation, his monotone voice carrying an air of certainty. “Advice: tread with caution.”

“Hm.” Megatron leaned back in his throne, his optics dimming slightly as he mulled over their insights. Their opinions aligned with his own suspicions. This could very well be a clever trap—a ploy to lull him into a false sense of security, only for this new Prime to strike at the perfect moment.

“…If it is,” he said, his voice low but resolute, “then we’ll be ready for it. Nothing is going to stop me from taking over Cybertron and dismantling its pathetic Senate Council and the Primacy.”

Nothing.

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OP’s POV

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“You cannot be serious about shipping off 300 alt-mode kits all at once, can you?” Ultra Magnus questioned, his tone laced with disbelief.

“It’s a test,” I said, keeping my voice calm as I reviewed the datapad in my hands. The compiled crimes of Sentinel Prime, now deceased, and Zeta Prime, currently imprisoned, scrolled across the screen. Both were false Primes, their claims to the Matrix bolstered by fabricated witness statements—a lie perpetuated by corrupt Senate members.

Without looking up, I continued speaking to Magnus. “Honestly, the deal is good. I expected Megatron to push for 500 alt-mode kits, but Prowl did an excellent job with negotiations. Please make sure to pass on my thanks to him.”

Even as I spoke, I could feel Magnus’s unease. His concern wasn’t misplaced.

“Five hundred?” Magnus rasped, his voice nearly cracking as he reeled from the number I had been willing to consider. “…What is this test for?”

“There are several, actually,” I replied, gesturing toward one of my recently hired secretaries—an archivist named Codex. “This one is to see if he can actually keep his word.”

I turned back to Codex, handing him the datapad. “Make at least five copies of this and store the original in the restricted section of the Hall of Records. Please and thank you.”

“Right away, My Prime!” Codex replied, clutching the datapad to his chest plates as though his very spark depended on it. Without hesitation, he spun on his heel and briskly walked away, nearly breaking into a jog.

I rose from my desk, striding purposefully toward the exit with Magnus close on my heels.

“Where are you off to now?” Magnus called after me, his tone teetering between exasperation and urgency. “We still have much to discuss—”

“Then discuss while you walk,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder. “I need to make a trip outside to the Praxian Research Center.”

Magnus froze mid-step, his optics widening. “You—wait. No. Absolutely not. Any time you leave the Senate Building, we require preparation. Do you have any idea how big a security risk this is? You can’t just go outside without a guard, Optimus!”

I raised an optic ridge, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at my expression. “I have you, don’t I?”

Magnus shook his head, his tone firm but tinged with frustration. “It’s not enough. Please, just give me one hour, My Prime. I’ll have a guard assembled, and I’ll even notify the Praxian Research Center to expect your arrival.”

I stopped and stared at Magnus for a moment. Seeing how frazzled he was, my spark gave out to him.

“Alright, Magnus. I’ll wait, but not one hour longer.”

Magnus sighed in relief, uttering a quiet thanks as he hurried off to make the preparations.

Primus… I wonder when was the last time this mech took a vacation?

Half an hour later, Magnus had assembled a small escort to accompany me, including himself, as we boarded the train to the Praxian Research Center. The entire cable car had been reserved for me and my guard alone, though that didn’t stop civilians in adjacent cars from taking snapshots with their optics. I could tell by the way their optics flickered, quickly dimming and brightening—an unmistakable sign of image capture. It reminded me that I, too, could do the same, storing pictures directly into my neural network.

Perhaps it was an echo of Orion Pax’s archivist nature, but I found myself marveling at my own data storage capabilities. Even the largest volumes of information could be compressed to one-eighth of their original size, though it often felt unnecessary given the sheer scale of storage at my disposal. Orion’s system was near limitless, able to hold the entirety of Iacon’s Hall of Records and still utilize only a fraction of its capacity—barely one-sixth. It was staggering. I could seamlessly observe and stream through an unimaginable wealth of information with a single thought, my mind functioning as a living library.

“Why didn’t we take the Tempest—”
“Shh!”

Two of the mechs assigned to guard me whispered loudly, earning a sharp glare from Magnus that silenced them immediately.

I suppose this was partly my fault. We were on a train because I’d insisted on it, claiming the people needed to see me—the new Prime. The real reason, however, was far more personal: I wanted to see the city for myself.

Iacon was undeniably grand, its sprawling skyline and intricate architecture rivaling the human city of Dubai in my mind. The comparison lingered as I gazed out the window, captivated by the interplay of light reflecting off Cybertronian metals and towering structures.

The Tempest, of course, was the official flight carrier traditionally used by Primes. But honestly, I’d rather be aboard the Ark if it still existed. The thought crossed my mind briefly, a faint curiosity. Huh. I wonder where the Ark was.

We arrived at our station soon enough, and as we stepped off the train, we were immediately surrounded by reporters. Their voices overlapped in a chaotic din, cameras and recorders thrust forward in a desperate bid for attention. Magnus, walking beside me, didn’t look particularly thrilled. Still, he didn’t complain; after all, this was nothing new. Both Sentinel and Zeta had often courted the media, and I knew Magnus was no stranger to dealing with them.

One reporter, more persistent than the rest, managed to wriggle halfway through the barrier formed by my guards. He waved a rod-like device—what I assumed was the Cybertronian equivalent of a microphone—toward me, his voice nearly frantic.

“Optimus Prime! Optimus Prime! Is it true that you are submitting to Megatron’s tyrannical demands? We have sources claiming you’ve ordered the Iacon Royal Forces to pull back—”

I stepped forward, gently taking the mic from his grasp. It had a bit of grime on it, so I wiped it clean with my thumb before tucking it back into the small pocket on his chest plate. The reporter blinked at me, startled by the gesture.

“Primus bless you,” I said warmly, giving him a light pat on the head before continuing on my way. Magnus fell into step beside me, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as we moved past the sea of media.

“That was… tactful,” Magnus remarked, his tone carrying a hint of genuine admiration.

“Mm-hmm,” I replied simply, continuing forward. Our progress was steady, though we stopped briefly at intervals as I spread the word of Primus. Drawing from the archives within my mind library, I recited hymns and prayers penned by the Primacy Brotherhood of Old, their words steeped in reverence. Occasionally, I found myself channeling prayers from the Matrix itself, whispered by the voices of older Primes whose devotion to Primus had been absolute.

I suppose I was crafting a particular image for the public—a holy, priestly figure who sought unity, not war. This wasn’t the image of a Prime eager to wage battles or escalate conflict, and I wondered how Megatron would perceive it. No doubt, he’d have his own thoughts about this public display of faith.

There were things I could say about Megatron, things I wanted to address. But not now. The media would twist my words into something else entirely, and I couldn’t afford to let them control the narrative

It took nearly over an hour before we finally reached the Praxian Research Center.

At the steps of the entrance, a small gathering of mechs awaited us, their heads bowing in respect as we approached.

“Optimus Prime, it is an honor to have you visit our facilities,” the first mech greeted, his tone polished and precise. His teal and magenta frame stood out against the muted colors of the structure behind him. “My name is Perceptor, and I am the Head Director of the Praxian Research Center.”

As he spoke, memories drifted back to me, soft and gentle like falling rain. I recognized him instantly and couldn’t help but smile warmly.

“You can relax, Perceptor,” I said, my tone reassuring. “I may have changed a lot, but I still remember our conversations.”

I turned my gaze toward another familiar face standing behind Perceptor, a mech predominantly white with red and green embellishments. “You too, Wheeljack.”

At this, the gathered mechs visibly relaxed, the tension in their frames easing as a few chuckles rippled through the group.

Perceptor offered me a small smile. “We weren’t sure. There were rumors that you were… different.”

“Different?” I echoed, hesitating slightly. It was true—I wasn’t the same Orion Pax they had once chatted with whenever Alpha Trion visited this place. “I suppose so…,” I admitted, my tone careful. “There’s a project I need your team to work on immediately. I apologize for dropping in so suddenly, but may I borrow a good portion of your time to discuss it?”

“Certainly, My Prime,” Perceptor replied, his tone as courteous as ever, a reflection of the hierarchy now standing between us. I could see the curiosity in his optics, however, shining through his formality. Whatever I had to say, he was already intrigued.

Wheeljack smiled at me, but I could see the tension in his frame. His movements were stiff, his unease likely stemming from my presence—or perhaps from the guards that flanked me on every side.

We were led inside without delay, Perceptor guiding us directly to a conference room. There was no need for a tour; I already knew this place. And yet, as we walked through its halls, it felt distant, like a memory glimpsed in a dream.

Upon entering the conference room, I was escorted to the head seat—the place where Perceptor or Alpha Trion would usually sit. I hesitated for a moment, feeling slightly abashed, but quickly reminded myself: I was a Prime now. Status demanded I take my place.

As I sat, Perceptor took the chair to my right, and Magnus settled on my left. Wheeljack chose the empty seat next to Perceptor, his optics darting briefly to me before focusing forward. The others filed in around the table while my guards remained standing along the walls, their postures rigid and alert.

“So, how can we, the Praxian Research Center, assist you with this project, Optimus Prime?” Perceptor asked, his tone polite yet curious.

Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the desk, intertwining my fingers as I spoke. “I’d like you to assemble a team to reopen and refurbish the old Energon Refinery Treatment facilities. I intend to revive the Energon Aqueducts.”

My request startled everyone in the room. Perceptor’s optics widened slightly, and Wheeljack shifted in his seat, his unease clear. Even Magnus glanced at me, his expression briefly flickering with surprise before returning to its usual stoicism.

Long ago—a very, very long time ago—there were rivers upon rivers of pure energon. Energon, in its original state, was liquid, flowing freely across the land. But one day, without warning, the rivers dried up.

It happened around the same time Quintus Prime successfully drove the Quintessons away. The river stopped flowing, and mining for energon became the new reality. That was millions of years ago. Since then, the Energon Aqueducts have become little more than national monuments, relics of a forgotten past.

After a moment of stunned silence, a startled laugh escaped Perceptor.

“That is… whatever for, Optimus Prime?” Perceptor asked, his tone laced with incredulity. “The Energon Aqueducts are nothing more than integral pieces of the past. Not a drop of energon has been sighted from them in ages… unless… you’ve found some way…?”

Horror settled on his faceplates as I simply smiled.

“Perhaps. But I need the refineries in working order first.”

Magnus let out a shuddering gasp, his vents trembling as he looked at me in disbelief. “Do you really mean that, Optimus? You… you could bring back the Fluxstream?”

I racked my neural circuits, trying to calculate just how old Magnus might be.

“Were you there when it was still running?” I asked, curiosity driving the question.

Magnus nodded slowly, a faraway look settling over his optics. “Yes. I was just a newspark… The war with the Quintessons had just ended when the Fluxstream dried up. It happened in a matter of cycles. One moment it was there, flowing as it always had, and then… gone.”

He paused, his tone growing reflective. “I remember Quintus Prime addressing us all, saying we needed to mine energon to survive. Back then, the Primacy was revered, held in the highest regard. To mine energon was considered a desecration—a defacement of Primus himself. But Quintus Prime… he convinced everyone it was permissible. That Primus would allow it.”

My optics flickered briefly before I nodded to him. “Yes… Primus did allow it. He didn’t want his children to starve.”

Magnus inhaled sharply, clearly rattled by my response, and the others followed suit. They looked at me with a mixture of disbelief, uncertainty, fear, and perhaps even remorse. I understood why. For countless generations, the reverence for Primacy had waned, thanks in no small part to the actions of Sentinel and Zeta. To many, it had become little more than a hollow tradition.

That shift in perspective had led many to doubt Primus’s very existence.

Pity. That needed to change. They didn’t need to worship him—not as a religion—but Primus deserved to be remembered. To be known.

Something else nudged at my consciousness, a fragment of valuable information surfacing within me.

Quintus Prime had purposely stopped the flow of the energon rivers during the war against the Quintessons. The tides of battle were turning against us, and in a desperate move, Quintus shut off the main valve, cutting off the planet’s energon supply. The Quintessons, believing the source of energon to be completely depleted, abandoned Cybertron. To them, the planet had become worthless.

It was after their departure that a new system emerged—a grand, idealistic plan where every bot became part of a greater cog. A functionalist system meant to ensure that energon would be available to all who needed it. Quintus’s intentions had been noble, but he could never have foreseen how deeply that system would be corrupted over time.

I could feel his regrets churning in my tanks, an ache that lingered in the wake of his choices.

“Ahem. Anyway, I could bring it back now,” I said, cutting through the tension.

“If… if that’s true, then how come it was never brought back before?” Wheeljack asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and disbelief. “I mean, I get it was tied to Quintus Prime, but why didn’t Sentinel Prime or Zeta Prime do it? Everyone knows energon mining is finite. The resource is depleting here on Cybertron, and that’s why we’ve spent recent years traveling to the stars to mine.”

“That is not for you to question, mech. Not here,” Magnus interjected sharply, his tone scolding.

I raised a hand, stopping him. “It’s all right,” I said calmly, glancing at Wheeljack. “He has a right to ask.”

I turned to Wheeljack, meeting his gaze as I spoke. “In truth, Sentinel and Zeta were false Primes. They carried and integrated internal components of Quintus Prime into their bodies, enabling them to hold the Matrix. But they were never truly attuned to it—let alone accepted by it.”

The room fell deathly silent as my words sank in.

And I didn’t stop there. “To get Quintus Prime’s components, Sentinel murdered him and took the throne.”

Magnus shot to his pedes, stepping back as if recoiling from the revelation, horror etched into his features. I glanced around the room; even my guards, trained to mask their emotions, were struggling to keep their expressions neutral.

Perceptor buried his face in his servos. “Oh, Primus… after all this time…” he anguished, his voice muffled. “…This is…”

“I do plan to reveal all of this information soon,” I said, my tone steady, “but the energon aqueducts need to remain under wraps for now.”

Lowering my voice slightly, I continued, addressing him directly. “So let me ask you, Perceptor—will you help me restore the Energon Treatment Refineries? Most of the equipment will likely need upgrades, and you have the best and brightest minds on all of Cybertron here at your disposal. The Iacon Treasury will also be fully open to you, so long as the purchases are reasonable. Whatever resources you require to make this a reality, you’ll have them.”

Then I leaned forward, meeting his optics.

“So… can I count on you to make it happen, Perceptor?”

It took a few nano-clicks before Perceptor responded. He nodded several times, his movements deliberate as if solidifying his resolve. “Yes… Yes, I will do this. We will do this for you, My Prime.”

The way he said my title carried a shift—no longer tinged with the nervous hesitation he had shown earlier. Now, there was reverence and gratitude in his voice, as though he had finally accepted that I truly was a Prime.

There was no telling yet how long it would take to get those refineries operational, but Perceptor was adamant. He insisted they halt all current projects and head to the site immediately. While I suggested they wait until tomorrow, Perceptor remained resolute, stating he would leave with a small team right away. Once they conducted a preliminary survey of the facility, he promised to send me an estimate of the time required for restoration.

With that, the meeting came to an end. Perceptor and the other scientists filed out, but not before Magnus had them swear an oath of secrecy regarding the project and everything discussed. The weight of what was shared would remain within this room until the time was right to make it public.

As the others departed, Wheeljack lingered behind, casting uncertain glances in my direction. It was clear he wanted to say something but struggled to find the words.

For his sake, I rose from my seat and walked over to him. Placing my servos on his shoulders, I gave the plating a firm squeeze, a silent gesture of reassurance. His vents shuddered as he exhaled, and I could feel the tension in his frame easing slightly under my touch.

“Are you alright, Wheeljack?” I asked, my tone gentle.

He stared at me as though I were otherworldly. “It’s just… you’re so different. Are you… are you still…?”

“Orion Pax?” My optics lowered as a faint, bitter smile tugged at my faceplates. “Sort of… It’s hard to explain, but I still remember you, Wheeljack. And if time permits later, we can still talk about your, uh, unique inventions. Just… make sure it doesn’t blow up in front of me, okay?”

His jaw dropped, and then he burst into laughter. “Hey, hey! I’ve improved since last time!”

“Sure you have,” I teased, a smirk forming.

His jaw dropped even further, his expression aghast, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You doubt me, Prime?” he shot back, mock-indignant. “Just you watch—you’re gonna see my next amazing invention—”

“Wheeljack!! Quit bothering Optimus Prime and get over here! We need you!” one of his coworkers yelled from the hall.

“Slag! Give me a few clicks, will ya?!” he called back, his tone frustrated but playful.

I laughed, a sense of relief washing over me as I realized nothing had changed too much between us.

“I’ll see you around, Wheeljack. And I’ll make sure to visit you all to check on your progress.”

“Hey, we won’t disappoint you,” he said, his tone more confident now, the earlier nervousness gone. “I’ll see you around, Optimus.”

“Good luck to you and the Praxian Research Team, Wheeljack,” I replied, offering him a final nod of encouragement.

Now that I thought about it, there was one more person I needed to check on. But seeing Magnus and the guards looking so drained—both mentally and emotionally—from the information I’d just shared, I decided we’d head back for now. They needed time to process everything.

On the train ride home, Magnus sat hunched over, silent and lost in thought. His shoulders sagged with an uncharacteristic heaviness.

“…A penny for your thoughts, Magnus?” I asked gently.

His optic ridges furrowed as he glanced up at me, his expression puzzled. “Penny…?”

Ah, right. Oops.

“What I mean is…would you like to share your thoughts?” I offered, softening my tone. But even as I said it, I had an inkling of what weighed on him—almost as if I could…sense it. “…You know there was nothing you could have done at the time, right?”

Magnus shook his head, his fists clenching tight, trembling with barely contained rage. “That’s not true. If I had seen Sentinel for what he truly was—if I hadn’t been so blind—he didn’t even grieve for more than a cycle before parading around with the Matrix in his servos—!”

“Quintus Prime doesn’t blame you, Magnus,” I said, my voice steady but firm.

He turned away sharply, his shoulders tense. “You couldn’t know that—”

Before he could retreat any further, I reached out, grabbing his tightly clenched servos in both of mine. I held them firmly, grounding him, as my gaze locked onto his optics.

“Quintus Prime never blamed you.”

Carefully, I uncurled his fist and brought it to my chest where the Matrix lay dormant. His servos trembled slightly, and his optics flickered and widened as he realized what I was trying to convey—what Quintus Prime was currently conveying.

“He… he can hear us?” he asked quietly, shaken. “…You can hear him?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sort of. I don’t hear voices, Magnus, but…I can tell he adored you. Very much.”

Magnus lowered his head, his optics closing. His frame seemed to sag a bit, silently grieving. Meanwhile, I noticed my guards had turned their backs on us, giving us privacy and pretending they hadn’t heard a single thing. How considerate of them toward their commander.

We made it back to the Citadel. Once I was safely in my quarters, Magnus excused himself and the guards were dismissed for today.

Ah well, since I couldn’t visit Ratchet today, I’ll just have to send him a message then, to see how he was doing.

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= = =

A/N: Hey! You finally reached the end of the chapter! :D What did you think about the energon idea? Transformers One 2024 inspired me because it's the first time I ever heard of energon being this...river, and I'm like, I'm gonna do this first. This is how my OP will make his debut to the public.

And yes, Magnus...my poor tired and worn mech... Sentinel's a bitch!

Anyway, if you enjoyed reading it, please, PLEASE! leave a comment, would like a feedback. :D

Chapter Text

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Op’s POV

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My optics flickered open, and I found myself in a familiar space—an endless expanse of white, streaked with light-blue, glowing lines forming a grid that stretched infinitely in all directions. There were no walls, no clear boundaries, just the faint hum of energy resonating all around me.

I’ve been here before.

“Optimus.”

The voice echoed, deep and resonant. Slowly, I sat up and turned, my optics locking onto a massive, floating face—Primus. His head alone dominated the space, composed entirely of light-blue energy that shimmered and pulsed like a spectral beacon against the grid.

“Primus,” I said, inclining my head respectfully, smiling. “It’s been a while.”

“It has, my child,” he said warmly. “Tell me. How goes your journey?”

I didn’t get up but shifted to face him, lounging comfortably on my side. The ground didn’t feel too hard. Maybe it was because this was an astral place, where physical sensations were nonexistent. I was probably still back in my berth, sleeping.

It had been a few deca-cycles since I emerged as Orion Pax—no, Optimus Prime. I should have gotten used to that name by now, but the name still weighed heavily on me, like shoes that were far too big for me to fill. At least, the public was beginning to accept my position, especially as I started stripping power away from the Senate Council. The first to fall was Senator Proteus, who not only aided the Institution’s shadowplay but was complicit in Quintus Prime’s murder, working alongside Sentinel.

With Magnus and other operatives, I had the Institute dismantled once I located it—something I achieved through meditating with the Matrix. Finding its location hadn’t been easy, even with Orion Pax’s processing capabilities. Thoughts and feelings didn’t translate well into data. They were expansive and sprawling—organic, even. Yet I still managed to find where pain and misery was festering upon this world.

As soon as the Institute was dismantled, I arranged for the mechs who had been tortured to be transferred to a secure facility, with the top medics assigned to their care. One of those medics was Ratchet.

“Orion… are you still… you?” Ratchet had asked, his vocalizer tinged with fear and awe, his expression unreadable but for the hesitation in his optics.

I smiled wearily. I hadn’t realized how much it pained me every time one of Orion Pax’s close associates would ask me that same question. Yet, I couldn’t blame them. Their doubts weren’t unfounded.

“I… might have changed a bit, but I’m still me, old friend,” I said, my voice steady but tinged with quiet hope. I watched him closely, silently willing him not to turn away. There were already others who avoided me, unsure what to make of me now that I didn’t entirely act like Orion, or that I became a Prime. But I shouldered through it.

I had to.

“And I need you right now.” I said to him.

Ratchet hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward.

“…What do you need?” he asked, his tone softer than I expected.

With Ratchet on board, the medics did everything they could for the victims of the shadowplay, but the damage was irreversible. To my growing horror, I recognized one of them—Senator Shockwave of Jhiaxus.

Shit. I know this story. This was from the IDW comics, wasn’t it?

But no, this world wasn’t supposed to follow any established continuity. Not from the television series, not from the comics—none of it. This was an alternate universe of Transformers, one where events diverged completely. After all, this was the world where Orion Pax supposedly died and never became Optimus Prime. The one Primus dropped me into to "fix."

So how was I supposed to fix what was already broken? I stood over Shockwave, lamenting the sight of him in his ‘empurata’ form. The sole hollowed optic, the clawed servos—he was a shadow of who he once was. Someone who was ever changing, vibrant—actively changed the paint on his plates. I had no clue what to do or how to fix him. As I moved closer, an overwhelming wave of his pain and torture swept over me, and before I could stop myself, I broke down, sobbing openly.

Magnus tried to pull me away, his voice firm but laced with concern. I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. My grip tightened around Shockwave’s servo claws, desperate for some kind of miracle—or something to stop the pain that echoed within.

Suddenly he was consumed in a blinding light from my touch. The Matrix hummed powerfully beneath my chestplates, its resonance nearly deafening.

When the light faded, a raw, anguished cry ripped out of Shockwave’s throat. His voice, strained and guttural, rose in a storm of profanities, raging on and on about ex-Senator Proteus.

“I’LL KILL HIIIIIM!” Shockwave bellowed out as the medics moved to restrain him from his thrashing. “Tear him limb from limb! I’LL make him SUFFER!!! ARRGGHHH!!”

Magnus ripped me away from the room as I watched, speechless.

What had I done…? I’d tried it with another mech, and the result had been the same. They regained their emotions, but at a great cost. Their bodies were healed, but not their souls. Not what lay inside. They were still…damaged.

Even now, my interference weighed heavily on me, questioning if I had done the right thing.

I turned to my Primus.

“…You didn’t tell me I could heal other Transformers with my fluids, Primus,” I said, my voice steady but tinged with pain as Shockwave’s anguished cry echoed in my mind. “I didn’t think I’d have that sort of healing powers…Heh…It almost feels like… like I’m your Cleric, and you’re the god I serve.”

Primus tilted his magnificently massive head, his energy flickering faintly as if in contemplation. “Cleric… You mentioned this before. It has to do with Dungeons and… Dragons… correct?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, his words breaking through my somber mood. “Hahaha, yes…”

The idea was comical. The Supreme Creator of the transformers talking about a tabletop, roleplaying game.

However, my thoughts dragged me back to the topic at hand: I could heal other Transformers with my fluids. Was I supposed to be Steven Universe now? Licking people to close their wounds? Oh, God. No. No way. Maybe I just needed to practice making myself cry on command instead.

Wait… did that mean even the fluids below…?

A grimace spread across my face, and I shuddered in disgust at the thought. Primus, ever observant, tilted his massive head slightly, his light-blue energy flickering.

“What is wrong?” he asked, his tone curious, almost concerned.

“…I think I’m suffering from body dysmorphic disorder,” I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. This wasn’t something I could tell anyone else—not even Ratchet. He wouldn’t understand my position. How could he?

But Primus? He knew. He understood my circumstances better than anyone. After all, he was the one who dropped me inside Orion Pax’s body.

Primus raised an optic ridge, his glowing form radiating curiosity. “Body dysmorphic disorder?”

“Yes,” I admitted, hesitating as I searched for the right words. “I’m… I’m always worried about… the interface panels below…” Even saying it felt like too much, the words catching in my vocalizer.

“…Ahhh…”

The sound lingered, thoughtful but uncertain. It became clear that Primus had no idea how to comfort me on this matter. And honestly, how could he? This was a human thing, not a transformer issue.

Transformers were and are naturally hermaphrodites.

Ever since the start of my ‘isekai’ journey, I’d never once attempted to explore… my body and its components. I—I felt too uncomfortable, especially when it came to everything below the waist. The thought alone was enough to make me recoil.

The integrated devices on my forearms, though? Those were different. I had no issues opening the panels there. They connected me directly to the Citadel’s database, granting me the highest security clearance to the Hall of Records, and showing it to people in a holographic fashion visible for all to see if I so wished it. It was like having access to the internet.

Anyway, the point is that I wasn’t gonna explore any valves and/or spikes anytime soon.

No sir.

No thank you.

“How goes securing Megatron?” he asked, leaning in closer. Curiosity was clear in his optics.

I smiled weakly. “Slow. No response yet, but…”

After the 300 alt-mode kits were sent, Megatron and the Decepticons stayed true to their bonds. They’d been regularly sending a weekly supply of energon to Iacon, just as the contract stated. So far, Megatron had passed my test. He was definitely a mech with principles.

The next test wouldn’t come for a while—not until Perceptor and Wheeljack finished the repairs on the Energon Treatment Refineries. They estimated it would take a month or two to finish, but were more focused on ensuring the machinery was in proper working order rather than rushing to meet a deadline. I agreed with their approach and told them to take their time.

Hopefully, it would be finished before the end of the third month. I had already drafted government plans to support miners and mining companies in the wake of an inevitable energon price collapse. The Fluxstream was an endless source of energon, and that would undoubtedly push the mining industry to the brink of obsolescence.

The drafted plans included programs to help miners transition into other industries, such as energon refinement, aqueduct maintenance, or tech development. Mining companies could also be encouraged to shift their focus to extracting other valuable metals and minerals, even venturing into space.

In the meantime, I would need to carefully control the release of energon from the Fluxstream to stabilize prices and prevent an immediate collapse. Eventually, though, energon would become as inexpensive to Cybertronians as a bottle of water is to a human.

Lastly, I’d implement buyback programs, particularly for mining companies struggling to transition. A surplus of energon is never a bad thing for the government to store, especially since energon doesn’t expire—unless someone tampers with it directly. Otherwise, it remains stable indefinitely.

For now, I’d only open the aqueducts in Iacon. Once peace negotiations with Megatron began, I could consider opening the rest of the aqueducts and refineries in other cities.

I explained all this to Primus, by the way.

“Hmm… you are wise beyond your years,” Primus said, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Thanks, but all these plans will only work if Cybertron is united,” I replied. “…I’m a little worried about when I have to deal with Megatron directly. Honestly, I’m not sure how he’ll react.”

In this continuity, Orion Pax and Megatron had never met—not even as pen pals. However, Orion Pax had read many of Megatron’s works and was quite an avid fan, much like a Potterhead to the HP series. He’d even written comments that read more like editor reviews, but there was a distinct fondness in his notes on those datapads.

“If anything, I could always act like a devoted fan of his writings,” I said with a faint smile. I doubted there were many Decepticons who truly read his works. At least, none that I knew of from the Transformers lore—though, for some reason, everyone seemed to know of them.

Suddenly, Primus lifted his optics to the sky, a flicker of alarm crossing his otherwise stoic face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my own concern rising.

“You must wake up,” he said, his tone urgent yet calm. “Someone is in your chambers.”

Immediately, my optics switched online, adjusting to the darkness of my chambers. I rose from my recharge slab, scanning the room. To the naked eye, there was nothing out of place.

I got onto my pedes and moved to the center of the room, still searching for the intruder Primus had warned me about. My optics closed as I focused, feeling the subtle pull of gravity and the metals around me.

…Metal framing, pulsing like a spark…

Without hesitation, my hand shot upward toward the ceiling. Using magnetism and gravity, I yanked the metal down. A fairly small and lean mech fell from the ceiling with a cry of surprise, slamming to the floor with a loud grunt of pain.

“Aw frag—Aggghh!!”

I kept the gravity on him, pinning him to the ground as I approached the figure. My room had no windows, so the only way in had to be through the doors—where a guard was supposed to be posted.

“What did you do to the guard outside my chambers?” I demanded, increasing the pressure and forcing him harder into the floor. His metal frame strained, the sound of creaking steel mixing with the cracking of the stone beneath him. “Answer me!”

“Okay, okay! H-he’s fine, just… knocked out…nggh, frag!”

I eased up on the gravitational force, but I didn’t let go. When he lifted his optics to me, I immediately received plenty of information, his misdeeds, his regrets, his crimes… and most of all his name as I could see Zeta in his imprisoned cell giving one last order to his most favored hired assassin.

“…Jazz…?” I questioned.

The mech froze, looking at me with his widened optics. Then his face straightened up, denying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, False Prime.”

“No, you’re definitely Jazz,” I insisted, ignoring his lies. “You like music, you’re very cool, very stylish, very competent, very small--”

“AYO! Size doesn’t matter!!” he snapped, his tone indignant.

I snapped my servos and pointed at him, narrowing my optics. “You are Jazz! Why are you trying to kill me?”

“I wasn’t planning to, honestly!” he said, though this time, I couldn’t tell if he was lying or not.

Still, I didn’t believe him. “Oh, really? Tell that to Senator Decimus, Senator Glavion, Circuita, Ironquill--” I began listing the names he felt guilty about, and his expression shifted drastically. His optics widened, and his jaw practically hit the floor as though his spark had fled him.

“Not to mention the people you cheated on, such as Reverb, KDQ-26, Hound, MJ-22—”

“AYOOO!” Jazz shouted, protesting loudly. “Okay, okay! You are a Prime! You are a true Prime! Quit calling out the names of my past lovers! How do you even know that?!”

I couldn’t help but grin—a little too evilly—as I leaned in close, my voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s because I can see the sins crawling up your back.”

Undertale reference, but it was effective as his faceplates paled—if transformers could change color so abruptly.

Finally, I released him from the gravity pull. He immediately stood up, taking a few cautious steps away from me. I didn’t like the idea of Jazz attempting to kill me—at least, I hoped that wasn’t his real reason for being here, to complete Zeta’s final order.

“So… are you going to follow through on Zeta’s last command?” I asked. He clenched his dentas, now watching me warily.

I mean, he hadn’t tried to murder me yet, but the guilt was still written all over him. An assassin who actually cared about the people he killed. If I hadn’t seen that, I would have never guessed who he was, or who had sent him. Zeta was currently still in prison, awaiting for trial that would happen soon.

“…I got a question,” he said.

I folded my arms, watching him warily. “I may have an answer. Go on.”

Jazz’s mouth gaped open before closing again, his throat clicking audibly. “…Okay… why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

I tilted my head. “I’m sorry…?”

“Look, I don’t know what you just did, or what kind of power you have—telekinesis or something—but… you could’ve killed me,” he said, his tone a mix of confusion and frustration. “Why didn’t you? You would’ve been justified. I mean, I was trying to offline you.”

“You said nano-clicks ago that you weren’t planning to—”

“No, no, even before that! Okay? You knew I was in the room. What even gave me away?”

I blinked. “Oh, Primus told me.”

He stared at me, his optics unblinking. “…Primus told you…?”

I gave him a look. “What? Don’t look at me like I’m the crazy one. You’re the one who decided to sneak into my chambers while I was sleeping, you creep.”

“Ayo, first off, I am not a creep. Second, what the SLAG is happening right now!? Why am I here arguing with you?!” Jazz yelled, throwing his servos into the air before stomping over to a bench. He slumped down, grabbing his head with both servos. “Primus, kill me now…”

“Oh, Jazz, he’d never kill you,” I said with a smirk. “Beat you over the head for your hits and cheats, sure, but—”

“Please. PLEASE. Stop,” Jazz groaned, burying his face deeper into his servos. Then he froze, lifting his head to glare at me indignantly. “…Hits and cheats?!”

I shrugged. “What?”

Jazz’s jaw hung slack before he shook his head in defeat. “You know what? You win. You win, Optimus Prime. I. Lost.”

“That’s great to hear. What did I win, exactly?” I asked, carefully stepping closer. A flicker of remorse hit me for yanking him around so much, but honestly, he’d been taking the bait the entire time.

It was just too much fun to stop, but now the little game was over.

“I mean, why are you even here, Jazz?” I asked him. “You never planned to kill me, because you probably checked first if I had a clean record, and you know that I do.”

Jazz tensed for a moment, his servos tightening, before letting out a resigned sigh. “Yeah… I know…”

The mechs Jazz had killed were all greedy and corrupt, every single one. Zeta Prime knew that and had decided to use Jazz as a tool, but come on—Orion Pax had the cleanest of records. He was practically Alpha Trion’s sole disciple.

No, he was Alpha Trion’s only disciple, following him around like a loyal puppy trailing after its master. Did he resent Alpha Trion for leaving him and going to Primus? Maybe a little. Because the moment Alpha Trion was gone, doors opened for Orion Pax—doors that had been closed to him before to shield him from the corruption festering within the Senate.

It was Alpha Trion’s absence that led him to Megatron’s writings, to the discovery of the Institute’s shadowplay experiments, and to uncovering the horrors within. It empowered him to fight for justice for the Institute’s victims, gathering evidence against Zeta Prime and Senator Proteus.

But in the end, Orion Pax was murdered under the guise of the Matrix rejecting him when he was told to swear the truth on it.

And then I came in. Reborn as Orion Pax and Optimus Prime. I threw Zeta Prime into prison, yet even from behind bars, he still managed to inconvenience my new life. Sometimes, I wondered if keeping Zeta alive was worth it. But I knew I had to hold out. I just needed to make that prison more secure.

If nothing else, though, meeting Jazz was the one good thing that came out of all this.

“Hey, Jazz.”

“…What?”

“Would you like to work for me?”

He raised his head to meet my beaming smile, completely taken aback by the question. For a few nano-clicks, he just stared, but then his optic ridges narrowed, and he straightened up, looking deadly serious.

“Who do you want offed?”

“Oh, uh, no one,” I answered quickly, waving my servos dismissively. “I was thinking of hiring you as my principal aide.”

Jazz’s optics bugged out as he shot to his pedes. “Whaaaaaaaa—?! WAIT… whaaaaaaaaaaaaatt?!”

Well, he’s surprised.

“You’re insane! Absolutely INSANE!” Jazz shouted, pacing back and forth, waving his servos wildly. “Why do you even want to hire ME? How could you possibly trust me…!?”

“Look,” I said, folding my arms. “You’re clearly capable—you managed to invade my chambers, which is one of the most secured guarded places in Iacon. Honestly, even the guards are among the most highly trained elites in the Royal Guard, and our security system isn’t exactly a joke. It’s baffling how one small mech managed to sneak through it all so easily without any detection.”

Jazz grimaced. “Please stop calling me small.”

“And you’re extremely charismatic—relationships included. The body count proves it.”

Jazz groaned, clutching his chest as if wounded. “I’m begging you! Please!! Stop bringing them up!”

“The point is,” I continued, unfazed, “I need someone who can follow me everywhere—even into danger—and survive.”

Jazz reeled back, narrowing his optics at me skeptically. “Follow you into danger? Are you… planning to head somewhere dangerous?”

“Maybe,” I replied with a shrug. “I don’t have future visions or anything, but I think it’s always good to be prepared.” I paused, before continuing on with my proposal. “If you accept my offer, I’ll pardon your crimes. Wipe your record clean. A full slate, so you can start over.”

“You… you can’t do that, can you?” he asked, staring at me with a mix of skepticism and hope.

I don’t know. Can I? Lifting my right forearm, I opened the grid and accessed the high-level clearance area. It didn’t take long to pull up quite the hefty file on Jazz. With a simple flick and click, his entire record was wiped clean, leaving only the essentials: his designation number, his relations, and, of course, his love for music.

“There. All done,” I said with a satisfied nod.

“I DIDN’T EVEN SAY YES YET—MPPPHH!”

“Stop yelling!” I hissed, harshly clamping my servos over his mouth.

After a few more rounds of back-and-forth, Jazz finally gave up and sprawled across the bench, looking completely defeated. Meanwhile, I finished completing his new employee file and sent his digital badge through the comms so he would have access to most facilities here.

“There you go! Congratulations on becoming my Principal Aide, Jazz,” I said cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to working with you!”

Jazz groaned miserably, rubbing his optics. “I-I can’t believe what just happened.”

I ignored his despair entirely. “You can sleep on the bench tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll get you situated with your own living quarters, and I’ll give you a tour.”

“Yes, yes, as you wish, My Prime,” Jazz said, resigning himself to his fate as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the long, cushioned bench. He paused, grumbling, “…How is this bench more comfortable than the one back at my place?!”

“Hahaha, good night, Jazz.”

I made my way back to the recharge slab, pulling the mesh sheets and cushioned fabric over myself. Closing my optics, I tried to relax, urging myself to drift off in the hopes of continuing my chat with Primus.

Sadly, he didn’t return. Not for a very long time.

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= = =

Magnus’s POV

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Earlier that evening, Magnus scanned through a series of dossiers on the most qualified soldiers within the military elite. There were a few he might have considered had they not defected to the Decepticons—Jetfire, for example. Fortunately, there were still promising candidates among those who remained.

“Orion Pax is my most talented, peerless student, Magnus. There is no way I’m ever letting Sentinel or Zeta lay a servo on him. Not even you, Magnus, old friend. I’m still fighting to keep Perceptor’s servos off him.”

Magnus paused, Alpha Trion’s words echoing in his mind.

Orion Pax.

Alpha Trion was one of the oldest Cybertronians to have ever lived, even older than Quintus Prime. Primus, Magnus could still recall scenes of Alpha Trion treating Quintus like his own scion, much to the warrior mech’s embarrassment. But after Quintus’s passing, Alpha Trion had become solemn and withdrawn for a time.

That changed when Orion Pax was assigned to the Hall of Records, and Alpha Trion discovered his remarkable capabilities. Even Magnus had been impressed. No mech was born with the massive data storage and extraordinary processing power that Orion possessed. He absorbed knowledge like a sponge, taking in everything without pause.

Orion followed Alpha Trion everywhere, like a shadow trailing its source. And Alpha Trion, in turn, took Orion Pax everywhere he went—shielding him from the worst aspects of their functionalist society.

“You must protect him, Magnus. His spark is too soft for this world.”

Soft. Magnus gritted his dentas as he recalled that day in the Senate Council meeting. Orion Pax had claimed to have evidence of the Institute’s existence and had boldly accused both Zeta Prime and Senator Proteus of their deep involvement in its operations. Ever since Alpha Trion’s death, Orion had been exposed to the darker corners of their society, and it had lit a fire of frustration and determination within him—a relentless drive to confront the injustice he saw.

He had set his sights on toppling Zeta Prime, a goal Magnus wasn’t prepared to pursue, not with the ever-present threat of Megatron looming over them.

“Will you tell the truth and only the truth?” Zeta Prime had asked.

Magnus could still see the unwavering fire in Orion’s optics as he responded, “I will!”

“Then swear it!” Zeta said, holding the Matrix aloft toward the archivist. “Swear upon the Matrix!”

The moment Orion touched the relic, a blinding light shot out, piercing through his chest. He collapsed instantly, his spark extinguished.

Magnus couldn’t believe what had just happened. The Matrix… it had killed another mech.

It had killed Orion Pax.

“Do you all see this?” Zeta Prime’s grating voice broke through the stunned silence. “Primus has punished Orion Pax for his lies! He—argh!”

Zeta cried out as the Matrix suddenly shocked him, forcing him to drop it. To Magnus’s surprise, the relic hovered in the air as if it had a mind of its own. It floated over to Orion Pax’s lifeless body and began to glow even brighter.

Magnus watched, mesmerized, as Orion’s body was engulfed in the radiant light. His corpse lifted off the ground, and the fatal injury across his chest began to seal in real-time, the damage vanishing as though it had never happened. Piece by piece, his form changed—his plating grew stronger, his frame more reinforced, and he stood several inches taller than before.

When the light faded, Orion landed gracefully on his pedes. No—Optimus Prime landed.

As soon as Zeta Prime ordered the guards to arrest the former archivist, Optimus raised his hand and uttered a single, commanding word: “Kneel.”

At that command, everyone dropped to their knees, unable to resist the overwhelming force of gravity bearing down on their shoulders and backs.

Magnus could still feel the chills running down his spinal strut as he remembered witnessing that moment.

The fierceness in Optimus’ gaze…

Soft-hearted? Maybe Orion was, but never Optimus Prime. Magnus wasn’t sure what sort of force—good or evil—had been brought into their world of Cybertron this time, but he had to believe Optimus would be better than the Primes who came before him.

Right?

Yet Magnus was filled with worries. This Optimus was completely different from the Orion Pax he once knew, as if his personality had undergone a sudden switch. Still, his doubts were tested against the knowledge Optimus brought forth from the Matrix—revelations such as restarting the Fluxstream.

And Quintus Prime…

Magnus’s reservations about Optimus Prime finally began to waver the day they safely secured the victims of the Institute’s shadowplay. He had watched the former archivist break down, sobbing in despair over another mech. The sight rattled something deep within Magnus, challenging his perceptions of the new Prime.

Truly. Truly soft-hearted.

And then Optimus Prime did what no medical bot could accomplish. He healed them—mechs whose damage had been deemed irreversible. A few medics had even quietly suggested putting them offline, believing there was nothing left to be done.

Yet, with a simple touch and a few tears, Optimus made the impossible happen. The damaged mech began to glow, enveloped in a bright white light that defied all explanation. When the glow faded, the mech roared out their anguish, their emotions flooding back. They were alive again.

Magnus couldn’t deny it anymore. He had to believe. Primus was real, and He had sent Optimus to fix this broken world—a world thoroughly corrupted by Sentinel and Zeta.

And here he was, looking over dossier files to see which mech he should place at Optimus’s side to protect him and keep him safe while Magnus would do whatever he needed to get done to fulfill his Prime’s orders without worrying about his safety.

He picked out two files.

#KDK-16 | Designation: Hot Rod

#KDL-27 | Designation: Red Alert

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= = =

A/N: I swear I think someone gave me bardic inspiration because I’m just literally on a roll with this fic and thousands of words! :D woohoo! Didn’t think I’d update again so soon again, did ya?! Though you won’t expect another tomorrow, I have D&D session tomorrow so.

But I will be updating within the following week, so make sure to bookmark and subscribe! And maybe leave a comment, because here’s the truth: Comments make writers write more!  Especially motivating comments! (I’m a comment ho)

Note:  BTW, as for Jazz, I read a fanfic somewhere where Jazz is actually an assassin, so I'm keeping that here, because that's amazing to me.

Anyway, Happy Holidays! Hope you enjoyed reading this chapter!

Chapter Text

= = =

Megatron’s POV

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“No… NO! I won’t! You can’t make me talk! You can’t!”

Megatron stood with his arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, dentas clenched tightly. His piercing gaze remained locked on the screen, where a former Senate Council member unraveled into hysterics. The mech, recently stripped of his position, thrashed violently against his restraints. One of Megatron’s Decepticon agents loomed over him, pressing with relentless determination for answers about the day Zeta Prime was arrested.

Suddenly, the mech collapsed to his knees, his forehead striking the floor with a resounding crack. The impact made the Decepticon agent flinch back.

“Ascend, ascend! To Primus’ Light! Through fire and shadow, day and night!” he howled, his voice cracking with unhinged fervor. “Transform the soul, ignite the flame! The Matrix calls, we rise in his name-!"

Starscream scoffed audibly, his wings twitching in disdain. “Ugh, have these mechs completely fried their neural networks? Witnessing someone chosen by the Matrix isn’t that profound.”

“I dunno, ‘Scream,” Thundercracker drawled, leaning against the console with a skeptical look. “With the way they’re all actin’, something bigger must’ve gone down. This is the fourth one spoutin’ like Primus will smite ‘em on the spot if they dare say one thing!”

Megatron’s dentas ground together as his frustration mounted. Questioning these Senators was proving to be a colossal waste of time. What was this new Prime—Optimus Prime—even up to?

Rumors swirled that Optimus had enlisted the Praxian Research Center to restart the ancient energon treatment refineries, facilities once built exclusively to process the flow from the Energon Aqueducts. Once, the fluxstream had provided an endless supply of energon, vital to Cybertron’s lifeblood. But that was millions of years ago, long before the Quintesson War left the aqueducts dry and desolate.

Why bother restoring those refineries now? It was a futile endeavor.

Not to mention, Optimus Prime had successfully delivered 300 alt-mode kits as promised in exchange for a weekly supply of energon to Iacon—enough to last three months.

Megatron, ever cautious, had assigned a team to inspect every single kit to ensure there were no hidden tampering or sabotage. So far, every one of them had been pristine, in perfect mint condition.

It was almost too perfect.

What was Optimus Prime planning?

“…Soundwave, have you gathered any more intel on Optimus Prime?” Megatron asked, his voice low and cold, his optics narrowing as the tension in the room thickened.

“Rumors: require additional confirmation. Preliminary evidence suggests Optimus Prime has located the Institute… and dismantled it,” Soundwave reported, his mechanical tone steady and unflinching.

A sharp intake of air swept through Decepticon Command, the weight of the revelation hitting like a physical blow. A few mechs visibly recoiled, optics wide with disbelief.

“That place was actually real?!” Skywarp blurted, his voice cracking with alarm. “Fraaaaag!”

Megatron raised an optic ridge, his gaze cutting across the room. “It hasn’t made public news?”

“Media reports: Optimus Prime remains elusive. No public acknowledgment from Iacon leadership,” Soundwave replied, his visor glinting faintly in the dim light, mirroring the unease that rippled through the gathered Decepticons.

The gladiator sighed, his expression hardening. So this Prime was camera-shy, unlike the two who came before him.

Yet Megatron had seen the news. Optimus Prime might have avoided the spotlight, but when he did appear, his behavior was almost laughable—spouting hymns and prayers of Primacy while evading every question thrown his way.

What is your plan to deal with Megatron, Optimus Prime?
What about the cities of Kaon, Tarn, and Vos? Will they remain under Decepticon rule?

The reporters were relentless, but Optimus simply smiled, his blue optics steady and unreadable. “Primus bless you,” he’d say, offering nothing else before walking away, leaving them with empty words and unanswered questions.

Megatron’s grip on the console tightened, the metal groaning under the pressure. What game was this Prime playing? Why hadn’t he made any move against them?

He had agents embedded within Iacon’s Royal Fleet, monitoring their every move. Yet the fleet remained on standby, as though a civil war wasn’t tearing Cybertron apart. It made no sense. A truce had been called, yes—but Megatron wasn’t naive enough to believe Optimus Prime would simply sit idly by, not plotting some kind of coup against him.

Unless…

Maybe this Prime was different?

He scoffed, shaking the thought from his mind.

No. Primes are all the same.

The doors to the command room hissed open, and a group of mechs strode in with the confidence of those who believed they belonged.

“Hey! Who gave you permission to barge in here?” Jetfire barked, immediately intercepting them. His wings flared in warning as he stepped into their path.

The largest of the group, a clunky mech towering several inches over Jetfire, didn’t slow his pace. Instead, he rammed chestplates with the Seeker leader, the impact echoing through the room.

“Out of my way, Cloud-chaser!” the mech growled, baring his dentas in a snarl as he loomed over Jetfire. “I demand to speak to Megatron!”

Megatron groaned, his optics narrowing with a mix of disgust and annoyance. Overlord. The mech was a fellow gladiator from Kaon, though Megatron hardly considered him an ally. They didn’t get along—never had—but Overlord was too useful to discard, a relentless beast on the battlefield.

“Let him through, Jetfire,” Megatron ordered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I want to hear what this overclocked oaf is whining about now.”

Jetfire shot Overlord a warning glare before reluctantly stepping aside. Overlord wasted no time, shoving the Seeker leader out of his way as he stomped forward. His heavy strides echoed through the command room as he approached the raised platform where Megatron stood.

Stopping ten feet away, Overlord clenched his fists, his frame trembling with barely contained fury.

“What’s the big idea, huh?” he bellowed, his voice booming. “Giving away our energon to the enemy! We’re barely scraping by as it is!”

Megatron’s smirk widened, his tone laced with biting amusement. “Overlord, if you had any self-control, you’d have enough energon rations to last at least two days. But no—you guzzle it down like some carrier with a brood of sparklings to feed.”

“Damn you, Megatron!” Overlord growled, his voice a low, rumbling snarl. “We wouldn’t have to survive on tiny cubes of energon if not for your deal with the new Prime! Weren’t you fighting for our freedom? Or is it true?” He leaned forward, his optics gleaming with accusation. “Are you actually afraid of Optimus Prime?”

The command room fell deathly silent, tension thick in the air as Overlord’s words hung like a challenge.

Megatron’s optics burned with a dangerous light as he slowly rose from his throne, his towering frame radiating power and fury. His glare locked onto Overlord, sharp enough to cut steel.

“Shut your mouth, Overlord,” Megatron hissed, his voice low and venomous, “or I will tear you apart and leave your scraps for the garbage heap!”

Overlord didn’t back down, baring his dentas. “I just want to know what your next big plan is when the deal’s over! When this so-called truce comes to an end!”

“This deal has been good for us, you gears-for-brains!” Jetfire snapped, cutting in before Megatron could respond. “We’ve secured enough alt-mode kits to bolster our forces—and correct me if I’m wrong, Overlord, but didn’t you get one as well? That’s what the energon barter was for! Or have your neural paths short-circuited from bashing your head against too many walls—”

“You Sky-SLUG!” Overlord snarled, his fists clenching as he advanced. “I’ll pummel you into the ground—!”

“Bring it, you lumbering brute—!” Jetfire growled, wings flaring aggressively.

“ENOUGH!”

Megatron’s roar thundered through the command room, the sheer force of his voice halting both mechs in their tracks. The tension in the room crackled like live wires, but Megatron’s glare silenced even the faintest growl of protest.

“Overlord,” Megatron began, his tone sharp and icy. “Your complaints have been heard. My next big plan, however, is none of your business.” He leaned forward slightly, his optics burning with authority. “But if you think for even a moment that I would ever consider surrendering to the Primacy, think again. Speak this carelessly one more time, and I’ll rip out your vocalizers. Do we understand each other?”

Overlord grunted, his fists tightening at his sides. “Crystal.” He glared at Megatron, his voice dripping with warning. “Just remember—my men and I didn’t help you betray Megazarak just so the Decepticons could bow their heads to a Prime.”

With that, Overlord turned sharply and marched out, his ragtag group trailing behind him like a cluster of storm clouds. The command room doors slid shut behind them with a sharp shkk.

“The insolence of that overgrown oaf!” Starscream screeched, his wings twitching in agitation. “You should have blasted his faceplate on the spot, Lord Megatron, for daring to insult you! Bowing to a Prime, indeed! Hmph!”

“Shut it, Starscream,” Jetfire snapped, rolling his optics. “Megatron doesn’t need you sucking up to him every chance you get.”

Starscream rounded on him, his voice spiking. “What did you just say to me!?”

Megatron groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Be silent. Both of you.”

The command room fell into uneasy quiet, though the tension still simmered beneath the surface.

“…Soundwave,” Megatron prompted his third in command. “Continue investigating Optimus Prime. Personally.” His optics flickered at the emphasis as he added, “We’ll hold off on our plans to invade Jhiaxus for now—at least until we have damning evidence against this Prime.”

Soundwave rose smoothly from his seat, his visor glinting in the dim light. “Your order will be carried out. Mission: may require extended duration. Iacon security: highest level.”

“That’s fine,” Megatron replied, leaning back slightly. “Do what you can, but don’t get caught. If something goes wrong, leave immediately.”

Soundwave inclined his head in a subtle nod. “Acknowledged. Lord Megatron.”

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= = =

Op’s POV

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“…What does this card do?” Jazz asked, pointing at one of the holographic cards floating before him.

Codex leaned over, his grin almost too wide. “Oh, I love that card. You should absolutely play it.”

Trusting the archivist’s words, Jazz tapped on the card. A flash of light flared between them, and in an instant, their hands switched. Where Codex had held seven cards moments ago, Jazz now clutched them, leaving his own meager three in Codex’s possession.

Jazz’s jaw dropped. The goal of the game was to get rid of all your cards, not collect more.

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Jazz! Why would you trust him?”

Jazz slammed his fists on the desk—more frustrated than furious—and shot a venomous glare at Codex. Meanwhile, Codex bounced gleefully in his chair, utterly unrepentant.

“I hate you,” Jazz growled.

“I really love this game,” Codex said, beaming. He turned to me with a nod. “You were right, My Prime—this game is way better with more than two players.”

I smothered my laughter, trying to ease up on Jazz’s misfortune, and played a color-change card, selecting red. We were playing an app I’d designed called Blazing 8’s—one of Discord’s activity games. It was like UNO, but with a twist—a card that could randomly swap players’ hands. Most players knew to play that card the moment they got it, especially early on, but Jazz’s luck had taken a nosedive this round.

Cybertron wasn’t exactly a hub for recreational games. Sure, there were casinos, but most mechs seemed more inclined to spend their credits on energon or gamble them away in fleeting chances of luck. Board games? Practically nonexistent. Life on Cybertron felt rigid, monotonous—like being a cog in a vast, unyielding machine. For creatures of habit, maybe that kind of predictability was comforting. But surely, even they had to crave something more, something unexpected, every now and then.

Change, though, was a rare commodity.

“Optimus Prime.”

I turned to see Magnus approaching with two mech soldiers flanking him. One was painted in a striking red-and-yellow scheme, the other in blue and white.

“Magnus,” I greeted, rising from my seat. Jazz and Codex immediately followed, standing upright on their pedes like a pair of reflexive sentinels.

Magnus raised a hand, halting me mid-motion. “There’s no need to stand, My Prime.”

I paused, caught off guard by the weight of his formality. The reverence in his tone was unmistakable.

“Well, I want to stand and greet you, Magnus,” I replied, deliberately using his name. We were on my estate balcony, after all, and here, I set the etiquette rules.

Magnus gave a simple nod before stepping aside to gesture toward the two mechs at his flank.

“I present two of Iacon’s finest,” he announced, his tone formal and measured. “They’ve been assigned to serve as your guard from now on.” His gaze shifted past me, sharp as a blade, landing squarely on Jazz. “Since it seems the usual guard hasn’t been… adequate at preventing a certain intruder from breaching your chambers.”

Jazz coughed, masking his discomfort, and promptly turned his head, pretending not to hear Magnus’s pointed remark.

“Let it go, Magnus. What’s done is done,” I said, my tone calm but firm. It had been a week since Jazz had taken on the role of my principal aide, yet the Commander of the Iacon Royal Forces still hadn’t stopped directing his sharp glares at the smaller mech.

“I will endeavor, My Prime,” Magnus promised with the faintest edge of reluctance. He gestured to the two mechs at his side. “Optimus, this is Hot Rod. He’s young, brash at times, but he rarely fails his assignments.”

“Sir! It’s an honor to serve as your guard, My Prime!” Hot Rod shouted, snapping a sharp salute. His enthusiasm was palpable, though there was a nervous edge to his voice.

Magnus inclined his head slightly, then moved on. “And this is Red Alert.”

“My Prime, SIR!” Red Alert barked, his stiff salute almost painfully precise. His nervousness was evident, even more pronounced than Hot Rod’s.

“Red Alert has served the public trust for centuries,” Magnus continued, proudly. “He’s upheld the laws dutifully, and is also trained as a battlefield medic.”

“I see you’ve indeed gathered two of Iacon’s finest,” I said, tilting my head. “Any reason why you decided this so suddenly? Just curious.”

Magnus nodded. “I’ll be focusing on strengthening our armies. The Decepticons have the alt-mode kits, after all, and I want to make sure my men are ready for them.”

My fists clenched at the mention of the kits. I was the one who had brokered that deal—trading 300 alt-mode kits to the Decepticons in exchange for energon. At the time, I thought it was the right call, but as days passed, doubts crept in. Megatron was keeping up his end of the deal, but this was only a temporary truce.

“Magnus, I—”

“No, My Prime,” Magnus cut me off gently, his tone soft. “I do not blame you. I trust you. I believe you have a plan, and I’m ready to follow you through to the end. I just want to be cautious, which is why I’ve assigned Hot Rod and Red Alert to you. They’ll be ready to escort you at a moment’s notice within Iacon City.”

My eyes widened at his words. Magnus wasn’t just agreeing—he was openly showing his faith in me. It was… unexpected.

“May I talk to you in private, Magnus?” I asked.

He nodded, and I began steering him away. Before we left, I glanced back at the others. “Codex, Jazz, why don’t you two show Red Alert and Hot Rod how to play Blazing 8’s?”

“Will do, Optimus!” Codex replied cheerfully.

Jazz shot the Iacon soldiers a look and pointed at Codex. “Hey, don’t trust this bot.”

Codex rolled his optics but didn’t protest, already explaining the game to the newcomers.

Once we were out of audial range, near the railings of the balcony overlooking Iacon, I turned to Magnus. The spires of the city glinted faintly in the distance.

“I think I remember cautioning you not to follow orders so blindly,” I said, folding my arms. “What changed your mind? It’s great that you trust me, Magnus, but don’t forget what happened with Sentinel and Zeta.”

Magnus shook his head. “I haven’t forgotten. You misunderstand me, Optimus… you’ve opened my eyes since then.”

“Alright,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “But why the sudden change in attitude? You were usually wary around me.”

“I was, and I apologize for that,” he said, his faceplates softening. “Before you, I followed Sentinel Prime’s orders to the letter. I was his commander, after all—it was my duty to ensure the military forces adhered to orders and protocols. But…” His optics dimmed slightly. “I admit, there were times I turned a blind eye, times I chose not to investigate further. Whether or not I was directly commanded, I knew… I knew something wretched was happening. And yet, what did it matter?”

He let out a heavy sigh, the weight of his words hanging between us. “It wasn’t until after you became Optimus Prime that I started to feel hope again… for the future of Cybertron.”

My arms fell limply to my sides, and my jaw slackened. “Magnus,” I rasped, barely finding my voice.

“…This may be a lot for me to ask, My Prime, but I want to entrust the future to you,” he said, his voice steady yet tinged with vulnerability. “Wherever it leads us, I don’t think I’ll ever regret it. So… bear with me when I take actions, like assigning you guards.”

I shook my head lightly, offering a small smile. “I won’t mind. I mean, I’ll probably complain here and there, but if you believe it’s within your duty and right to do so, then so be it.” I reached out, clasping his servos tightly in mine. “…I trust you at least that much, Magnus.”

Relief visibly washed over him as his grip firmed around mine. This time, he brought my servos close to his faceplates. “You honor me, My Prime,” he murmured before pressing a kiss to the palms of my hands, his optics closed.

The unexpected contact sent a jolt through my systems, my engine revving involuntarily. Heat rushed to my faceplates as my cooling fans whirred in an effort to stabilize my system.

Magnus’s optics flickered open, catching my stunned expression. I swore to Primus, there was the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. Taking full advantage of my surprise, he stepped back smoothly, then bowed low with an almost theatrical flourish before making a tactical retreat, disappearing off the balcony.

…Did Magnus woo me?

Did Magnus just try to woo me?!?!

…Oh, Primus, how was I supposed to recover from this…!?

“Hey, Optimus, you good?” Jazz called out, snapping me out of my thoughts.

My optics darted to the group, scanning their curious expressions. Good—they hadn’t seen anything. It didn’t seem like they’d noticed my interaction with Magnus. And as for… whatever that was, it couldn’t have been romantic.

No, surely not.

Magnus was probably just toying with me. Besides, if Alpha Trion were alive, Magnus would have been deafened by the lecture he’d be enduring for all eternity.

I took another nano-click to steady myself, ensuring my cooling fans had calmed, then made my way to the table.

“I’m fine. Let’s play a few more rounds,” I said, sliding into my seat. I joined the group, forcing my focus back to the game while also getting to know Hot Rod and Red Alert.

News Flash: Hot Rod’s an extremely competitive player.

   ***

With the cycle drawing to a close, I made my way to the Hall of Records and slipped into my office. Before that, I had dismissed everyone for the day, but Codex, as always, insisted on lingering.

“Would you like an energon cube, My Prime?” he asked, bouncing slightly on the balls of his pedes.

I smiled, amused by his energy. “Thank you, Codex. But it’s late. Why don’t you call it a day?”

“I don’t mind! Besides, you’re still working. What would others think of us bots if I just left?” he countered, tilting his helm.

I chuckled. “That you’re taking care of yourself, unlike the Prime,” I replied.

When I reached my desk, I paused, taking in the mess—the scattered datapads littering the surface like fallen leaves. As I picked one up, I froze. This particular datapad… was more than meets the eye.

Ha.

Smiling, I turned to Codex. “Actually, I’ll take you up on that offer, Codex. But after that, you must go. I’ll only be reading here—no work.”

Codex’s enthusiasm was almost palpable; if he had a tail, it’d be wagging like helicopter blades. “Of course, My Prime!” he chirped before rushing off.

While he was gone, I sat at my desk, gathering and arranging the scattered datapads. I took special care with the ‘oddball’ among them, the one clearly trying far too hard to appear inconspicuous.

Soon, Codex returned, an energon cube in hand. He placed it before me with a wide smile, then gave me one last gracious bow before finally leaving for the night.

Once he was gone, I leaned back into my chair, placing the cube down in front of the peculiar datapad. Tapping the desk lightly, I spoke.

“Go on. You must be starving,” I said softly. “It’s okay—I won’t hurt you. This is the Hall of Records. One day, I plan to make everything here public. So you’re not exactly in trouble.” I paused, offering a small smirk. “Even the datapads you’ve nosed through aren’t classified. You haven’t committed any crimes I could hold against you.”

I smiled, resting my chin on my servos. “Besides, making a little mess of my desk isn’t illegal.”

A few clicks passed before the datapad began transforming. Its form unfolded with a fluid grace, reshaping into a bird-like construct. It—or perhaps she—was about the size of a pigeon compared to me. On Earth, though, she’d be large enough for two humans to ride comfortably.

I pushed the energon cube closer and lowered my chin to the desk, watching her drink from a lower angle.

“You’re very pretty,” I said, the admiration slipping easily into my tone. She paused, fluffing herself up as though preening from the compliment, looking undeniably proud.

Once she finished the energon, I carefully extended my forearm, waiting gingerly to see if she’d hop on. She tilted her head at me, suspicion flickering in her optics. But after a moment of deliberation, she stepped onto my arm, and I could barely contain my excitement.

Bringing her closer, I began stroking her chest frame carefully, my motions slow and deliberate. Her metal feathers were smooth to the touch, and I marveled at the craftsmanship of her design.

“Very, very pretty indeed,” I murmured, continuing to stroke her chest frame. She responded well to my touches—or at least allowed them. “I wonder who you belong to… they must be lucky to have you as their companion.”

Of course, I wasn’t a fool. This little creature had clearly been sent to spy on me. But really, what was there to steal here? Most of the information in the Hall of Records was going public soon enough. As for the restricted datapads? Good luck getting past their security protocols. It’d take an eternity to answer questions like What elemental type is a Togepi?

I chuckled softly and tilted my head at her. “Did you sneak in through the vents? That must’ve been uncomfortable.”

Standing carefully so as not to jostle her, I held her securely on my arm. “Come on, I’ll take you to a window so you can leave. But don’t come back sneaking around, alright? The guards here might not be as gentle as I am.”

We left my office—it didn’t have windows, but the rest of the Hall of Records did. I carried her through the quiet halls, her small, warm weight on my arm as I sought a suitable spot to let her go.

I walked to a small open balcony, where the sun was beginning to set on the horizon, painting the sky in warm hues. Gently, I placed the bird on the ledge, and it hopped off. Its optics whirred and zoomed in on me, almost as if questioning my intentions.

I smiled softly at it. “If I see you again, I’ll make sure to have another energon cube ready for you.”

It blinked several times, as though processing my words, before finally spreading its wings and taking off from the ledge. I watched as it climbed higher into the sky, circling far above. I raised a hand, giving it a small wave.

After a moment, it turned south and flew toward the city, its silhouette disappearing into the fading light.

Huh. I wonder who she belonged to.

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A/N: HA! I did manage to post one more chapter! :D Hurrah! However, this time, I probably won’t get another one until Wednesday or Thursday. We’ll see.

Anyways, I wanted to set some spicy stuff at Decepticon HQ. X3 Can’t have Megatron be the only problem in this universe!

Please leave some kudos, bookmark, and comment!

Chapter Text

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Op’s POV

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BOOOOOM!!
Channeling my control over gravity, I flung the device toward the high ceiling just as it detonated. Shattered fragments of the experimental contraption rained down in a chaotic shower, the remnants briefly hovering midair before scattering harmlessly to the floor.

I turned to Wheeljack, my tone steady despite the mess. “What was that supposed to be for?”

“…A plate buffer,” he admitted, a little too casually.

“…I see.”

Hot Rod let out a low whistle. “Uh… yeah, I don’t know how I’d feel about having that on my plate. Especially below—oof!”

Red Alert elbowed him sharply, his optics flashing. “Mind your words! You’re in front of a Prime!”

“O-oh, slag—sorry, My Prime,” Hot Rod stammered, his apology tangled with an unintended curse.

The day started with a visit to the Energon Refinery Treatment, where Perceptor and his team were hard at work on the restoration. I’d been here once before, just a day after assigning the project, and back then, it looked like a desolate relic from an apocalyptic era. The place had been untouched for ages, ever since the fluxstream dried up. But now? It was unrecognizable—pristine, almost brand new. Perceptor and his engineers had poured their hearts into this transformation, and it showed in every detail.

I hummed at the remnants of his device, the Matrix nudging me with crucial advice—a ‘voice’ brimming with ancient wisdom, aimed squarely at the ingenious inventor who carried so much potential.

“Wheeljack?” I prompted.

Wheeljack straightened, his optics flickering with something between apprehension and curiosity. “Yes, Optimus?”

“You should consider rerouting the energy flow through a staggered capacitor array to prevent an overload,” I advised—well, technically, Solus Prime advised. “And reinforcing the containment field with a tri-layered alloy coating will mitigate the force of any potential malfunctions.”

When I finished, Wheeljack gaped at me, optics blinking owlishly as though I’d just grown two heads.

Huh. Maybe I was too much.

"Optimus Prime!"

I turned to see Perceptor hurrying toward me.

"Perceptor, you didn’t need to rush. Wheeljack was keeping me company," I said as I moved to meet him, my concern growing. He was an old mech—far older than Magnus—and I feared the strain might be too much. His vents weren’t wheezing, thankfully, but they labored harder than I liked. I reached out and clasped his servos, supporting him steady as I watched him closely.

"Oh, you worry too much, Optimus, my young friend," he said, waving off my concern with a touch of amusement. Still, he held onto my servos for support, his grip firm despite his words. “Besides, It was my fault for losing track of time.”

“No worries, Perceptor. My visit is brief,” I assured him, glancing around. “And has been pleasant. Everything looks fantastic here. Have there been any issues?”

“None whatsoever,” Perceptor replied, his tone tinged with admiration. “The machinery here is… phenomenal. Whoever built this refinery, or however they achieved it, ensured it could still function perfectly after millions of years of disuse. Naturally, we’ve upgraded some components with advanced systems to optimize the energon refining processes.”

“How long before it’s fully operational?” I asked.

“Not long at all, My Prime—just five more cycles,” he said confidently.

“That’s wonderful news, Perceptor,” I said, beaming with excitement. Soon, the fluxstream would flow again, and I couldn’t help but feel impressed—it was all happening sooner than I’d expected.

“Would you like me to give you a tour, My Prime?” Perceptor offered, his eagerness mirrored by Wheeljack, who stepped up behind him, practically buzzing to show off their work.

I grinned, showing my dentas. “Yes, please.”

Perceptor and Wheeljack led the way, starting the tour at the beginning as they started explaining how everything was before what they did to make the changes. Codex was tapping on the datapad profusely, taking notes while his optics flickered rapidly capturing videos and images. Jazz was in between bored and interested. Hot Rod was casually following behind with Red Alert listening to the tour but his head kept constantly turning left and right, looking out for danger.

Throughout the tour, fragments of information stirred within my neural circuits—details I shouldn’t have known. Yet, because of the Matrix—because of the memories of the Primes before me—I understood the intricate workings of this energon refinery treatment. It brought with it an inexplicable sense of… nostalgia. I shook it off for now.

“We’ll need to control the output of energon for distribution, Perceptor,” I said. “We’ll match it to a price lower than the current market rate for energon until the economy stabilizes overtime.”

Perceptor nodded, immediately grasping the intent. “Certainly, My Prime!”

“Wait a minute. Why aren’t we making it immediately available to the public, Optimus?” Hot Rod interjected, his tone curious but slightly impatient.

Jazz chimed in, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah, Prime. If we do that, we could lift those energon reserve protocols in Iacon.”

“Because a sudden drop in energon’s price would cause the market to collapse,” I explained. “It would drive many mining industries out of business. And then, how else would Cybertronians get energon if it’s not properly distributed across the world?”

“Exactly! Our people would starve before they could even get an ounce of the energon produced here!” Codex added emphatically, his datapad clutched tightly in his servos.

Jazz and Hot Rod exchanged glances, the realization dawning on them—sort of. They didn’t seem to grasp the entire picture, but they understood enough to know that making energon immediately available to everyone wasn’t an option.

“But once the energon aqueducts are operational, it won’t be long before those protocols in Iacon are lifted,” I assured the two. “We just need to have patience.”

After wrapping up the visit to the refinery, we boarded the Falconis, a standard air vehicle carrier used by the Iacon royal forces. I had adamantly refused to set foot on the Tempest—a flight so unnecessarily luxurious and glittering that it was an optic-sore of the highest order. I bet it was Sentinel Prime’s wasteful, unnecessary expenditure.

Suddenly, a beeping noise sounded from the pilot’s cockpit. Red Alert let out a disgruntled noise, his posture rigid.

“Is it the media again?” Hot Rod asked, his tone equal parts curious and annoyed.

“Yes,” Red Alert replied, his expression grim. “They’re following a little too close. I just sent them a warning.”

“Man, they’re persistent!” Hot Rod grumbled, crossing his arms.

Jazz let out a long sigh. “Can’t blame ‘em. Optimus here keeps leaving them hanging with his classic ‘Primus bless you.’ He gets ‘em all riled up every time.”

I shrugged, scanning through the grid of trending news on my device, applying a filter to block anything involving me. “Well, they need to learn patience,” I said casually.

Both Jazz and Hot Rod raised an optic ridge at me, while Codex pursed his lips, clearly not willing to indulge my blatant ignorance of the press.

“Optimus,” Codex said pointedly, “it’s been over a month already.”

A month…?! I blinked in disbelief. Quickly calculating in my head—since the day I came online as Optimus Prime—I realized he was right. It had been exactly one month and nearly two weeks. How had time slipped by so quickly?

Looking back, I realized that between official visits to the ward and the refinery, I’d spent most of my time at the Prime Citadel. Whether working on the plans I intended to implement or simply indulging in leisure, I’d been something of a homebody. Often, I’d find myself with a cube of energon in hand, reading a datapad and enjoying the rare quiet moments. Usually, I’d have the “pretty bird,” Sonia, sitting on my lap.

For the last two weeks, she’d been showing up at least once a cycle. As promised, I’d hand her a fresh new cube. She’d let me pet her for a while, fluttering her wings when I found a good spot under her beak, and then fly off through the nearest open window. Somehow, she always knew where to find me whenever I was alone. She never came around if Jazz, Codex, or my guards were nearby.

Of course, the Matrix’s Primes kept sending me warning signals—“stalker” or “spy”—but I wasn’t getting that feeling from Sonia. She seemed harmless, and maybe it was because, in my past life, I came from a world where the line between privacy and public was near invisible.

All you could do, if you were being recorded, was smile.

We soon arrived at the Zenith Ward, a secluded and restricted medical facility where the victims of the Institute’s shadowplay were undergoing recovery and psychiatric evaluations and treatments.

Red Alert’s vents shuddered as we stepped through the doors, and I paused mid-step to turn to him.

“Red Alert, wait outside for me,” I commanded firmly.

Two of the victims here had once been his friends. One of them, a femme, had even been his paramour. I hadn’t dared use my healing abilities since what I did for Shockwave and another victim—it was too risky. The sudden restoration of emotions and memories, after the mental scars inflicted by those unethical, torturous experiments, was too overwhelming for the psyche to handle. It was simply too much, too fast.

His frame stiffened. “No, My Prime, I’m fine. We can keep going—”

“I can keep going without you,” I interrupted gently, nodding toward the doors. “Go. Take a break.”

Red Alert’s lips pressed into a tight line, his reluctance to argue evident. But finally, he bowed his head. “Thank you, My Prime. Again, I apologize.” Without another word, he turned and left, heading outside to stand guard by the entrance.

As he left, the medical mech in charge of the floor approached me. “Welcome back, My Prime. Are you here to check on the status of the patients?”

I nodded. “Yes. Patch, isn’t it?”

Patch bowed his head. “Yes, My Prime. I’m honored that you remember me,” he replied, then gestured with his servos. “Please, come to my office. We can discuss everything privately there.”

Once we were in his office, Patch began explaining the patients’ progress. Naturally, due to doctor-patient confidentiality, he couldn’t share their names, but he elaborated on their conditions. So far, the two mechs I’d restored with the ability to process ethos and pathos were struggling to come to terms with what they had endured. To be honest, that was completely understandable.

Back on Earth, I’d seen innocent people held captive by psychotic individuals, and it often took decades for them to grapple with the scars left behind by their tormentors. Those scars never truly faded.

Even so, I found myself quietly in awe that Cybertron recognized this complexity, even if their society often referred to damaged mechs as “glitched mechs”—a term I found extremely distasteful. Thankfully, Patch and his team were highly professional and outright opposed to such a label, treating their patients with the respect they deserved.

For now, the Iacon government was funding their treatment, and I intended to ensure that continued, even if it took millions of years—until this tragedy faded into nothing more than a distant memory.

We left the office, and I was preparing to make my rounds with Patch to greet and check on each patient when a sudden commotion broke out. A mech stormed out of his room, shouting that he was back at the Institute and that this place was a trap. His voice was filled with panic, his words cutting through the otherwise calm atmosphere.

Patch quickly excused himself, rushing toward the scene alongside two other medics. Despite their efforts, they seemed to be struggling to calm the mech down.

“Hot Rod, go assist them,” I ordered firmly. “And be careful not to hurt him.”

“Right!” Hot Rod replied, his determination clear as he rushed to join the fray. He maneuvered behind the distressed mech, managing to restrain him while the medics worked to sedate him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, buddy. Relax now,” he said in a calm, soothing tone.

Suddenly, I felt someone grab me from behind, the cold press of a sharp apparatus prodding against the energon cable at my throat.

“Optimus!!” Codex shouted, frozen in terror, unable to move from his spot.

“Don’t move…! Don’t do anything!” a dark voice hissed into my audial receptors. “You did this to me.”

My optics widened. Shockwave.

With the mech sedated, all optics turned toward me and Shockwave, who now held me captive. Hot Rod took a cautious step forward but froze when Shockwave yanked me back, the sharp apparatus digging into my energon cable. I winced at the sting, the pain sharp and immediate.

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll do it!” Shockwave snarled, his tone full of malice.

Hot Rod halted, glaring at him, but slowly raised his hands to show he meant no harm. Even so, I could see the telltale glow of his bio-lights activating on his right forearm, betraying his readiness to fire a laser shot at any moment.

“Let him go, Senator Shockwave!”

The shout came from Red Alert on my right, his laser gun aimed squarely at Shockwave. But the Senator didn’t so much as flinch.

“Ha! Go on! Shoot me, if you want your precious Prime to get hurt!” Shockwave hissed, his grip tightening.

“Disengage!” I commanded suddenly, my voice sharp. “Hot Rod. Red Alert. Stand down. NOW.”

Red Alert stiffened, his expression tense. “But Optimus—”

“If his aim were to kill me, he would have done so already,” I said calmly, meeting both their gazes. I felt Shockwave’s glare shift, a silent judgment pressing against me at my words. “Now, lower your weapons.”

Though reluctant, both Red Alert and Hot Rod obeyed, lowering their arms slowly. Still, their frames remained tense, poised to spring into action the moment an opening presented itself.

“Where did you get the confidence to think that I won’t do it?” Shockwave questioned darkly, his voice a low hiss against my audial receptor.

I tilted my head slightly, trying to meet his sole optic. “I never said you wouldn’t. Just that you want something from me first.”

As I spoke, a lingering thought resurfaced. I’d noticed it before, but now it seemed clearer—I wasn’t receiving any alerts of battle protocols engaging. Not that I’d had many chances to test this in combat, but even now, with my life in immediate danger, no HUD warnings or defensive systems had activated. It made sense, really. Perhaps I wasn’t forged as a warrior mech. That would explain a lot. After all, I had control over magnetism and gravity, and the ability to heal mechs with my fluids. Those weren’t abilities meant for war.

I was definitely not a mech forged and reborn for war.

“You think you’re very clever, don’t you, Prime?” he sneered, spitting my title with utter distaste. After a pause, his tone darkened. “…Fine. Fix me.”

My optic ridges lifted in surprise as I turned to face him fully. The movement forced him to shift the apparatus away from my energon cable, careful not to stab me. It was clear—he didn’t truly want to harm me, but the threat lingered, a promise that if he had to, he would.

“Fix you?” I echoed, my tone laced with hesitation. “When I did that once, the emotional strain was overwhelming for you. The damage you went through—”

“I don’t care about that!!” he roared, his optic glowing fiercely, the mechanisms within whirring with intensity. “I meant my faceplate! My servos! I want them back!!”

My optics widened as his words hit me. I recalled Patch mentioning once that it was impossible to recover their faces. The faces removed during the empurata phase were deliberately destroyed, along with the servos. Cybertron provided plenty of replacement parts—but not to this extent.

Most Transformers who went offline were immediately scrapped or melted down for resources. Only removable parts—vocalizers, armor plates, and similar components—were typically salvaged. Otherwise, salvaging a face? That seemed to be deemed unethical—though everything the Institute had done to them was far beyond unethical.

“Senator Shockwave, sir,” Patch said calmly, his tone steady despite the tension. “As I’ve explained before, it is impossible at this time.”

“He fixed me,” Shockwave insisted, his voice trembling with fury. “And he can fix me again! I want to go back to how I was before! Before that slagging Institute ripped me apart and destroyed my identity! This is partly his fault, after all—he’s a Prime! Just like them! Do you really think the Institute started without Sentinel Prime knowing about it!?”

I knew about that, but goddamn it. Fucking Sentinel. The Primes within the Matrix stirred, their simmering rage palpable, most of it emanating from Quintus Prime.

Honestly, that bastard was lucky he’s dead. He got off easy with Megatron taking him down.

“You’re right,” I said simply, my voice calm yet heavy with remorse. “The Primacy failed you. We failed you, Shockwave. And for that, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want or need your apologies! I want you to fix the wrongs and mistakes your Primacy failed to protect me—and everyone else here—from!” he raged, his voice trembling with fury.

I took a slow breath and willed myself to turn fully toward him, despite the sharp apparatus still pressed against my energon cable.

“W-what are you doing?!” he demanded, panic creeping into his tone. I didn’t answer. Instead, I lifted my servos, steady but deliberate, to touch his face.

“Nobody come close!” I called out firmly, warning Red Alert and Hot Rod, who I could sense preparing to act. “Senator Shockwave is not the enemy.”

Keeping my optics locked on his, I added quietly, “…I’m still learning how to use the Matrix. Restoring your emotional and ethical neural networks was a fluke on my part, but… I’m going to try again.”

Shockwave stiffened at my words, his optic narrowing slightly. But then, slowly, his frame relaxed, and he allowed me to cup his square-rounded helm. His sole, glowing red optic stared into mine, the rage behind it softening—just slightly.

Come on, Matrix. 100% attunement. You can do this much, right? Primus, your people need you.

Suddenly, a warning HUD flashed across my vision.

[ Warning! Possible increase in spark instability detected. Would you like to continue? ]

I tilted my head slightly, surprised. So it’s possible to heal him…but my spark would be unstable?

You know what? Damn the consequences.

With a resolute thought, I dismissed the warning label and channeled all my focus into the Matrix. A loud, humming whir began to resonate, growing deeper and more intense as the Matrix started to glow. The light built rapidly, shining so brightly through my chestplates that it illuminated the room.

The same light enveloped Senator Shockwave completely. His vents hissed with a startled gasp, but I held on, and he didn’t pull away. I focused and prayed. Let this work. Bring him back to how he was before the Institute. If it could help him heal—if it could lead him toward escaping what they did to him—then please…
Please.

My memories of Shockwave in the Transformers series and shows always depicted him as… unhinged. Psychotic. But I never knew why until now. The Institute. The Iacon government and the Primacy had failed him, failed so many others, just because he dared to have ideals. He wanted to create synthetic energon, an invention that would have freed us from endless mining. He saw the truth: this functionalist society thrived on energon scarcity. With an endless supply, the functionalist system would collapse, and those who didn’t fit its rigid molds would no longer be cast aside.

So, please. If I can bring back even a fragment of the person he was before the Institute broke him, that would be enough.

Primus, help him.

When the light finally faded, gasps echoed throughout the hall. I opened my optics—when had they gone offline?—and even I was stunned by what I saw. Gone was the singular optic helm, replaced by a handsome faceplate. His claws… no longer claws, but servos, trembling as they reached out to clasp mine. His blue optics widened, whirring softly as he noticed his hands.

Slowly, he lifted them to his face. His servos grazed the contours of the faceplate, his frame shuddering as realization washed over him. A broken laugh escaped his vocalizer, raw and unsteady, as fluid leaked from his optics. His knees gave out, and I caught him before he could fall.

We sank to the floor together, his frame wracked with sobs that tore through him like a storm. He wept and wailed, pouring out every buried emotion—anguish, relief, grief—all of it raw and uncontainable. The sound rattled the mechs who stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. But I didn’t let go. I kept my arms around him, holding him through the flood of everything he’d held back.

Shockwave.

At Shockwave’s wails, the other patients began to emerge from their rooms. They stood silently, watching, some bearing the same sole optic helm, others with claws—or both.

[Warning! Decrease in Spark stability—]

I ignored it, brushing the alert aside, and gestured for one of the medics. They hurried over, kneeling beside me as I stepped back to let them take my place, comforting Shockwave.

For the rest of the day, I threw myself into healing. One by one, I restored each patient to their original forms—the way they were before the Institute shattered their lives. But while I could mend the damage to their bodies, the deeper wounds were beyond my reach. That task would fall to the Zenith Ward and its most skilled medics, who now held the responsibility of guiding these poor sparks toward recovery.

When the last patient was healed, the ward buzzed with activity. Medics moved swiftly, running tests and evaluations, checking the health and mental stability of every patient. The air was alive with noise—snippets of conversation, the hum of medical equipment, and the lingering echoes of what they had just witnessed.

“…I can’t believe it…” Hot Rod murmured, his voice heavy with disbelief.

Not far away, Red Alert stood beside Aileron, gently comforting her while a medic checked her vitals. She seemed more animated now, her optics brighter, her movements less burdened.

Patch approached me cautiously, his tone carefully measured. “My Prime, I’ve noticed… they’re not reacting the same way as the others did. No outbursts like the first two, when you restored their connections to their emotional circuits.”

I hesitated for a moment before answering, my voice tinged with weariness. “Let’s just say I’ve… dampened the load. For them, it would feel like waking from a long recharge, as if everything they had been through was nothing more but a dream.”

The room spun slightly around me, but I steadied myself and pressed on. “Over time, though, the impact of those memories will return, little by little. And when they do, they’ll need you—and the other exceptional psychiatrists—to guide them through it. This road to recovery will not be easy.”

Patch bowed his head deeply. “I understand, My Prime. We of the Zenith Ward will do everything in our power to help our fellow mechs reclaim their lives.”

I gave him a faint nod, but as I turned, the world tilted dangerously. The motion wasn’t mine alone—the room seemed to shift and sway. Before I could fall, both Jazz and Hot Rod moved swiftly, their servos catching me in time to steady my frame.

Worried optics locked onto me from every direction.

“Hey, Optimus, you good?” Jazz asked, his voice tinged with concern as his servos tightened their grip on my shoulder plating.

“Would you like me to fetch you an energon cube, My Prime?” Codex offered, but his voice sounded distant, as if coming from the other side of the room—though he was standing only a few feet away.

Everything in my vision began to glitch, colors breaking apart into chaotic disarray, like an old television struggling to find its signal. Shapes warped, flickered, and twisted, refusing to hold steady.

Suddenly, warning HUDs flared across my optics, bright and urgent, but their messages blurred before I could make sense of them. Panicked voices echoed around me, sharp with alarm, but they sounded muffled, distant—like I was underwater.

And then, without warning, everything went dark.

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>>> S P A R K   S T A B I L I T Y …. 99.99 % ↓↓↓

>>> ↓↓↓ …

>>>… 86.29 %

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A/N: Hey! I managed to get a chapter in! Hurrah! Oh, btw, the last part about Spark Stability? Don’t worry about it. 😊

Please leave a comment and subscribe for future chapters! Kudos~!

Notes: I was gonna do a Megatron’s POV, but it got over 2,000 words, and I still wasn’t done soo… :P Tune in for next chapter!

Chapter Text

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Megatron’s POV

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“FRAG!” Thundercracker slammed his fist against the console, his vents hissing in frustration as the high-pitched, endlessly looping voice of a song screeched through the room:

♪"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…"♫

♪"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…"♫

♪"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…"♫

“Turn that racket off!” Starscream bellowed, his wings flaring dramatically.

“I can’t!” Thundercracker snapped, his digits flying over the console in a desperate attempt to silence the torment.

Across the room, Skywarp was bobbing his helm to the tune. “Well, I like it! Mommy shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…!”

Thundercracker growled. “Frag! Just give me a fragging moment!” He glared at the datapad, the offending tune still playing as an array of bizarre questions flashed across the screen. “But what in the Pit do these even mean? How many evolutions does an Eevee have?! What the frag is an Eevee anyway?!”

From his position at the head of the room, Megatron let out a long, low growl. He pinched the bridge of his ridges, his patience wearing thin as the cacophony grated against his audials. The song, the shouting, the nonsense—it all blended into a maddening swirl.

“I swear,” he muttered darkly, his voice like the edge of a blade, “whoever invented that accursed melody will suffer my wrath.”

Perhaps this was precisely why Soundwave had chosen to send the encrypted datapad files to headquarters rather than attempting to crack them himself—because even he couldn’t splice through the encryption and had likely reached the limits of his considerable patience.

When the song blared for the fourth time, Megatron’s patience finally snapped. With a resounding crash, his fist slammed down onto the console, rattling the room.

“Enough!” he roared, his crimson optics blazing. “Cease your meddling and leave it alone!”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir, Megatron!” Thundercracker all but sobbed in relief, his servos hovering over the console as he eagerly abandoned the cursed datapad. The moment the order to defrag it was rescinded, his vents let out a grateful hiss, as though he’d been freed from a nightmare.

“Here! Let me splice it!” Starscream snapped, snatching the datapad with a dramatic flair before starting to fiddle with it, his talons tapping away with exaggerated precision.

Jetfire arched an optic ridge, his expression one of skeptical amusement. “You? You’re going to try splicing it?”

Starscream shot him a withering glare, puffing up his plating as he carried the datapad to his console. “Watch and learn, Jetfire! Perhaps you’ll finally understand that not everything revolves around brute force combat.”

He plugged the datapad into his console with a flourish and began attempting to hack through its encryption—layer upon layer left behind by someone who was, without a doubt, truly diabolical.

Megatron’s optic ridge twitched upward as a new sound replaced the dreaded song. This one was mercifully short, lasting only a few nano-clicks. Before anyone could react, Starscream’s console lit up, its holographic screen flickering to life.

The entire room froze, their work forgotten as all optics turned toward the display.

“What is it? What is it?” Thundercracker asked, practically leaping out of his seat as he rushed over, his curiosity overriding any remaining irritation.

Starscream tilted his helm, his expression shifting to one of bemusement as he read the text on the screen. “It says… ‘Use the arrow keys to move left and right, and spacebar to shoot.’”

“These arrow keys?” Thundercracker questioned, pointing at the holographic touch buttons below the display.

Megatron’s optics narrowed as he focused on the pixilated icon of a spaceship darting left and right across the screen. Above it, a row of brightly colored spacecraft icons—clearly different from the one below—zigzagged in formation, firing streaks of white dashes downward.

“What—what is happening!?” Skywarp cried, practically vaulting over to peer at the screen himself.

“Hold on! I’ve got this!” Starscream snapped, frantically pressing the arrow keys to evade the incoming fire.

“Oh! I think we’re supposed to avoid getting hit!” Thundercracker exclaimed, his tone wavering between excitement and confusion.

Nearby, Megatron stood with the rest of the Decepticon Command, watching the chaotic display unfold. They exchanged uncertain glances, collectively bewildered by the purpose and function of the spectacle. The screen showed multiple levels, with each introducing more intricate waves of “enemies.” The attackers flew in coordinated patterns, their firepower intensifying as Starscream struggled to keep their starship intact.

Thundercracker jabbed the spacebar repeatedly, unleashing a volley of white dots in retaliation, his claws moving with increasing urgency. Skywarp, however, refused to quiet down. He was a whirlwind of energy, shouting and gesturing wildly—not just at the attacking icons, but also at the glowing symbols that occasionally drifted by, hinting at upgrades to their ship’s firepower.

By the time they reached Level 5, their starship was obliterated in a sudden, devastating bomb attack. The screen dimmed, and a somber jingle played as large block letters flashed on the display:

G A M E O V E R
New High Score!
Please enter Initials (3 Max)

Without hesitation, Starscream leaned in and rapidly keyed in “STA” for his initials. Moments later, the leaderboard appeared. It was sparsely populated, showing only two entries: “STA” for Starscream and “SOU” in first place.

Megatron’s vents hissed in frustration as he rose from his throne. Without another word, he strode out of the room, determined to put this absurd waste of time behind him.

Well played, Prime, he mused bitterly, the thought gnawing at his pride. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Optimus Prime’s encryption coding might rival even the most advanced cyber warfare techniques Megatron had at his disposal. That fool is fortunate to have such a competent mech on his side.

At this time, the leader of Decepticons would have never assumed that Optimus Prime was the one behind the encryption.

Megatron entered his private office, his irritation still simmering beneath the surface. Settling at his console, he initiated a secure connection. With a few precise clicks, Soundwave’s image materialized on the holo-screen, the faint hum of the projection filling the room.

“My liege,” Soundwave greeted, his tone calm and unwavering.

“I require an update on your investigation into Optimus Prime,” Megatron commanded, his voice cold and deliberate. “Immediately, Soundwave.”

At this point, The Leader of the Decepticons was absolutely certain that Optimus Prime was just playing with them, treating them like fools.

“This is what I have gathered so far,” Soundwave intoned. “Origin: Optimus Prime was once Orion Pax, an archivist—publicly confirmed in forums across the grid. What is not known to the public, however, is that he was once a disciple of Alpha Trion.”

Alpha Trion? Megatron’s optics narrowed. He knew that name well. That ancient rust bucket was still functional?

“Data collected from the Prime Citadel indicates that Orion Pax was little more than Alpha Trion’s shadow,” Soundwave continued, his tone as steady and emotionless as ever. “However, Alpha Trion went offline a week before Sentinel Prime’s death at your servoss, My Liege.”

Ah. Megatron’s lips curled faintly. Guess not. He knew little about the ancient mech beyond his billions of years of existence, but that mattered not. Alpha Trion was a relic of a bygone era, worthless in the face of the new world Megatron was forging.

Soundwave continued, “After Sentinel’s death, rumors spread that Orion Pax began investigating crimes tied to the Institute. He is said to have uncovered irrefutable evidence implicating both Sentinel Prime, Zeta Prime, Senator Proteus, and a few others.”

Megatron raised an optic ridge at that revelation. So, once his master was gone, this Orion Pax had started sniffing around? Living under Alpha Trion’s shadow, he must have led a sheltered, cozy existence—blissfully unaware of Cybertron’s injustices and the disdainful treatment of the lower castes.

“And then he brought the evidence to the Senate Council,” Megatron said as he recalled the moment when everything began to change on Cybertron. “Any enlightening details on what exactly transpired during that meeting?”

As always, not a single mech who had been present at the meeting dared to speak of it.

Soundwave paused briefly before responding, “Observation: the Royal Forces stationed at the Prime Citadel both fear and revere Optimus Prime. They are not inclined to repeat the incident.”

So, no answers. Thundercracker might have been right—something else must have occurred in that room beyond the Matrix choosing Orion Pax as its new bearer.

“What else do you have, Soundwave?” Megatron pressed. What he had so far was not enough.

He needed more—more evidence to show his followers and the world that Optimus Prime was no better than the Primes before him. A False Prime. The Matrix and Primus? Mere ancient folklore, crafted to manipulate society into accepting the functionalist caste system as the natural order.

Never again would Megatron be bound by such lies.

This was why Optimus Prime and the whole Primacy had to fall.

The video started to play.

“You’re very pretty. Such a pretty little winglet.”

Megatron recoiled, momentarily dumbfounded as a video began playing. On the screen, a red-and-blue mech smiled warmly, looking directly at him with a kindness that felt entirely out of place.

“Go on. You must be starving.”

Optimus pushed the energon cube closer, gesturing gently toward Laserbeak. The small cassette hesitated for only a moment before dipping into the cube, feeding hungrily. All the while, Optimus Prime watched with an expression of pure delight, his optics gleaming with genuine glee.

What was Megatron watching exactly??

Several more videos played, each depicting Optimus Prime engaged in leisurely activities with his followers. He laughed freely, chatted cheerfully, and moved with an ease that spoke of genuine joy—unburdened by the weight of the world’s darkness and cruelty. There was a purity in him, untainted, almost childlike in its sincerity. It felt… alive, an organic spontaneity rarely seen in mechs, except perhaps in newsparks.

How… odd. For once, Megatron was at a loss for words.

Was this why Alpha Trion had kept the mech hidden in his shadow, away from the world? To shield the wonder that sparkled in those blue optics?

While Megatron had scoured the deepest mines, clawing through dirt and despair in search of energon that was all but depleted, this little “wonder” had lived a peaceful, modest life, untouched by the struggles of Cybertron’s decay. It should infuriate him, make him seethe with envy—but instead, he found himself inexplicably drawn to it. That image of innocence, of kindness... it was something he could never have, yet somehow coveted all the same.

“Here, would you like more, Sonia?”

Sonia?

Megatron’s optics narrowed, his frown deepening as confusion gave way to irritation.

“Soundwave,” he said sharply, “why is Laserbeak not in disguise?”

Soundwave seemed to wilt slightly. “Explanation: Laserbeak does not perceive Optimus Prime as a threat. Further observation: Optimus Prime kept Laserbeak’s presence a secret from his guards and constituents. He ensured she had a means of escape and does not appear to mind her copying datapads. Conclusion: Optimus Prime is confident that the encryption cannot be easily spliced.”

That’s for certain. Megatron grimaced in disdain, the obnoxious echo of that ridiculous song still grating on his audials. What was a "shark," anyway?

“Do you have any insight into who encrypted the datapads?” Megatron asked, his tone clipped.

Soundwave nodded. “Answer: Yes. According to Laserbeak, the encryption was done by Optimus Prime himself.”

Once again, the information threw him off balance. Perhaps being an archivist had granted Orion Pax access to a wealth of knowledge and resources, but did that include advanced encryption skills? Megatron doubted it. The Hall of Records was exactly what its name suggested—a repository of historical events, meticulously dated and recorded. It wasn’t a place where one simply picked up expertise in hacking and encrypting data without extensive experience.

Before he could dwell on the thought further, the next clip jolted him. Megatron’s optics narrowed as he watched Ultra Magnus—the aged commander who had vowed to bring him down for Sentinel’s death—kiss the palms of that wonder spark. The gesture was met with a flustered reaction, and for some reason, it made something wretched churn in Megatron’s tanks.

A surge of possessiveness overtook him, and he wanted nothing more than to obliterate Ultra Magnus on the spot with his fusion cannon, wiping away any claim the old mech thought he had. That wonderous spark was his.

. . . His?

The word echoed in Megatron’s processor, leaving him stunned. He was confounded by his own thoughts, struggling to rationalize this…conundrum.

It was becoming increasingly clear that this Optimus Prime was nothing like the Primes before him. He was naïve, almost docile, with no apparent hunger for power. If anything, Megatron was beginning to see this Prime as a kind of trophy. The thought stirred something dark within him: the vision of Magnus kneeling in defeat, and Optimus Prime begging for mercy.

These thoughts were dangerous, Megatron knew. They could lead to his undoing. He had encountered far more attractive and alluring bots before. So, what was it about Optimus Prime that set him apart? Why did he find this Prime more captivating than the pleasurebots he had bedded in the past?

Perhaps…it wasn’t about looks or charm, but something deeper.

Megatron realized that Optimus Prime was his final obstacle on the path to ruling all of Cybertron, and not Ultra Magnus. Conquering Optimus Prime would be the ultimate victory. To take him as a prisoner, display him as a prize to the world—proof of Megatron’s right as Leader of all Cybertron—would ensure that no one would dare contest his rulership.

“Lord Megatron.” Soundwave’s voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

“What is it, Soundwave?” Megatron asked, raising an optic ridge as he caught a faint trace of urgency in his third-in-command’s typically monotonous tone.

“Laserbeak has returned with urgent news,” Soundwave reported. “Optimus Prime has been hospitalized. Location: Zenith Ward. Time: approximately eleven clicks ago.”

Megatron straightened sharply. Hospitalized? Was the Prime attacked? With how fragile he appeared in the videos, it was no surprise he’d gotten hurt. How Magnus allowed the Prime to wander around so freely, seemingly without concern, was beyond Megatron’s comprehension.

If it were me, I would… He cut off that dangerous thought before it could take root.

“Do you know why?” he prompted, his tone clipped and expectant.

“Laserbeak managed to secure footage,” Soundwave replied. “Playing it now.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed as the video flickered on.

Onscreen, Optimus Prime was held hostage by an Institute empurata agent, a sharp apparatus poised threateningly at his energon cable. The hall depicted in the video was a scene of bated tension; there was no audio, yet the frantic movements of the others in the room were unmistakable. Two soldiers were present ready to fire their blasters at the agent until they lowered their arms. Their plated lips moved rapidly as they seemed to shout at the Institute agent, desperate for Optimus’s release.

Then, the little Prime turned to face his captor, unwavering, without a trace of fear in his stance. Without caring of the weapon against his throat, his servos reached up and touched the agent’s face.

Suddenly, the entire feed erupted in a blinding white light, obscuring everything for several moments. When the brilliance subsided, the scene had changed. The empurata agent was now enveloped in that same radiant glow, their form shifting and warping before everyone’s optics. As the light finally faded, the features of a once-familiar figure emerged—a face unmistakably belonging to a long-lost Senator who had vanished over a mega cycle ago.

Senator Shockwave.

Megatron shot to his pedes and commanded sharply. “Play it again!”

Soundwave flinched at the order but quickly complied, his claws moving deftly to replay the extraordinary sequence.

All the while, Megatron couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For the first time in eons, he felt a chill run through his systems—a sensation uncomfortably close to both awe and fear. This had to be trickery. Some elaborate deception. What had Optimus Prime just done? Megatron had witnessed medics perform wonders on the battlefield, seen technology push the boundaries of life and death, but this? This was beyond all of it. It bordered on the impossible—a fantasy ripped straight from the Primus-worshipping fanatics.

And yet, the silence of the former Senators—those now disgraced and convicted—suddenly made sense. They had seen this power before, witnessed a miracle firsthand, and now cowered in fear of Primus’s supposed righteous fury.

Megatron glowered, his optics narrowing. Primus wasn’t real. This was no divine intervention. It just couldn’t be.

The video continued, no longer replaying the initial scene, but capturing what followed. Optimus moved from one room to another, supposedly  placing his servos on mechs left broken and deformed by the Institute. One by one, the victims began to change—restored to forms they had likely believed lost forever. It was systematic, thorough, and utterly unprecedented. Each act sent another ripple of disbelief through Megatron’s circuits.

The Matrix. It had to be the Matrix’s power. Somehow, Optimus Prime was able to tap into its power to restore other mechs. This couldn’t be the work of Primus, but rather of ancient technology when the matrix was first created.

That had to be it.

When the footage reached its end, Optimus Prime swayed, his energy reserves clearly drained from the monumental effort. And then, without warning, he collapsed, his small frame caught just in time by his people.

Megatron’s fists clenched, shaking with tension, and for a long moment, his vents released nothing but static. Then came the hiss—a sharp exhale of frustration that hung in the air like a storm about to break.

“…This doesn’t change anything,” he muttered lowly to himself, the words more for him than anyone else.

But even as the sentence left his mouth, it felt thin, like a brittle piece of metal ready to snap. He repeated it, softer this time, as though trying to hammer it into reality. “It doesn’t change anything…”

“Megatron, my liege?” Soundwave prompted, his voice cutting through the tension.

“…Continue monitoring Optimus Prime, Soundwave,” Megatron finally ordered, his tone clipped and cold. His optics narrowed as he frowned deeply. “And make sure Laserbeak doesn’t repeat the same mistake. She cannot carelessly reveal herself like that to him.”

Soundwave hesitated briefly, then tilted his head in a slight bow. “I understand, my liege.”

After a few more nano-clicks, Soundwave disconnected the link, leaving Megatron alone with his thoughts. He leaned back in his throne-like chair, optics dim as he replayed the scene over and over in his neural network.

There was no doubt in his processor that word of this would spread—through Iacon and other cities. Even if the footage was deleted from the grid, intakes would talk. Mechs would whisper, and before long, Optimus Prime’s reputation would grow even further. The idea of him as Primus’ chosen would take hold, whether it’d be true or not.

Megatron scowled, his claws tapping rhythmically against the armrest. If anything, this only solidified his conclusion: Optimus Prime was the key to ruling all of Cybertron. With him at his side, no one would dare to question his ruling. He was sure of it.

One way or another, Optimus Prime will kneel.

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= = =

Op’s POV

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My optics flickered online, revealing an unfamiliar white ceiling. It wasn’t the place where Primus usually summoned me—there were no glowing blue-lined grids this time. Turning my helm, I took in my surroundings: a spacious room, clinical yet refined, resembling a hospital suite designed for a VIP. I supposed being Prime had its privileges.
“Optimus…!”

The voice drew my attention to the left. Only then did I notice Jazz seated by my bedside. He must have been dozing earlier; his posture was slouched, and his optics betrayed lingering grogginess. But the relief in his expression as he saw me awake was unmistakable.

“How long was I out?” I asked, prioritizing the question that mattered most.

Jazz grimaced, clearly reluctant to answer. “’Bout five cycles…”

Five cycles. I vented in deeply.

Carefully, I rose from my berth. Jazz’s servos shot out, ready to catch me, clearly worried, but I felt fine.
“I’m good,” I said, brushing off his concern.

Jazz shook his helm, clearly not convinced. “You can’t be good. Ratchet said you had a spark flare.”

A spark… flare? It took less than a nano-click for my processors to scavenge through my ‘mind palace’ for that information. A spark flare was a severe overload of stress on the spark itself. Rare, but not unheard of. Rarely did anyone survive one. Sparks were usually strong. Even after being in stasis for billions of years, a spark would continue to burn, sustaining life with barely any energon left. But under the right—or wrong—circumstances, they could become fragile fast.

It all clicked. By healing and restoring all those patients, I must have pushed my spark too far, slightly damaging it without even realizing.

Actually, that was incorrect. I saw the notifications and warnings, but I willfully ignored them.

Maybe it was because I believed myself to be invincible. After all, I could bend metal, manipulate gravity with a single thought, and heal other mechs with nothing more than my fluid tears. But when I prayed for—let’s call it ‘divine intervention’—I realize now that it wasn’t my power I was wielding. It was something borrowed from Primus himself.

In the end, my body wasn’t built to handle the full force of Primus’ power. It could only endure what the Matrix allowed me to possess.

“Please drink this while I go get Ratchet,” Jazz said, grabbing the high-grade energon cube from the bedside table and handing it to me. “Wait here.”

With that, he hurried out of the room, the doors sealing shut behind him with a sharp shk! But just before they closed completely, I caught a glimpse of Red Alert and Hot Rod’s frames stationed outside. How long had they been guarding my door? Five cycles? I hoped they got a break at some point.

A few clicks later, the doors slid open again, and Ratchet stepped inside. Behind him, Hot Rod leaned in, trying to peek into the room and waving at me, only to be met with a sharp scolding from Red Alert. The doors shut quickly behind Ratchet before I had the chance to wave back.

For the first time since coming online as Optimus Prime, I felt a wave of nervousness. Ratchet’s stoic faceplate and the tension in his frame as he approached my berth only made it worse.

Still, I did my best to keep my nerves in check. “Good morning, Ratchet.”

Ratchet stopped in front of me, fixing me with a pointed stink eye.

“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me, Optimus,” he snapped, his tone sharp and curt. “Why don’t you start explaining how you got a spark flare, hmm?”

Every neural network in me was screaming to run, but that wouldn’t exactly be dignified. Instead, I took a deep vent-in and answered, “I may have overworked myself.”

Ratchet folded his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Uh-huh. And what’s your excuse for ignoring and dismissing the warning HUDs?”

Shit. He could see that? Checking through my database, I quickly confirmed that medics had the ability to extract process logs with their scanners—especially logs tied to incidents like my spark flare. So, of course, he knew.

When I didn’t answer, Ratchet vented out a frustrated sigh. “Optimus, you’ve got to be more careful. That spark flare could have cost you your spark! Especially with whatever you’re doing with that Matrix.”

“I’ll try to be more careful,” I replied quickly, shifting the focus to what mattered most. “What about the Institute patients? How are they?”

Ratchet hesitated, his optics flickering slightly before he relented with a sigh through his vents. “Whatever you did, Optimus… they’re themselves again. Sort of. Patch explained to me how you ‘dampened the load,’ making it feel like what they went through in the Institute was just a distant dream.”

“…It’s only temporary,” I clarified. “It’s meant to help them cope with what happened.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics, his frown deepening. “But it’ll come back. Full force.”

“Pound by pound,” I said calmly. “Not all at once. I’m hoping that, given enough time, their neural networks will be ready to accept the truth.”

Ratchet pursed his intakes, clearly weighing his words before speaking. “I don’t know if this skirts some sort of ethical or moral boundary—taking away their emotional and mental pain. That kind of pain is often necessary for proper recovery. But…” He vented softly. “It’s a mercy you’ve given them, Optimus. Probably more than any of us medics could have done in such a short amount of time. Still, a quick fix is just that—a quick fix.”

“I understand,” I replied, fully aware of the controversial nature of my decision. “I hope to rely on you and Patch to work closely with the patients moving forward.”

“You can count on us,” Ratchet said, his tone firm. “But right now, I need you to lay back and let me run some scans.” He raised his forearm, a jack extending from a compartment.

I obeyed, reclining on the berth as he attached the jack to the port on my right forearm. The sensation was strange yet familiar, almost routine. It reminded me of that game Cyberpunk—I could suddenly relate to how the player character felt when Viktor Vektor, the ripper doc, jacked into their system.

Windows opened in my HUD, displaying everything Ratchet was accessing. As he manually worked through cleaning up my processors, I couldn’t help but find it fascinating. But the thought of falling behind my schedule quickly gnawed at me.

“When can I leave?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.

“When I say you can leave,” Ratchet replied curtly, his gruff voice carrying a sharp edge. “You just had a spark flare, for Primus’ sake, Optimus!”

I tilted my helm, studying the scans displayed in my HUD. “Hmm. From what I’m seeing, my systems look like they’re in working order.”

“On the surface, maybe,” Ratchet countered firmly. “But I still think you should stay in berth for a cycle or two. Just take it easy. And no more using the Matrix.”

“I’m always using the Matrix, Ratchet,” I said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a part of me.”

“Not when it’s hurting you!” Ratchet snapped, his voice rising.

I sat up, reaching over to grasp his arm gently. “Hey… Ratchet? Is everything okay?”

That’s when I noticed it—this wasn’t just about my spark flare. Ratchet vented a weary sigh as he un-jacked himself from my forearm. His servos lingered, resting against mine.

“…You know, I was afraid to make contact with you at first,” Ratchet admitted, his optics reflecting a melancholic gaze. “Especially when I heard the news that you became Optimus Prime. I thought… maybe you weren’t the same person anymore. Watching how you acted on the vids during press briefings… it made me think I’d lost Orion Pax to the Matrix.”

I stayed quiet, letting him speak.

Ratchet vented softly, a small chuckle escaping him. “Heh… I think I may have been wrong. Even now, you’re just as stubborn as ever. I’m both relieved and regretful because it means I can’t cow you into not using the Matrix. You only ever did listen to Alpha Trion.”

I vented a weak laugh at that. “I did, didn’t I…?”

Ratchet’s expression shifted, his frown deepening. “Sprocket, do you still resent him?”

“Don’t call me Sprocket, Ratchet,” I snapped, unable to suppress the sharp rise of indignation and disgust towards that name. It wasn’t just a nickname; it was his nickname for Orion Pax, one Alpha Trion had used often—and occasionally, Ratchet as well. But I wouldn’t allow that anymore, because yes—

I resented Alpha Trion. At least, Orion Pax did.

“I’m sorry,” Ratchet said quickly, his shoulders sinking as the apology left him. “You know he was only trying to protect you, right?”

“There were others who needed more protection than I did. That’s not what I was upset about,” I said quietly.

He made Orion Pax—made me—feel like a fool. He led him to believe the world was right, that everything was at peace. He blinded Orion Pax to the cracks forming in society, to the signs of a world breaking down under the weight of its functionalist ways and the caste system woven into it.

I cannot forgive that. Not when it feels like the future of Cybertron is crushing down on my shoulders of that prophetic war—the millions of years of destruction between Autobots and Decepticons.

This cannot happen here.

After a moment, I vented softly and looked up at Ratchet. “…Thank you for treating me, Ratchet. And… I hope I can still rely on you in the future?”

Ratchet shuddered slightly, relieved, as he nodded. “Of course, Optimus. You can always come to me, and I’ll fix you right up. Always. Just… please, please be more careful with yourself.”

My intakes stretched into a faint smile. “I can’t make promises, but I’ll do my best.”

As a compromise, I agreed to stay another cycle in the hospital room. Ratchet reassured Jazz—whom Magnus had appointed as my caretaker—that I’d be ready to leave tomorrow.

During that time, I received visits from Magnus, Codex, and even Perceptor and Wheeljack. I apologized to them for the delay in restoring the fluxstream, but they all insisted I focus on resting.

The next cycle of the morning—what I’d equate to 10:00 on Earth, since time worked differently here on Cybertron—I left the Zenith Ward accompanied by my retainers, Magnus, and a small brigade.

Apparently, my hospitalization couldn’t be kept under wraps. While there was no proof of my restoring the Institute patients to their original forms—those vids had been swiftly removed from the grid—word of mouth spread just as quickly. Magnus had to handle a press cleanup, sticking to the facts and even announcing plans to reopen the fluxstream.

And so, that morning, I found myself at the ancient energon aqueducts. The entire property had been barricaded by the royal forces to keep civilians at bay, ensuring I could work without interruption.

The plates of my chassis shifted open, and I carefully removed the Matrix with both servos. The swirling white ball of energy unmerged from my blue spark effortlessly, leaving behind a few tingling sensations. It was an odd feeling, but not painful.

Holding the Matrix high toward the aqueducts—where waterfalls of energon had once torrentially flowed—I focused.

“…Primus… lend me your strength…” I murmured under my vents.

An image filled my mind: a faucet. No, multiple faucets. Each represented a flow of energon across Cybertron. I could sense that I had the power to open them all at once without effort—but that wasn’t the goal. I reminded myself that opening them all would crash the economy as the price of energon would plum to mere scraps.

No. I needed to focus. Just one faucet.

Iacon City would be the start.

Nano-clicks later, the ground began to quake, the tremors growing stronger with each passing moment.

“Optimus—!” Magnus’s voice called out from behind me, but I didn’t stop.

At first, gunk and sludge sputtered from the source, thick and unclean. But then, crystal-clear water streaked with energon burst forth in a torrential flood. The stream cascaded into the aqueducts, rushing through the wide canals with startling speed.

The crowd watching from a distance erupted into cheers and gasps of awe. The Fluxstream—dormant and dry for millions of years—was alive again, flowing once more.

Endless source of energon was once again available to Iacon, and soon, all of Cybertron.

I lowered the Matrix—relief washing over me. I had known it would work, of course—but knowing and seeing it were two entirely different experiences.

Turning around, I found my retainers staring in stunned awe, their reactions split between celebration and disbelief. Hot Rod and Jazz were jumping excitedly, pulling each other into a side hug, while the rest stood frozen, their jaws practically hanging down to their chestplates.

Before I could even join their celebration, a bright red light suddenly blinded my left optic.

DODGE. The Primes of the Matrix screamed and I leapt to the side without hesitation.

A laser beam struck the exact spot where I’d been standing moments ago, leaving scorched metal in its wake.

Primus fraggin’ damnit, can I get just one fragging break here…!?

The red light settled on me then but before I could move, a very familiar bird got in the way.

NO--!
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= = =

A/N: … :D Another cliffhanger? I guess I’m on the roll with them, bwuahahaha.

First off, yes. The Decepticons discovered Space Shooters game.

Second, I had some difficulty writing Megatron’s psyche, because I keep telling myself that this is before Megatron got even more corrupted or had any real hatred towards Optimus Prime—if anything, it was more hatred to the Senate and the Primacy. And I’m not really into the ‘Love at first sight’ aspect, but that didn’t mean Megatron didn’t have any interest.

Also, wow! Thank you for all your comments from the previous chapter! I’m gonna take my time responding to them, cuz I was working and was too tired to write responses, but I shall do so now. 😊

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter!

Chapter Text

= = =

Soundwave’s POV

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“…Continue monitoring Optimus Prime, Soundwave, and make sure Laserbeak doesn’t repeat the same mistake. She cannot carelessly reveal herself like that to him.”

Soundwave had taken those words to his spark. This time, he gave Laserbeak a stern reprimand, making it clear she was never to expose herself to Optimus Prime again. He didn’t miss the way his trusted cassette became visibly dejected, her wings drooping in what could only be described as a sullen posture. Still, this was for her own good. Optimus Prime was the enemy, no matter how peculiar his behavior might be.

After all, why would an enemy offer Laserbeak energon cubes? Or shield her from the royal palace guards while she was actively spying on him, and gathering information?

Optimus Prime was a puzzling anomaly. Perhaps his system lacked the essential protocols of caution.

The more Soundwave uncovered about Optimus Prime, the less it all made sense. Each answer only led to a thousand more questions. What truly happened that day in the Senate Council, when Orion Pax stood before Zeta Prime to present his findings on the Institute’s atrocities? Why had he withdrawn the Royal Forces from the front lines and instead negotiated for energon supplies?

How had he been able to single out Laserbeak in disguise, concealed among a clutter of datapads? And why had he devoted himself to restoring the energon refinery treatments, despite the aqueducts lying dormant for millions of solar rotations? How had he managed to reverse the Institute's damage and return its victims to their original forms?

But most baffling of all—what was the purpose of that ‘spaceship simulation’ within the datapad he decrypted? Was there some sort of hidden message to it?

Soundwave had never truly pondered the existence of Primus. It had always been an irrelevant notion to him—until now. For the first time, the question drifted heavily over his investigation. The question of Primus’ existence mattered.

Especially today.

Optimus Prime had just emerged from the Zenith Ward, flanked by his constituents and a small brigade led by Magnus. But instead of returning to the Prime Citadel, as expected, their path veered directly to the long-abandoned Energon Aqueducts.

Though Soundwave was stationed far away, he observed everything through Laserbeak's keen optics, the feed clear and unblinking.

Soundwave had only ever seen old recorded feeds of the so-called fluxstream that once carried energon all across Cybertron.

Today, he had witnessed its return. Torrents of energon poured through the aqueducts at an astonishing speed, rushing with a vitality he’d only seen in archived memories.

And for once, Soundwave didn’t know what to feel.

What could this all mean? How could this change the Decepticons' cause?

Before Soundwave could dwell on the questions, Laserbeak let out a sharp squawk, snapping his attention back to the scene. Through her optics, he saw it all unfold—Optimus Prime leaping aside just in time, a sniper's laser shot scorching the ground where he stood, missing by mere inches.

Someone out there was trying to kill Prime.

As Soundwave commanded Laserbeak to locate the shooter, instead she dove toward Optimus Prime. Then, the second shot tore through her core. The pain that rippled through their shared connection made Soundwave’s vents seize, overwhelmed by the agonizing burn.

And then, the link went dead.

Soundwave was livid. His friend—his dear friend—had just been shot.

Replaying the last few clicks of the scene, Soundwave swiftly calculated the shooter’s location. Without hesitation, he transformed and sped toward the precise spot—not far from his current position.

There, he spotted a black and red mech clutching a rifle. On the mech's shoulder was an insignia: a faceplate, half-shrouded in flames.

Without a second thought, Soundwave dove. Mid-air, he transformed and tackled the mech to the ground. The assailant let out a startled noise, clearly caught off guard by the sudden attack.

Soundwave wrenched the rifle from the mech’s grip and struck its faceplate, slamming the attacker to the ground. Without hesitation, he aimed his own blaster squarely at the downed mech.

“Identify yourself,” he demanded.

The mech’s optics flickered with alarm as they darted to the insignia on Soundwave’s chassis. “D-Decepticon…!? I thought you guys hated the Primacy!”

“You shot my friend,” Soundwave replied coldly, his blaster humming with power. “Answer.”

The assailant glowered, baring his dentas in defiance. “I’m not telling you nothin’—”

BOOM!

Soundwave staggered back, optics wide, as the mech’s head exploded without warning, going up in flames.

The espionage Decepticon took a few cautious pedes back, watching the mech’s body warily, half-expecting it to detonate again. But as the nano-clicks passed and nothing happened, he stepped closer to investigate. Scanning the remains, his optics lingered on the insignia. He recognized it—something ancient, but from where?

“HALT!”

The sharp command snapped Soundwave’s attention to a group of Iacon’s Royal Guards approaching quickly.

Clenching his claws in frustration, he had no choice but to abandon the scene. Transforming into his jet mode, he soared away, his processors broiling with rage.

Laserbeak still lingering in his neural networks.

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= = =

Op’s POV

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My optics widened as I saw Sonia take the hit. Immediately, my servo shot outward, making metal obey and willing the metallic bot toward me as she began to fall. Her small frame flew right into my arms at startling speed, and I cradled her close, hunching over to shield her with my body.

Hot Rod darted in front of me, his frame acting as a barrier. A laser struck his left pauldron, and it exploded with a sharp burst. He cried out, dropping to one knee from the impact.

“Hot Rod!” I called, reaching one servo toward him while keeping Sonia cradled close to my chassis. I could feel the faint warmth of her energon leaking out from her gaping wound where the laser had shot her.

“I’m fine, Optimus, just a graze!” he insisted through gritted dentas, his face tight with pain.

“Graze, my aft!” I snapped, frustrated as it was more than just a graze. Hot Rod just let out a wheezing noise that might’ve been laughter, if he wasn’t clearly in so much pain.

Within moments, Magnus, Red Alert, and the rest of Iacon’s guards arrived. The guards raised their shields, forming a shimmering dome-like energy barrier around us to block any further attacks.

The firing had stopped, but the shields remained up as they guided us back toward Magnus’ ship—the Axion. Red Alert supported Hot Rod, who staggered with each step, while Magnus grabbed hold of my free servo to steady me. Once we were on board and the shields were dropped, my focus shifted entirely to the cassette-con bleeding out in my arms.

Sonia let out weak clicks and beeps as I gently stroked her with my servos.

“Shhh, hold on, it’s okay…” I murmured softly, leaning in close to place a tender kiss on the top of her head.

In an instant, a bright white light engulfed her frame. Nano-clicks later, the massive hole in her body was completely sealed, as though it had never been there.

I turned my gaze to Hot Rod next. He needed help too. Bringing my servos to my intakes, I left a trace of fluid with a kiss before pressing the same servos gently to his left pauldron. The piece had been utterly destroyed, but only that part of him glowed white. Slowly, it began to reform, reshaping itself until it was fully restored, good as new.

Also, I’d realized earlier that what I thought was healing wasn’t really ‘healing’ at all. Instead, it was forcing the self-repairing nanites inside every transformer to work at a rapid god-like pace, draining a significant amount of the host’s energon in the process, depending on the size of the wound. But it worked—they were completely repaired and, more importantly, out of danger. It was curious how the outer shells of a transformer only needed time to repair themselves, while internal components often required outright replacements. But even the self-repairing nanites, when enhanced, had the capabilities to grow new parts.

Meanwhile, the entire guard had stilled, their intakes frozen as they gawked at what had just happened, though I caught Codex rushing off somewhere.

I ignored them, of course, settling into a seat as the ship began to lift off.

“Whoaaa…” Hot Rod finally broke the silence, staring at his newly restored pauldron while Red Alert prodded at it curiously. “Uhh... Thanks, Optimus. But like, are you good? You’re not gonna pass out on us again or anything, right?”

“Do we need to go to the Zenith Ward?” Red Alert asked in all seriousness. “I have your medic, Ratchet, on speed comms, My Prime.”

I gave them a wry smile, keeping Sonia securely tucked in my servos, and she seemed content in staying there for the time being.

At this time, Codex returned with a few cubes of energon, handing it out two to me and one to Hot Rod. Primus, did you send me a little angel? Codex was quite a promising assistant.

“Thank you, Codex. As per your question, we don’t need to, Red Alert. I can basically repair surface wounds like that easily at no cost of my own,” I replied as I fed an energon cube to Sonia who eagerly took it. “It’s different from restoring replaced mech parts, which is far more draining. But you’re welcome, Hot Rod. In fact, I should be thanking you.”

Hot Rod flashed me a grin. “No problem! Just doing my job!”

“Optimus, do you know this drone?” Jazz asked, his optics narrowing as he eyed the creature in my arms suspiciously. “Seems like you know it.”

“Her name’s Sonia,” I answered simply.

Magnus had disappeared a while ago, likely to send out orders, but I noticed him re-enter the lobby area moments later. His arrival prompted some of the guards to shuffle out, clearly reminded of their other duties—or eager not to appear idle.

At first, Magnus’s optics landed on Hot Rod, his expression shifting with what I guessed was surprise at seeing his injury completely gone. Then, realization struck, and his gaze moved to me before lowering to the bird-like minion cradled in my servos.

Magnus’s frame stiffened, and his optics narrowed dangerously. “Optimus Prime! Let go of that thing! We need to secure it—”

“No.” I tightened my hold on Sonia and rose to my pedes, meeting Magnus’s glare with my own.

He faltered for a moment but pressed on. “You don’t understand, Optimus. That drone belongs to Soundwave—one of Megatron’s top agents. He’s the best in espionage. That thing has probably been spying on you for who knows how long.”

...Huh. No shit.

It was then I realized Megatron had sent Soundwave to spy on me. And Soundwave, in turn, had deployed one of his cassettes—because that’s exactly what they were, cassettes.

For the moment, I shoved down the rising panic threatening to overload my systems, my processors racing as I considered the kind of footage this bird-drone could have been sending to Megatron.

Hahaha… ha…

“Oh, I see…” I vented in, keeping my expression as neutral as I possibly could.

Tilting my helm slightly, I went ahead to ask. “Then, would you kindly care to explain to me why one of Soundwave’s drones would put itself in harm’s way to save my life?”

Magnus hesitated, his intakes flaring as if to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he vented a heavy sigh.

“I cannot, but it is still dangerous, Optimus. If I’m correct, that has to be Laserbeak—at least, according to the intel we’ve gathered on Megatron and his motley crew—it is capable of shooting down mechs in a single shot with calculated precision.”

Oh…Laserbeak.

Oh gods. I just named Laserbeak Sonia.

Jazz seemed to have read my mind as he snorted beside me. “You just named a Decepticon spy, Sonia.”

I flashed him a glare before he raised his servos and quickly uttered his apologies.

I turned back at Magnus. “Look. Dangerous or not, Magnus, Laserbeak had saved my life and she will stay with me for now,” I insisted.

“Optimus--”

“You’re not getting Laserbeak, Magnus. I intend to release her once she recovers and has enough energon in her reserves,” I said. “I will not argue over this. Besides, the fluxstream had just returned to Iacon City and its people had just witnessed me getting shot at. So perhaps let’s focus on the damage control of that, shall we? We’ll update the news on the grid.”

Seeing that I wasn’t budging from my stance, Ultra Magnus complied and went ahead to do what I suggested, sulking a bit, as we both made our way over to the command room to make the necessary announcements to the people of Iacon before they go on a full-blown panic.

When it was over and done with, Magnus turned to me with a pointed look.

“How long?” He asked.

I raised an optic ridge. “How long what?”

“How long have you been with this drone long enough to name her Sonia?”

Frag me.

Avoiding Magnus’s gaze, I kept my servos gently petting Sonia as I reluctantly drawled out my answer.

“Perhaps… a couple of decacycles now--?”

“Decacycles??” Magnus hissed, his disbelief evident. “Are you telling me this spy drone has been infiltrating the Prime Citadel for the last two decacycles?”

“She’s been infiltrating the Hall of Records—and my office, to be precise,” I explained evenly.

“There’s sensitive information in the Hall of Records, especially within the restricted section—”

“—All of which I’ve taken extra care to encrypt,” I interrupted sharply. “To the highest degree of cybersecurity Cybertron has ever seen.”

“Optimus! Why do you lack a sense of safety over yourself?” Magnus shot back, his frustration evident as he clamped a firm servo on my shoulder, shaking me slightly. “And it’s not just about this Decepticon spy! It also includes what happened at the Zenith Ward—and with Senator Shockwave. You are no longer just an archivist; you are a Prime! A leader to all of Cybertron! You even rejuvenated the fluxstream that had been dormant for millions of years. How could you allow an enemy spy to get this close???”

I clicked my dentas at his scolding and turned to face him fully.

“I am not Sentinel, or Zeta, Magnus.”

Magnus furrowed his optic ridges, clearly puzzled by my words. “I’m well aware of that, my Prime.”

“So then you should be aware that the Matrix didn’t reforge me as a warrior, Magnus,” I began, keeping my tone calm but firm. “I don’t have battle protocols or defensive systems in my programming. In fact, it’s quite the opposite—you know that, given what happened at the Zenith Ward.”

Magnus released his grip on my shoulder, but I reached out and took his servo before he could pull away. He didn’t resist, and I stepped closer, meeting his optics directly.

“…Primus didn’t remake me for war or battle, Magnus,” I said, my voice softening as I admitted the truth. “If I had been, I would have already thought to build a wall of steel to protect myself.” My optics lowered briefly before I continued, my words heavy. “When the sniper fired, I should have had that wall—so Laserbeak and Hot Rod wouldn’t have had to use themselves as shields. So they wouldn’t have to protect me. Or Primus forbid… die for me.”

I faltered, venting softly. “I… I don’t think I could handle that, Magnus.”

Magnus’s expression softened at my confession, and after a few nano-clicks, he vented a long sigh.

“…I— I see… Red Alert’s report is starting to make more sense now,” he said carefully. “When Senator Shockwave held you hostage, Red Alert noted that you barely reacted to the danger. I had assumed it was because you could counter him by using gravity against him, but… is it because you truly lack any self-preservation protocols?”

Self-preservation protocols? Was that a thing?

I sifted through my mind palace, searching for an answer, and… apparently, it was a thing. A small, subtle piece of programming embedded in every transformer’s system. Small, because it could be overridden—by fear for a comrade or partner, or even by adrenaline-fueled rage, if such a thing existed for Cybertronians.

Everyone had it.

Except for me. Apparently.

At that, I held Laserbeak closer, releasing Magnus’s servo as his shoulders sagged slightly. “Nevertheless, this little one stays with me for the time being,” I said firmly. “…Is there any news of the shooter?”

“…There is,” Magnus reluctantly shared. “Witnessed guards claimed to have seen Soundwave with him, aiming the blaster at him before fleeing the scene. The shooter was killed. His head blown off.”

Revenge for Laserbeak, I guess. Still, it seemed uncharacteristic for Soundwave to immediately kill my attacker. If anything, he’d be the one to capture the shooter—likely to barter for Laserbeak, whether or not she was still alive. I was certain he’d want her corpse. That’s how much Soundwave would have cared for his cassettes. You could tell by how fiercely loyal they were to him in many continuities.

Magnus continued, “Furthermore, the guards reported that the shooter bore a strange insignia. I will draft an extra copy of the report for you once it’s ready, as we are still investigating.”

“I’d like it by tomorrow morning, please,” I replied, accepting his offer. “I think today has been quite eventful. I’d rather like to rest some more—doctors’ orders.”

After all, I had only just left the Zenith Ward and Ratchet’s care not even an hour ago.

As I turned to leave the room, Magnus caught hold of my servo.

“My Prime,” he said, his blue optics locking onto mine, holding me in place. “…I firmly believe that Primus forged you rightly, just as you are.”

“…Thank you, Magnus,” I replied softly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping across my faceplates.

I gave his servo a small squeeze before releasing it and making a ‘measured’ retreat from the command room. Even as I walked away, I could still feel his optics lingering on my frame.

Halfway down the hallway, Sonia—Laserbeak—chirped softly at me.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go just yet,” I explained gently. “We’re on a ship, and it’s not exactly the ideal place for you to stretch your wings. Plus, I have a gift for you—in exchange for saving my life. Would you be a dear and stay with me a while?”

Laserbeak let out a quiet caw, and I could only take it as her agreement.

We soon returned to the Prime Citadel, and I immediately dismissed my retainers, urging them to rest and take the remainder of the cycle off. When they questioned the presence of Laserbeak in my servos, I simply assured them there was no need to worry about her—or me with her.

Reluctantly, they did depart, and I turned sharply in the opposite direction, heading purposefully toward one of the older monuments within the Prime Citadel: the Cybertronian Relicarium. The pyramid-like structure had once been far more significant than a private museum reserved for invited guests.

Guided by the subtle information encoded into me by the Matrix, I eventually reached my destination—a towering chrome statue of Solus Prime’s face.

Laserbeak cawed questioningly from my servos.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking, but I’ll try to guess,” I said, smiling softly. I couldn’t help the doting feelings I had for her—despite the slight disapproval of the Primes within the Matrix. “You’re worried about learning this secret I’m about to reveal? That’s alright. I understand how close you are to Soundwave, and I know there’s probably nothing you could keep from him. So don’t worry. Tell him whatever you like. After all, it’d be impossible for anyone to pass through here without me.”

With that, I extended my servos, focusing on the hidden mechanisms within the head bust of Solus Prime. A series of metallic locks rattled audibly, clicking in sequence as unseen engines began to hum.

Suddenly, a swirling, warping portal materialized before me, obscuring Solus Prime’s face.

I stepped through the portal and was instantly transported into a room that felt more like a sprawling factory—the warp disappearing behind me. The space was cluttered with countless gadgets and tools, all surrounding a massive, dormant, grandiose forge at its center.

The entire workshop was coated in a thick layer of dust, but nothing else—no rust, no decay. There was no sign of dilapidation anywhere. This was Solus Prime's workshop, after all. Everything here was built to last forever.

“Stay close now,” I cautioned Laserbeak as I finally let her go. She hovered for a moment before settling comfortably on my shoulder.

Nice! I couldn’t help but feel giddy about that.

Now, the reason I came here in the first place was painfully clear—how infuriatingly useless I’d been against the sniper. Without any regard for my own safety—and if not for the Matrix’s Primes screaming at me to move—I’d likely be dead right now.

It seemed Solus Prime had taken pity on me, granting me the knowledge to access her lair and retrieve some items for my protection. I was searching for two in particular—one for myself and one for Laserbeak.

…Hmm… should I get one for Hot Rod, too?

I could sense some reluctance from the Matrix, but they weren’t outright saying no, sooooo!

Yes. Getting one for Hot Rod too.

I gestured for Laserbeak to perch on an empty desk, one I assumed Solus Prime had once used for crafting simple gadgets or making quick repairs. She followed my instructions as I moved around the room, searching for…

Ah-ha! Here it is!

By the way, I was starting to get used to how all this information flowed seamlessly through my neural pathways—like flowing water. It felt so natural, as though I’d always known it, and now I was simply remembering them.

I suppose I really need to thank Primus for granting me full attunement with the Matrix.

“Here, try this on for size,” I said, holding up the nano-chip for her to see. “It was built for a Mini-Con, but I believe it should be compatible with you too.”

Laserbeak tilted her head at the nano-chip, chirping curiously.

“It’s a cloaking module,” I explained, watching her optics whirr in consideration. I chuckled softly. “Now, it doesn’t last long—only a few clicks—so you’ll need to use it wisely. You’ll probably need it once I set you free. No doubt Magnus has already ordered the Royal Guard to seize you the moment you fly out of here.”

Laserbeak cawed in acknowledgment and opened her chassis, revealing an empty slot. I carefully placed the nano-chip inside, and a visible purple charge surged through her body.

In an instant, she vanished.

Even I couldn’t see her now.

I grinned. “There you go. The cooldown time is just as long as the cloaking effect, but you can willfully drop it anytime you like.”

A nanosecond later, Laserbeak reappeared, cawing and flapping her metallic wings. She flew straight to my shoulder, nuzzling her beak affectionately against my faceplates.

I was melting from her adorableness.

“Can I still keep calling you Sonia?” I asked, a hint of hope in my voice, and I was graciously rewarded with more nuzzling.

Afterward, I continued scouring the workshop for the items I needed—for myself and for Hot Rod. Along the way, I stumbled across even more peculiar and surprisingly…useful things.

Huh… I’ll definitely need to revisit this place tomorrow or in the next cycle. Maybe bring Jazz and Codex with me under the guise of reorganizing and cataloguing the items within the Cybertronian Relicarium—I know Codex would definitely enjoy that. Now, Hot Rod and Red Alert might be useful too, but I hesitated at the thought of bringing Hot Rod. He might be touching things he really shouldn’t be. At least Jazz tended to be more careful… though I couldn’t say the same about the filter on his intakes.

Plus, Hot Rod would feel left out if I brought only Red Alert with me and leaving him out of the picture. I wasn’t too keen on seeing what a ‘kicked puppy’ expression would look like on a cybertronian royal guard. No, sir. No, thank you.

After saving a few digital notes in my memory banks and carefully packing the items I needed, Sonia and I left the Forge of Solus, returning to the base of her monument's helm-face statue.

By the time we exited the Cybertronian Relicarium, the massive sun overhead was already beginning its descent, painting the sky with warm hues.

“Oh, I guess we spent too much time down there,” I remarked, glancing at Sonia. “Sorry if it was boring.”

Sonia chirped softly, clearly unbothered. I was certain she wasn’t bored—especially since she’d been filming the entire time.

Honestly, that should bother me. I’d just revealed secrets long buried to a Decepticon spy, and there was no doubt this footage would eventually find its way to Megatron’s optics.

And yet… I wasn’t afraid.

“Until we meet again, Sonia,” I said softly.

She nuzzled me one last time before taking off into the sky. A brief purple charge flashed across her frame, and in an instant, she vanished as the cloaking module activated.

= = =

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To Soundwave’s immense relief, he received a message from Laserbeak, confirming that she was alive. However, her release left him stunned.

He had remained on Iacon City, biding his time and waiting for nightfall to infiltrate the Prime Citadel in search of his precious cassette. Yet, here she was—already en route toward him, and it wasn’t even sundown.

Did that mean they had implanted her with a tracking chip to locate him? If so, that was fine. Soundwave would remove it easily, ensuring their escape.

As Laserbeak drew closer on his radar, however, he found himself unable to spot her visually. His optics scanned the skies, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Then, a faint purple charge flickered, and she materialized right in front of him. The sudden appearance startled him, leaving him barely enough time to register what had just happened as she collided into his frame—his servos catching her.

Soundwave’s vents shuddered with relief as he saw her, but confusion lingered. His optics darted to their surroundings, expecting guards to follow, but none appeared. Quickly, he initiated a full scan of her. She was his, after all, and he would know immediately if something was off.

But there was nothing—nothing unusual, except for the new module chip embedded in her. A chip that granted her the ability to cloak.

Cloaking technology was nearly unheard of. It was a highly complex and imperfect process; even the slightest movement typically disrupted the illusion, exposing the perpetrator. And yet, Laserbeak had been flying undetected. Not even his finely tuned optics had managed to catch a glimpse of her.

“Explanation. Now,” he commanded, his tone neutral.

But Laserbeak knew her master better than anyone; their neural link laid bare everything his voice concealed. Despite his monotone delivery, Soundwave’s emotions were a whirlwind—anxious, confused, relieved, happy, and fearful—all at once. None of it showed on the surface of his faceplates or visor, but it coursed through their bond.

In response, Laserbeak shared everything—her entire day, piece by piece, through their link.

Slowly, Soundwave settled onto the ground, his vents steadying as he reviewed the footage. All while he held his precious cassette close to his frame, his servo stroking her helm gently.

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= = =

A/N: Also, DIDN'T EXPECT ME TO UPDATE THIS FAST, DID YA?!!? DID YA?!?!?! (I'm actually sick so I'm stuck in my room.)

Btw, I kept saying Prime Citadel but I never explained the place so, basically, it’s the whole white house and other branches. Prime Citadel includes the Hall of Records, Senate Council, the Cybertronian Relicarium as introduced here, and other upcoming buildings. :D

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter. I sure had fun writing this with Op discovering the Forge of Solus and her workshop as well as exploring Soundwave’s POV in all this nonsense. To be honest, I seem him quite the introverted and yet the most observant of all mechs, but also the most caring, even though he the capabilities to make the most coldest decisions throughout many continuities.

This time, I made sure I wasn't confusing Hot Shot with Hot Rod or Soundwave with Shockwave.

Lastly, I don’t know why I’m writing so much potential fluff between Magnus and Optimus, it just felt right at the moment!!

Please leave a comment and some kudos if you enjoyed it!

Chapter Text

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Magnus’ POV

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“Does Optimus Prime possess powers? Is he truly Primus’ Chosen, the rightful leader of Cybertron? Joining us is Indexal to shed light on what we know about Optimus Prime so far and how he restored the fluxstream here in Iacon City.”

“Indexal, the fluxstream is flowing again, but only within the city's borders. Could there be a reason Optimus Prime has limited its reach? Does it relate to the rising threat of the Decepticons and their leader, Megatron of Tarn? Or perhaps to the recent attempt on Optimus Prime’s life just yester-cycle?”

“Now hold on, Buzzfeed, that’s a lot of speculation you have there. First off, there’s a reason why the entire Fluxstream isn’t flowing all throughout Cybertron, and here’s why. Optimus Prime is afraid of the Decepticons—”

Magnus’ vents exhaled sharply as he immediately reached for his console, muting the grid's broadcast. If his Prime was truly afraid of Megatron and his Decepticons then he wouldn't have traded alt-mode kits for energon. 

“Lousy media reporters.” Magnus muttered.

The buzz of speculation and half-truths grated against his neural processors. For now, he turned his attention back to the report on yester-cycle’s shooter, the facts far more pressing than the noise and clout of the media.

Upon further investigation, it was clear that Soundwave hadn’t killed the shooter. The evidence pointed to something far more complicated—the mech’s helm had exploded from the inside, a mini-bomb ensuring its destruction whether or not they had happened to succeed on their mission. This meant its neural scans and information storage were completely unrecoverable, thus the identity of the shooter will remain unknown.

What little they could piece together revealed one thing: the mech was from Stanix.

There wasn’t much information on Stanix, other than it was a city rumored to exist in the outer wastelands, surrounded by rocky terrains that constantly shifted in unpredictable patterns. Navigating it was said to be like weaving through a dense asteroid field mixed with a quicksand pit—one wrong move, and you’d be swallowed whole by the earth. Of course, flying high enough could avoid the hazards entirely, but that didn’t change the fact that Stanix had been outlawed for millions of years, ever since the death of Quintus Prime. Even Sentinel, for all his talk about every city adhering to strict ordinances, had steered clear of it, ignoring its existence.

In any case, Magnus would need to find someone familiar with the treacherous terrain to investigate further.

Once he finished copying the report onto a datapad, he decided against sending another mech to deliver it. This time, he would deliver it himself.

Magnus was surprised to learn that Optimus and his retainers had gone to the Praesidium Arena. The grand stadium was typically reserved for the Royal Iacon Guards to train and spar, making this an unusual choice for a gathering.

When Magnus arrived, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. The gathering crowd of training recruits had their attention fixed on a red and yellow blur streaking in circles around the stadium.

What... was that?

The blur gradually slowed, resolving into the unmistakable form of Hot Rod. He skidded to a stop next to Optimus and his group waiting at the finish line, sparks flying from his pedes as he struck a flashy pose.

“WOOHOO! What a rush!” Hot Rod hollered, his voice echoing through the arena. “Holy frag! I think I might be faster than Blur!”

“For only 60 nanoclicks, so don’t go getting a big helm!” Jazz raised his voice, trying to cut through the oaf’s nonstop cheering.

“Still faster!! YEEEAAAHHH!! WOOOOOOOH!” Hot Rod kept shouting, completely ignoring Jazz as he threw his arms up like he’d just won a major victory.

Optimus laughed at Hot Rod’s antics, and for a moment, Magnus found himself caught off guard by the sight of him—so serene. But he quickly composed himself when something else caught his optics—a shiny, flashy module attached to Hot Rod’s left pauldron.

“Oh! Greetings, Ultra Magnus!” It was Codex who noticed him first, the little archivist’s loud greeting cutting through the noise and making everyone turn around to look.

Hot Rod and Red Alert immediately straightened up, snapping to attention and saluting Magnus like their lives depended on it.

“At ease,” Magnus said, his gaze briefly shifting to Optimus. “I’m curious—what exactly just happened?”

“Oh! Optimus Prime gifted me a high-velocity, turbo-booster module that lets me move at supersonic speeds!” Hot Rod eagerly answered before anyone else could.

“For a short duration,” Optimus clarified, turning toward the enthusiastic soldier. “Remember, it has a two-joor cooldown, so use it wisely. I’d prefer you not jumping in front of me again to take a hit without a plan.”

“Yes, My Prime! I’ll be more careful!” Hot Rod saluted again, his grin betraying his sheer excitement.

Magnus could only assume that Optimus had entrusted such an extraordinary relic to Hot Rod because of his heroic actions yester-cycle, when he’d taken the laser shot meant for the Prime. The old commander couldn’t think of a more fitting reward—especially since racing was one of Hot Rod’s favorite pastimes.

“Is that the report on the shooter?” Optimus asked, his optics shifting to the datapad in Magnus’ servos.

Magnus nodded. “Yes, My Prime. I just finished compiling everything we’ll need to investigate further.”

He held out the datapad, and Optimus took it with care, his optics immediately scanning the flatscreen as he began scrolling through the report. He must be a fast reader—no surprise for a former archivist.

“Stanix?” Optimus asked, tilting his helm slightly.

“Are you familiar with it?” Magnus asked. “The city’s been outlawed since the start of Sentinel’s rule. Our last official visit wasn’t just about dealing with the rock formations—it was the city’s own system weapons that attacked us.”

“And Sentinel couldn’t land the Tempest any closer because he was afraid his precious ship would be damaged by the shifting terrain?” Optimus replied, a faintly sardonic smirk tugging at the corners of his intakes.

“I—yes.” Magnus answered reluctantly, the memory of Sentinel’s… less-than-dignified behavior creeping back to mind. It was an embarrassment he’d rather not revisit.

“Oh! Codex,” Optimus suddenly said, prompting the mech’s attention. “Would you mind requesting the same Constructicons you recommended to also re-design the Tempest?”

Codex nodded, activating a holo-display from his right forearm and typing a coded message. “Of course! I’ll add that to the list. Should I prioritize it ahead of the Primal Estate Chambers, or...?”

“The Chambers remain first,” Optimus replied, his tone laced with a faint note of disgust.

Magnus couldn’t help but recall the day Orion Pax became Optimus Prime. The transition to leadership came with many expectations, one of which was moving into the grand Primal Estate Chambers. Optimus had taken one look at the opulent space and flatly refused. Instead, he’d insisted on keeping his quarters—a former storage room beneath the Hall of Records that Alpha Trion had remodeled into a modest living space during his Orion Pax days.

The Commander remembered assigning guards to secure the area, only to find it unexpectedly defensible—at least until someone managed to slip through the guards entirely. That “someone” had been Jazz, one of Zeta’s hired assassins. Optimus had been more than capable of handling the situation himself, though Magnus still couldn’t understand why he’d chosen to hire Jazz as his principal aide afterward—especially to the extent of sweeping his records clean. But a Prime had the authority to pardon crimes, after all.

“What’s your plan for this, Magnus?” Optimus asked, holding up the datapad, his optics briefly flicking to the report on the shooter.

Magnus straightened his posture. “I’ll be looking for someone familiar with those terrains, someone capable of infiltrating Stanix.”

“I see…” Optimus replied, raising an optic ridge. “You’d have a hard time finding anyone here with that kind of knowledge, wouldn’t you?”

Magnus didn’t answer. Optimus wasn’t wrong—there wasn’t a single soldier under his command who came from a place like Stanix, or even ventured the area.

Before Magnus could speak again, Optimus gestured lightly, a quiet authority in the motion.

“Walk with me, please,” he said.

Magnus followed without hesitation, drawn to the alluring sound of Optimus’ vocalizer. There was no question—he’d gladly follow wherever Optimus led. Prime’s retainers trailed behind, keeping a respectful distance to allow them some privacy in their conversation.

“We’ll have to shelf this issue and deal with it another time,” Optimus said.

Magnus narrowed his optics. “You want me to just ignore it? What if they try again?”

“They won’t be trying again anytime soon,” Optimus replied, his attention shifting to the datapad as he began adding his own notes, stirring Magnus’ curiosity.

“I believe it was a warning,” His Prime continued. “The trajectory of the first shot I had dodged would have shattered my knee—crippling, but not fatal.”

“You speak as if you already know who we’re dealing with… and what the insignia on the shooter means,” Magnus pointed out sharply.

Optimus simply nodded. “I do.”

When his Prime offered no further explanation, Magnus vented a sigh, his voice low but firm. “Optimus, please. If you know something—anything—that could help with the investigation, you must tell me.”

Optimus’ gaze dropped, his expression shadowed. “So long as you don’t send anyone out there. They would likely lose their life needlessly,” he said quietly. “The insignia belongs to a faction opposed to the Primacy. They call themselves the Covenant.”

The Covenant. Magnus’ optic ridges furrowed deeply. He had heard the name before—perhaps only once in his lifetime.

“What do the records say about them?” he asked, knowing full well that Optimus carried the entire memory of the Hall of Records within his databanks.

“Their first mention dates all the way back to the first Prime—Prima,” Optimus said, his optics whirring softly as he sifted through the data stored in his neural banks. “They are…an elusive group. They vanish for cycles at a time, only to reappear suddenly—always with the same goal: to harm the current Matrix bearer or create conflicts of interest. Enough to ignite civil wars.”

He paused for a moment, his intakes pursed thinly. “…They’ve mostly been a thorn in the Primacy’s side for countless of eras. However, during the Quintesson War, they disappeared entirely. After all, Cybertron couldn’t afford to be divided—not with Quintus Prime leading the fight. I suppose even they understood that having a Prime around was better than surrendering to outsiders invading our home.”

“…But they never appeared when Sentinel stole the Matrix and ruled Cybertron,” Magnus observed, his optics narrowing slightly.

Optimus shrugged. “Either they knew he was a false Prime, or they helped put him there. How else would Sentinel have known to dismantle some of Quintus’ components and wear them so the Matrix wouldn’t reject his chassis?”

Magnus paled, his vents shuddering as he exhaled. “Do you believe some of them were in the Senate Council? Is that why you removed certain members?”

“No,” Optimus replied calmly. “I removed them because they committed crimes, not because of any suspected connections. Even then, I never found any evidence of the Covenant’s involvement—at least nothing concrete.”

He paused, his tone softening slightly. “Besides, it isn’t criminal to hold beliefs against the Primacy. Primus granted us free will, knowing full well that many would dismiss him as nothing more than a myth. Honestly, he doesn’t care much about that. I think he only created us because…he was feeling a little lonely.”

Magnus fell silent, turning over his Prime’s words as he stared at the melancholic smile on Optimus’ faceplates. It was as though he knew Primus personally, and that thought both terrified Magnus and left him in quiet wonder.

But the idea that they were created because their God was just lonely? Baffling.

And yet…

They soon reached the steps of the Primal Estate, where Optimus came to a stop.

“Do you mind spending a bit of time with me, Magnus? There’s something I want to show you,” Optimus said softly. “…Unless you’re busy?”

Was he busy? Magnus thought about it for a moment before shaking his helm.

“No, My Prime. You may have me,” he replied with certainty. The paperwork piling up from yester-cycle’s incident could wait a few more joors.

Optimus nodded before turning to his retainers. “Jazz. Codex. Why don’t you two get a head start on the Relicarium assignment? I’ll meet you there later.”

“Right away, My Prime!” Codex shouted enthusiastically, already turning on his pedes—nearly bolting to a run. Jazz, on the other hand, slumped his shoulders, resigned to his fate as he turned as well, following after the other archivist at a slower pace. He didn’t even bother voicing a complaint, just venting quietly through his intakes.

Magnus watched with mild surprise. The former assassin usually had a more spiteful response; his behavior was, at best, atrocious. And yet, ever since Optimus had taken him in, Jazz had become… docile. Tolerable, even.

They entered the estate and made their way to the balcony overlooking Iacon City, where the morning sun shone brightly across the skyline. From a distance, Red Alert and Hot Rod stood watch, their optics scanning the area while keeping a subtle eye on the two of them.

Optimus led Magnus to a table and two chairs. Magnus recognized it instantly—it was the same table where Optimus and his aides had once spent hours playing a so-called ‘card game.’ He recalled Red Alert submitting a report on his first day of duty while Optimus introduced the group to various games, mentioning offhandedly that he’d lost quite a few credits to something called Poker.

“I wanted to introduce you to a game we could play as a pastime,” Optimus said, smiling warmly as he took his seat and gestured for Magnus to sit across from him. “All you do is work, and I rarely see you take a break.”

“I don’t believe that’s true, My Prime,” Magnus countered, though he still took the seat as instructed.

“Oh really? Name one time,” Optimus challenged, holding up a servo.

Magnus opened his intakes, ready to respond, but his processors began sifting through memories, and a troubling realization hit him: he hadn’t taken any breaks. Wait—what about that time— No, he’d been on the comms trying to get a report from Ironhide. Then there was— No. That had been Prowl, and he was chasing another update.

…Scrap.

No answer came out. Optimus, clearly expecting as much, calmly raised his right forearm, where a panel slid open with a faint hiss. Tapping a few keys, a holographic board materialized on the table. It displayed checkered squares with forty statuette-like pieces—twenty white ones lined up neatly in front of Optimus, while twenty black ones sat in front of Magnus.

“This is called chess,” Optimus explained, gesturing to the board as he picked up a few holo-pieces, which adhered easily to his touch. “Let me lay out the rules for you, and we’ll do a practice run.”

At first, Magnus was reluctant. The game seemed overly complicated, with too many pieces and rules to keep track of. But once he grasped the mechanics and experienced the practice run, the game’s complexity and strategic appeal began to intrigue him.

By their third game, Magnus had managed to corner Optimus—victory imminent.

Optimus’ optics narrowed as he studied the board, his servos hovering briefly before he reached out and tipped his own king over in quiet surrender.

Magnus’ intakes stretched into a small, satisfied smile. “I think I’m starting to understand this game. It doesn’t seem all that difficult.”

“Careful, Magnus. No one likes a sore winner,” Optimus quipped, a faint edge of discontent in his tone. Magnus’ vents rumbled with a deep laugh, though he quickly masked it with a cough. How charming… his Prime hated losing.

Optimus smiled then, his expression softening. “One more round?”

Magnus glanced up at the sky. The sun hung high at noon now, a reminder that he should probably get back to work. But…

“One more shouldn’t hurt,” he said, relenting.

“Oh? This one might,” Optimus replied with a sly tone, tapping a few keys on the holo-board. The pieces reset to their starting positions, colors swapped once again. Magnus tried not to smile too much, though he couldn’t deny he found his Prime’s competitive streak… amusing.

His amusement quickly faded when Optimus ended the match in just three moves.

“Checkmate,” Optimus said, smiling a little too smug,. “...Want another round, Magnus?”

This time, it was Magnus who reset the board, carefully placing the pieces back into their starting positions. They played several more rounds after that, each match sharpening his skills as he absorbed the strategies Optimus demonstrated and began to adapt them into his own style.

At the end of each game, they would discuss their moves, analyzing the plays like old warriors honing their tactics. Optimus, being younger, often hesitated to sacrifice his pieces—a reluctance Magnus found oddly endearing, even shielding the pawns using the queen.

By now, even Red Alert and Hot Rod had started to pick up on the game. Their optics were sharp as they stood watch, quiet whispers passing between them as they observed. Occasionally, they would make a bit of noise when they spotted a clever strategy at play, unable to contain their excitement, and Optimus would hush them, a servo in front of his intakes.

It seemed Magnus had found his new favorite pastime.

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= = =

Megatron’s POV

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“Here, try this on for size!”

“It was built for a Mini-Con, but I believe it should be compatible with you too.”

It had been a few cycles now since the day the fluxstream returned to Iacon City—and Iacon City only. Soundwave had just returned this cycle’s morning with his report, but Megatron dismissed him to rest, insisting he was busy at the moment and would hear from him in eight joors. That should give Soundwave enough time to recharge.

As expected, Soundwave—his most loyal espionage—reported on time. They reconvened in Megatron’s office to discuss the latest developments: the fluxstream, the shooter, and Laserbeak’s newest upgrade.

Needless to say, every city on Cybertron had gone haywire since the fluxstream’s return. Megatron had even seen his own citizens from Vos, Tarn, and Kaon leaving to witness the phenomenon for themselves, flocking to Iacon and scrambling to purchase energon from the aqueduct treatment centers. However, the supply was being strictly limited, distributed equally within the city, and priced nearly the same as energon from the mines in today’s market.

For a moment, Megatron had feared that Prime might recklessly give away all the energon at once, as if it were an endless stream of charity—but that hadn’t happened. Optimus Prime was proving to be smarter than Megatron had given him credit for. The thought of terminating their bartering agreements and withholding the last few shipments he owed Prime had crossed his mind. However, with the energon market prices still within the expected range, there was no immediate threat of miners losing their work.

Still, to be cautious, he had assigned a few monitors to track the fluctuating energon rates. So far, the prices had remained steady over the past few cycles. The mines in Tarn and Kaon remained at optimal operation.

As for the shooter, Megatron recognized the emblem on the mech’s pauldron, but his neural processors struggled to pinpoint where he had seen it before.

Soundwave’s calm voice broke the silence. “My liege, this insignia was once on another mech’s chassis: Gravestorm.”

Megatron tilted his helm. “Now why does that name sound familiar?”

“Recalling: he was Megazarak’s second-in-command. You tore him in half.”

“Ah, now I remember,” Megatron said, his intakes pulling into a faint smirk as the memory resurfaced—of ending the spark of that cocky, loudmouthed cog-head. Gravestorm had indeed worn the insignia, though it had been deliberately crossed out on his chassis.

Shame he couldn’t interrogate the offlined.

With that dead-end, the only topic left to discuss was Laserbeak’s surprising little adventure.

“Explain,” Megatron demanded, his red optics glaring down at the bird-like con perched on the desk.

Laserbeak wilted under his gaze, letting out a hesitant caw. Soundwave, ever dutiful, bowed his head low.

“Apology: sincere. I have failed to discipline Laserbeak. Punishment must fall upon me.”

Megatron vented a disgruntled sigh, his tone sharp with irritation.

“Soundwave, I would simply like to know what possessed your minion to go and save Prime.”

Laserbeak chittered softly, and Soundwave ex-vented quietly, a hint of shame coloring his typically stoic demeanor. It was rare for Megatron to see his third-in-command in such a state—but then again, it was even rarer for Soundwave to fail a mission. Megatron could count such failures on one gauntlet.

“Laserbeak is… fond of Optimus Prime, my liege,” Soundwave answered carefully, his tone measured. “However, Laserbeak managed to uncover additional intel. Conclusion: Optimus Prime does not seem to view us as enemies.”

Megatron’s optic ridges furrowed, skepticism flashing in his optics. “Pray tell what you mean by that, Soundwave.”

Without hesitation, Soundwave inserted a jack into the console. After a few nano-clicks, a holo-display flickered to life, projecting the video feed from that cycle.

Megatron was…astonished.

“Optimus Prime! Let go of that thing--!”

“No.”

“You don’t understand, Optimus. That drone belongs to Soundwave—”

“--You’re not getting Laserbeak, Magnus.”

Megatron observed the exchange closely, his optics narrowing as the scene unfolded on the holo display. What baffled the Decepticon leader more than Optimus defending and protecting Laserbeak was Ultra Magnus’s refusal to take the drone by force. Instead, the old commander had opted to halt the argument, focusing on informing the public of Prime’s safety and well-being before resuming the dispute privately within the command room.

Throughout it all, Laserbeak continued recording the entire scene. In hindsight, it seemed Laserbeak’s failure to hide himself from Optimus Prime had turned into an unexpected boon. The Prime was a fool—did he truly believe they were ‘friends’?

Then again, Laserbeak’s apparent fondness for this Prime certainly didn’t help matters.

However, Prime’s unexplainable actions and his determination to shield a Decepticon spy—even if Laserbeak had saved his life—rattled Megatron’s beliefs and opinions of him. His neural processors struggled to make sense of Prime’s motives. Why take such actions? Did he not realize that Laserbeak would be recording the entire scenario? And if he did, then why? What was his purpose? Or did he simply not care?

Megatron had hoped that sending Soundwave to investigate this Optimus Prime would help him construct a clearer picture of the mech’s true nature. Instead, it had only left him with a thousand more questions, while the few answers he’d gathered still made no sense.

“Optimus! Why do you lack any sense of safety for yourself?”

“I am not Sentinel, or Zeta, Magnus.”

That’s certainly an understatement, Megatron mused silently, ex-venting his frustration. Then again, perhaps that was a good thing—for the Prime, at least. It meant he might live long enough to become Megatron’s prize once Cybertron was finally his.

Then, the next set of words caught Megatron’s attention as the video zoomed in slightly on the conversation between Ultra Magnus and Optimus Prime.

“I don’t have battle protocols or defensive systems in my programming.”

Megatron’s optic ridges rose. No battle protocols? No defensive systems?

“… I had assumed it was because you could counter him by using gravity against him, but… is it because you truly lack any self-preservation protocols…?”

“Stop,” Megatron commanded, his tone sharp. “Replay what Magnus just stated.”

Without hesitation, Soundwave rewound the video and played the clip again, pausing at the exact only once Magnus’s sentence ended.

Using gravity against him…? Megatron was certain Ultra Magnus had meant something by that, but the wording was too vague to discern the full implication. As for Prime’s apparent lack of self-preservation protocols, it certainly explained his peculiar behavior toward Laserbeak—treating the Decepticon spy as anything but an enemy. What Megatron hadn’t expected, however, was for it to backfire on them slightly. As Soundwave had pointed out, his minion was apparently fond of Optimus Prime.

Once again, despite the videos recorded and shared with him, a thousand more questions plagued Megatron, their answers growing increasingly convoluted.

At this rate, he was tempted to launch a full-scale assault on the Prime Citadel and end the charade—and the waiting game—once and for all. It was becoming clear to him that the contract they had forged at the outset was little more than a ploy for Prime to buy time, restoring the ancient energon refinery treatment centers to bring back the fluxstream. The offer of the alt-mode kits had undoubtedly made the contract difficult to refuse, and Optimus Prime had calculated that, in the end, Megatron would accept it under whatever affordable terms were presented.

Am I being played for a fool? Megatron began to wonder, his engine rumbling softly with suppressed rage, claws curling into a clenched fist.

The video continued playing, showing Optimus Prime entering the Cybertron Relicarium and stopping before a massive chrome statue of a femme’s face.

Optimus was speaking to Laserbeak, who was nestled in his arms at the time.

“You’re worried about learning this secret I’m about to reveal? That’s alright. I understand how close you are to Soundwave, and I know there’s probably nothing you could keep from him. So don’t worry. Tell him whatever you like. After all, it’d be impossible for anyone to pass through here without me.”

Just like the encrypted datafiles his Decepticons were still struggling to unravel, Megatron had no doubts that Prime’s last statement was the truth. It didn’t help that the so-called ‘Trine’ kept sneaking off to play with that ‘spaceship simulator’ whenever they thought Megatron wasn’t watching.

To Megatron’s surprise, a warp portal opened, and Optimus Prime stepped through with Laserbeak in tow. Even as the video continued to play, Megatron couldn’t determine where the two had gone; the Prime provided no explanation. Instead, Optimus brought Laserbeak to a desk, gently setting her down before searching through the room.

Eventually, he returned, holding up a small, flat square chip.

“Here, try this on for size……It’s a cloaking module!”

Megatron’s helm whipped toward Laserbeak, still perched on his desk. As if on cue, Laserbeak spread her wings, a visible purple charge coursing through her frame, and vanished in an instant. His optics widened in surprise as Soundwave’s minion completely disappeared from view. However, only a few nano-clicks later, the same purple charge flashed, and Laserbeak reappeared—this time perched on Soundwave’s right shoulder.

Soundwave paused the video and spoke. “Module explanation: cloaking duration lasts 120 nano-clicks. Cooldown additionally equals that. Cloaking effect may also be terminated at will.”

Optimus Prime had just granted their little Decepticon spy an upgrade—one that could easily be turned against the Primacy itself. Megatron’s neural processors struggled to comprehend it. Did the Prime truly believe they weren’t enemies?

It didn’t make sense.

It just didn’t make any sense.

Suddenly, a beeping noise emanated from the console, and Megatron vented his frustration in a low snarl—the kind that always built whenever Optimus Prime was involved. Still, he answered the call.

“What is it?” Megatron snapped, his tone sharp.

The caller—Jetfire on the comms—remained unfazed. “Lord Megatron, have you seen the news?”

Megatron’s optics narrowed into a glower. “What news? I’m currently in a private debriefing with Soundwave.”

Jetfire got straight to the point. “Prime is leaving Iacon City. Right now. He’s  all over media news.”

With that, Megatron immediately ended the call, and Soundwave was already pulling up the news coverage trending among the citizens of Iacon City.

“—This is Iacon News Network. My name is Elita-One, reporting live from Metro Station 42, where we’ve received word that Optimus Prime will be boarding the train to Circuitspire. Speculation states that Optimus Prime intends to meet with the Royal Iacon Fleet, which has remained stationed outside of Circuitspire since withdrawing from the conflict against Decepticon rule—Wait, here he comes now!”

The camera focused on the large retinue of soldiers escorting Optimus Prime, with Ultra Magnus at his side and the familiar faces of his retainers close behind.

Megatron watched, both intrigued and curious. Is this it, then? With their contract nearing its end, along with the fragile truce, was Prime preparing to strike against the cities under Decepticon control? He had always known it was only a matter of time.

No matter. Megatron would proceed with his plan to force Optimus Prime into surrender.

As he continued to watch, Megatron noticed the reporter’s relentless determination to reach the Prime.

“Optimus Prime! Optimus Prime! My name is Elita-One—can we have the truth? The people of Cybertron deserve to hear the truth from you!”

Her persistence seemed to pay off as Optimus stopped, leaning in to say a few words to Ultra Magnus. After a brief exchange, Ultra Magnus turned and pointed directly at the reporter.

“You! Reporter, Elita-One! Step forward!”

Megatron’s optic ridge arched in mild surprise. Was Prime finally going to address the media with something of substance, or would it just be another hollow “Primus bless you”? That phrase was growing tiresome.

Elita-One stepped forward, the soldiers parting to allow her through, along with her news camera operator. They approached Optimus Prime, stopping as close as they were permitted to get.

Holding out her microphone, she addressed him directly. “Optimus Prime, sir, you brought back the fluxstream to Iacon City. Are you planning to do the same for the rest of Cybertron?”

Optimus smiled so serenely that, for a moment, Megatron forgot to vent, prompting him to run a quick internal scan on himself and a quick reset on some functions. Quietly.

“Yes. We’re on our way to Circuitspire to reconvene with the rest of the army,” Optimus said. “My commander, Ultra Magnus here, had said it wouldn’t be safe for me to travel out this far without more protection. We’ll be making our way over to Jhiaxus afterwards to restore the energon aqueducts’ refineries there as well.”

“W-why aren’t you making the fluxstream flow all throughout Cybertron? Do you not have the power to do that, sir?” the reporter asked, her voice wavering but her question sharp.

Optimus’s optics whirred and blinked before he answered. “If I had done that, what would happen to the mining industries? My intention is to release the fluxstream one place at a time. Besides, the aqueduct refineries will need time to be restored to their original function. This should give most mining industries time to adjust to the changes.”

“Also, I’ve already handed the government plans to each remaining representative of the Senate council this morning, so they could further explain it to their people. You will hear from them soon. But for now, I must go.”

“Wait! Optimus Prime, sir, one more question,” Elita-One insisted, just as the soldiers moved to shoo her away. Prime, however, raised a servo to stop them, granting her permission to speak.

“What about Vos? Vos also has energon aqueducts, and it’s under Decepticon rule. Do you plan to restore it as well?”

Optimus Prime didn’t even hesitate.

“Of course.”

Megatron watched with his arms folded, though his claws clenched tightly, betraying the tension building within him.

“Do you plan to take back Vos from the Megatron of Tarn, sir?” she asked. This femme reporter certainly had a knack for asking all the right questions. Perhaps that was why Optimus chose to answer her seriously.

Prime tilted his helm at her, his tone calm but curious. “Take back Vos? Why?”

His response confounded Megatron. What did he mean by why?

The reporter, also frazzled, stammered on, “W-well, because… because aren’t they refusing to be part of the cog in the machine? Most of these Decepticons were from the lower castes, built to perform the work that upholds the foundation of all Cybertron! Does it not go against the Primacy?”

Absolutely. At least, that was what Megatron’s overseers had once relentlessly hammered into his neural networks: that he was forged solely to mine in the darkest, deepest caves, endlessly searching for energon to be collected, refined, and consumed by others. Because, apparently, that was what the Primes wanted—to fill the bellies of those in power while the rest of them suffered.

Once more, Optimus Prime never ceased to confound him as he posed a question to the reporter.

“Elita-One, can you tell me the difference between a politician and a miner?”

Megatron froze at the familiar phrasing.

The reporter reeled back slightly before answering, “Uh, their jobs, sir?”

“I see. Now, strip away the plating, the polish, the ranks, and the titles. Take us down to what truly matters—our sparks,” Optimus continued. “When you gaze into that glow, can you tell which one spent their cycles in the mines and which one sat in a council chamber?”

Those words… Megatron’s frame began to rattle, his vents whirring as the realization struck him.

Those words… were his.

“I-I… I wouldn’t be able to, sir.”

Optimus’s optics softened as he gestured outward with his servos. “A writer by the name of ‘D’ once said the functionalist system would have you believe it’s obvious—that the sparks of the lower caste are dimmer, smaller, less worthy. But that’s not the truth.”

“Any spark can shine the brightest, even in the darkest depths of Cybertron. The system teaches us to see difference where there is none, to accept what it tells us we are and what we can never be. But if the spark cannot tell the difference between one caste and another... then why should we?”

At this moment, Megatron couldn’t even compute the storm raging within him. Was it rage? Anger? Resentment? Sadness? Relief? It was all of them at once, colliding and tangling together in a way that made his core feel unsteady. It felt as though an ancient, festering wound deep within his chassis was being stitched together—slowly, painfully, and against his will. He didn’t want this. Not now. Not after everything. Not when he had already committed himself, made so many choices, crossed so many lines to get to this point.

Why was he hearing this now? After all this time, someone who finally agreed with his words? His words!!

It twisted something deep within him, like the grinding of gears long worn down. But just… wasn’t it far too late? Too late to matter. Too late to change anything. Too late to undo everything he had already become.

AND YET.

“RAAGHH!!”

Megatron slammed his fist into the console, shattering it as his clenched servos punched deep into the system. Sparks erupted, and the video feed cut out instantly. His vents heaved, struggling to cool the fury coursing through his systems, while his grinding dentae produced a harsh, grating noise.

Soundwave shot to his pedes immediately, standing alert, Laserbeak shifting nervously on his shoulder.

After a click or two, Megatron didn’t bother to turn toward him as he growled, “Leave.”

Soundwave didn’t need to be told twice. He bowed formally, once, before exiting the office with careful, measured strides. The doors slid shut behind him with a sharp shk!

Megatron pulled his fist free from the shattered console, fragments of metal and wiring clattering to the floor. Without a word, he turned and strode toward the windows overlooking the city of Vos.

It was just far little too late…

…And yet…

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= = =

A/N: Megatron is… WOW. I have no words for how I have written him right now. It’s giving me so much stress, lol. Channeling my inner early-Megatron is hard when I have future-Megatron already forged and ready for the conclusion of this story—which is CHAPTERS away mind you. @.@ This is a slow burn! Isekai slow burn!

By the way, it is not explained, but yes, ‘D’s writing and Megatron’s writing are separate in Cybertron—at least cybertronians don’t even think they’re the same mech. Just for your information. Otherwise I meant to unravel this web a little later. Tee-hee!

Also, Elita-One just has this… Louis Lane vibe to her. I swear to God. It works out just fine.

Btw, I feel like I need to explain about the Primal Estate, which is within the Prime Citadel. The Primal Estate is the main living quarters for Primes, and a few other important figures, like Alpha Trion. Zeta also lived there before he was a Prime. Optimus likes the place, EXCEPT for the main primal chambers. He avoids that room at all costs.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed eating up this chapter! Tis a little longer than my usual length, so don’t expect too much of it. I just got really excited to writing this bit.

Please leave a comment and subscribe!

I’ll reply to the comments of the previous chapter soon enough! Note: the reason I don’t reply is because I already started writing the next chapter, and the more I read the comments, especially with your guys’ insight, the more I kept writing. @.@ I'm a Comment ho here for sure.

Thank you!

Chapter Text

= = =

Op's POV

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"Optimus Prime! We welcome you to Circuitspire!"

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

A whole chorus erupted around me, their voices a chaotic mix of high and low pitches, interspersed with static bursts that gave away their excitement.

"Welcome to Circuitspire!" they cried in unison, their overlapping voices a delightful cacophony.

The moment I stepped off the train, I was greeted by the largest gathering of Mini-Cons I had ever seen.

Cute. So cute.

Primus, they’re just as adorable as the day I first saw them in the Armada series—at least, that’s how I came to know them back then. Apparently, the city of Circuitspire was almost entirely theirs. While there were still a few larger Transformers here and there—since the city was built to accommodate our size—the Mini-Cons made up the majority of the population.

“Thank you for this wonderful greeting,” I said, kneeling down to address the rallying leader of this tiny yet exuberant crowd.

The Mini-Cons all came in different shapes and sizes, but they stood only as tall as humans should—ranging from 146 cm to 212 cm.

I extended a servo to shake 'hands' with the rallying leader. The silver Mini-Con hesitated, kicking at the ground with his pedes before reaching out with both tiny servos to grasp mine, shaking it firmly.

“We are so happy you came! Even if it’s just a short visit!” he said eagerly. “My designation is Shepherd, My Prime!”

How adorable.

Meanwhile, I could feel Micronus Prime practically squealing from the Matrix, thrilled to see them. After all, they were his creations from so long ago.

Though now that I think about it, their existence has always been… complicated. Mini-Cons were made to be used by larger Transformers, and when I quickly checked the laws and historical records about them, I realized they’re treated like how humans would treat their pets—except with even stricter regulations.

If I’m being honest, the laws protecting Mini-Cons were better than how the lower caste was treated.

That said, Mini-Cons do carry their own sparks. They’re just like any other Transformer—except they’ll always have the youthful mind of a newspark. They also can’t reproduce, which makes them all technically neutrally gendered.

As for how there are so many of them? Rumor has it that Primus creates them every now and then.

And he does. From the sparks of criminals, giving them a fresh start. Luckily, they don’t remember their previous lives.

Clever, Primus.

Though that does mean… there’s probably a Sentinel Mini-Con out there.

Eugh.

I could feel burning resentment radiating from the Matrix—likely Quintus Prime. But what can we do? The Mini-Con wouldn’t have Sentinel’s memories, which meant the little bot would be innocent of all his crimes.

Go ahead, try holding it against a Mini-Con reborn from Sentinel’s spark just for existing. It would be a sight to see punishing him for just being born.

Thankfully, the resentment within the Matrix simmered down, settling into a sense of reluctant defeat.

“We saw the fluxstream on the live grid!” another bright green-and-white Mini-Con exclaimed as he grasped my servo, joining Shepherd, who was still holding on tightly. “Oh! I’m Dredge, by the way!”

“And I’m Rivet!” chimed in an all-cyan Mini-Con who daringly leapt onto my shoulder from a nearby railing.

A magenta-colored Mini-Con latched onto my right leg next. Her soft, fragile voice wavered as she introduced herself. “A-and I’m A-Aegis.”

More and more of them crowded around me, each eager to share their names as though their very existence depended on it.

It didn’t help that Micronus Prime was radiating a tremendous amount of excited energy within the Matrix. It was like watching Gollum suddenly possess a hundred Rings of Power he could call "my precious." I would’ve compared the situation to being surrounded by kittens and puppies, but the vibe Micronus was giving off felt far more concerning—and probably unhealthy.

The other Primes within the Matrix simply told me to ignore him.

I didn’t have time to question my sanity—or the growing concern of accepting ‘voices in my head’ as normal—because the Mini-Cons kept demanding my attention.

“Yes, yes, I’m very glad to get to know you all. Shepherd, Dredge, Rivet, Aegis,” I said, and they responded with glee when I mentioned their names.

Suddenly, Codex spoke, his voice filled with awe. “Optimus. You can understand what they’re saying?”

My optics whirred softly as I glanced up at him, then at the rest of my entourage. Their curious and astonished gazes made it clear—I was the only one who could understand our tiny-structured companions.

I hadn’t even noticed at first, but all this time, the Mini-Cons I’d been chatting with had only been speaking in beeps and clicks. Not all Mini-Cons communicated this way—some could speak—but none of those were here right now.

...Now that I think about it, the language barrier probably didn’t help with how Mini-Cons ended up being treated like pets.

An inquiry popped into my head, prompting me to ask my entourage.

“Hey, have any of you ever translinxed with a Mini-Con?”

Confusion painted their faceplates. Codex tilted his head and repeated my question, “Trans…linx?”

Even Magnus’ optic ridges furrowed at the term. If he hadn’t heard of it—and he’s the oldest among us—then it was clear this was something long forgotten.

“…Never mind,” I muttered, brushing it off as I turned my gaze back to the mini-cons beeping for my attention.

Running the inquiry through my ‘mind palace,’ I realized that translinxing had been lost to history. Even the module needed for it—‘powerlinx’—had faded into obscurity, forgotten in time. Thus, the mini-cons of today were being treated like the pals from Palword—with less killing, more like free workers on the lowest wage possible, since they didn’t consume a lot of energon as regular-sized transformers do, but still!

I’m going to have to change that in the future.

…And already I had a brilliant idea for it.

For now, we exited the metro station, slowly making our way to the designated meeting spot where the Second-in-Command, Ironhide, was waiting with half the army to greet Ultra Magnus and me—the new Prime.

After a while, Magnus spoke up carefully, “Optimus. Would you… like some assistance?”

“No, I’ve got this,” I said, though my voice betrayed a hint of strain.

Mini-Cons were clinging to every part of me—a bundle of them wrapped snugly in my arms, while others somehow latched onto my frame with their tiny servos. From my helm to my pedes, they held on for dear life. I counted at least six gripping each of my legs as I walked, and all the while, a flock of them followed close behind like lost ducklings that had imprinted on a random passerby.

This was… absolutely nerve-wracking.

What if I stepped on one?!

What if I squished one?!

“Primus, what is happening???” Hot Rod exclaimed, his incredulous cry cutting through the cacophony of beeps and clicks.

The Mini-Cons were cheering endlessly, chattering to and about me—mostly about how great I apparently am. Just… wow. These Mini-Cons really know how to hype someone up.

Jazz let out a low whistle. “Gotta say, Optimus, you don’t stop surprising us.”

“Are you trying to say this is my doing?” I asked, raising an optic brow.

“Well, you are enabling them, My Prime,” Jazz pointed out. And, well… he wasn’t wrong. I could’ve dropped them and told them to go away, but why the fuck would I do that?

This was bliss. It was like being smothered by kittens—kittens that were incessantly meowing. Except I could understand what they were saying.

“I’ve never seen the Mini-Cons act this way before,” Red Alert said, his voice filled with awe. “I mean, we had a few of them running around the station where I was posted before this. They’d get attached to one or two Transformers, sure, but… but not like this.”

As if to emphasize his point, one Mini-Con slid off my right calf, landing flat on its back with a soft thud. In mere nanoseconds, it sprang up, scrambling back into place as if that spot on my leg was its rightful place. Honestly, I was starting to feel like a wolf-spider mama. Or maybe a possum mama.

This was definitely something I’d have to ask Primus about if I ever saw him again in my dreams. Not that I was stalling my vents—he hadn’t shown up again since that last time.

Needless to say, the expressions on the faceplates of Ironhide, Prowl, and the rest of the army at the meeting were absolutely priceless. I couldn’t help myself—I screenshot the image with my optics, saving the candid photo to my personal memory banks for…future keepsakes.

Close to them stood another Transformer I didn’t recognize. He had the slim, elegant frame typical of the upper class of the caste system, though he was the same height as Prowl. His white and blue paint job was accented with yellow embellishments that caught the light.

“Optimus Prime!” he called out, hurrying toward me—only to be intercepted by both Red Alert and Hot Rod. They stepped in quickly, forcing him to stop at a safe distance.

The Transformer immediately backed off, raising his servos slightly as if to show he meant no harm. He didn’t seem like trouble—if anything, he looked…frantic.

“It’s alright, Red Alert. Hot Rod. Let him through,” I said, giving my permission. They stepped aside reluctantly, allowing the Transformer to approach.

This time, he was more cautious, stopping about a meter away. His optics darted to the Mini-Cons gathered around my pedes, and he was careful to avoid stepping on any of them.

“Shepherd!” he cried out, his voice filled with both relief and confusion as he spotted the silver-plated Mini-Con nestled in the bundle I was holding. “I’m glad you went to greet Optimus Prime with everyone, but—what is happening here??? Why are you making the Prime carry the lot of you?”

Oh. Is Shepherd his Mini-Con?

“Optimus Prime is warm,” Shepherd said, his tone practically melting with contentment. The rest of the Mini-Cons echoed him, their voices overlapping in a chorus.

…Warm?

Even the mech seemed baffled by their response, though he quickly shook his head and turned his attention back to me.

“I—I’m sorry about this. I’m not sure what or why this is happening,” he said, clearing his vocalizer as though to regain some composure. With a formal bow, he continued, “Greetings, My Prime. I’m Senator Auctor, and the Mayor of Circuitspire. Shepherd here is my Deputy.”

Shepherd—somehow wriggling free from the pile of his brethren in my arms—stood upright and offered a sharp salute.

Auctor bowed his head even lower, his voice trembling slightly. “P-Please forgive them! I swear they don’t mean you any harm! They’re, um—I think they just like you. A lot. Very much. Come on, all of you, leave him alone…!”

The Mini-Cons protested loudly, their tiny servos gripping tighter as if refusing to budge. I could feel them threatening to dent my plating, their claws akin to kittens digging into the soft skin of humans.

Meanwhile, I was caught in a bizarre mix of fear and pure bliss—half of me worried for my life, and the other half melting at the overwhelming cuteness of these tiny, puppy-like Transformers. My vents stalled as I tried to process it all.

Suddenly, the sharp, rapid blasts of multiple gunshots echoed through the area. The deafening barrage sent most of the Mini-Cons scattering in all directions, their tiny forms darting frantically to save themselves.

Shepherd, however, reacted differently. With an incredible leap, he launched himself toward Senator Auctor, who had hunched over with a shrill cry, startled and frightened by the noise. Shepherd landed firmly on his helm, clinging tightly and shielding him with his small frame. It was… fucking adorable.

I would have melted at the sight of it if I wasn’t so…boggled at what just happened.

“IRONHIDE!” Magnus bellowed, his dentas bared in sheer incredulity as he turned to face his second-in-command.

Ironhide, casually blowing at the barrels of his turret gun, let out a nonchalant shrug.

“What? They’re off Optimus Prime now, aren’t they?”

I’m going to throttle his jugular until he’s begging for mercy. I silently promised this as I found myself fully in sync with Micronus Prime’s seething rage.

And then the ground beneath us—solid metal—began to quake. The vibrations startled everyone around me.

Nope.

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

I took a slow, deliberate vent in and out. Gradually, the tremors subsided, leaving the ground still once more.

Magnus and Jazz shot me a fearful look, their optics wide with concern. Even Senator Auctor had scrambled a safe distance away from me. Ah, wait—he was there during the meeting, wasn’t he? Of course, he remembered. He knew I had powers.

Meanwhile, everyone else stood there, utterly baffled. Not even Hot Rod, Red Alert, or Codex knew about my other abilities. I mean, it’s not like I ever got into the habit of showing them off. As for the few who did know—those present at the meeting—they had been sworn to secrecy under the explicit threat of Primus himself. Just like Senator Auctor, I had thoroughly instilled the fear of Primus into them.

“Fascinating. Earthquakes are extremely rare in this area,” Prowl noted as he rushed over, ready to respond to the quaking. However, with the immediate threat gone, he relaxed and stood upright once more.

For now, only three Mini-Cons remained at my side: Dredge, Rivet, and Aegis. The trio stood in front of me, their tiny legs trembling but their fists clenched tight, glaring defiantly at Ironhide with their glowing optics.

“Y-You… meanie!!” Aegis cried out, her vocalizer crackling with static.

“Don’t hurt My Prime!” Dredge proclaimed, spreading his small arms wide in a protective stance.

“My Prime!” Rivet echoed, his voice determined.

Ironhide raised an optic ridge at them, unimpressed. “What? I can’t understand you, little cogs. You know you’re bothering Prime, right?”

I vented out a sigh. Reprimanding Ironhide over this would likely be a waste of effort.

“I’d prefer you refrain from such actions in the future, Lieutenant Commander Ironhide.”

Ironhide paused before he nodded his helm, acknowledging my order as I bent down to gently scoop up the three Mini-Cons. Rivet and Dredge eagerly climbed onto my shoulders, while Aegis remained nestled in my left servo. It was clear enough to me now—since these three stayed, they were essentially my Mini-Cons.

Not that I had much choice in the matter. Micronus Prime was practically vibrating the Matrix within my chestplates, begging me to adopt them. That’s how strongly he wanted them.

Magnus cleared his vocalizers loudly, the sharp sound immediately grabbing everyone’s attention. Meanwhile, Hot Rod was busy helping Senator Auctor back to his pedes, though Shepherd remained firmly latched onto the Senator’s helm like a shield.

“I apologize for the behavior of my second-in-command, My Prime,” Magnus said, addressing me formally in front of the gathered army. “As you already know, this is Lieutenant Commander Ironhide, in charge of the 44th Iacon Royal Fleet.” He then gestured toward the white mech with red horns on his helm. “And this is Major Prowl, our finest strategist for military tactics and special operations.”

At once, Ironhide, Prowl, and the rest of the army straightened their postures and saluted sharply.

“My Prime!” they hailed in unison.

Composing myself, I returned their greeting with a slow, measured nod.

“I believe we have much to discuss, don’t we?” I said, my optics settling on the two prominent mechs as I paused for a moment before adding, “…And some grievances about the alt-mode kits?”

Dissatisfaction flickered across the faceplates of both Ironhide and Prowl, their expressions stiff. Neither spoke, but their silence spoke volumes.

I took it as agreement. They weren’t happy about the contract I had drafted with Megatron of Tarn, obviously.

“Senator Auctor,” I called, turning my attention to the mech.

Auctor immediately stood up straight, almost as if preparing to salute despite not being a soldier. Shepherd, however, slid down from his helm to perch on his shoulder and executed a crisp salute on his behalf. Watching the little silver Mini-Con’s devotion, it was clear to me now—Auctor must be a good mech for Shepherd to show such unwavering loyalty.

To ease his obvious nervousness, I offered him a warm smile.

“Thank you. You’re doing a marvelous job here.”

His optics blinked rapidly, and his faceplates darkened to a deeper hue. Bowing his head frantically, he startled Shepherd, who clung tightly to his shoulder to avoid falling off from the abrupt movement.

“Thank you, My Prime! Primus be with you!” Auctor said, his voice filled with earnest gratitude.

With that, Senator Auctor was dismissed, and I was led to the encampment of the 44th Fleet stationed just outside the city of Circuitspire. Supplies and equipment were being loaded onto the airships at a pace faster than I’d anticipated, considering I’d only given the order yesterday morning.

Magnus, to his credit, hardly complained about my sudden decision. He was getting used to my spontaneous choices—a necessary adaptation, I suppose. For cycles now, I’d been running these plans over and over in my head, ensuring they would not only proceed smoothly but also remain flexible for any new variables.

And these Mini-Cons? They were welcome new variables.

For now, I followed Magnus into the main hold of the lead airship, where we were led to a private conference room. The largest seat in the room was reserved for me. If I hadn’t grown accustomed to the royal treatment in the Prime Citadel, I might have refused it. Instead, I took the seat with as much grace as I could muster.

Magnus sat to my right, Ironhide to my left, and Prowl next to Ironhide. Jazz and Codex joined Magnus’ side, while Hot Rod and Red Alert took up their positions behind me, standing guard.

“Alright. Where would you like to begin?” I asked, shifting my gaze to Ironhide and Prowl.

“The alt-mode kits. Why?” Prowl demanded sharply, cutting straight to the point. Ironhide leaned back in his chair, servo-arms crossed, his posture exuded skepticism. Magnus shot his second-in-command a disapproving look but said nothing to address the behavior.

“We were losing people on both sides,” I replied evenly. “I wanted to stop that by bartering for a truce. This allows both sides time to recuperate their losses.”

“But you’re also giving Megatron time to stabilize his hold on Vos, Tarn, and Kaon,” Prowl countered, his tone laced with frustration.

I raised an optic ridge. “Yes? I thought that was a given for the truce.”

Ironhide scoffed, his voice gruff. “You still haven’t told us the why. The real why.”

There was no point in hiding the truth from them, nor would it benefit me to exclude them from my plans. Magnus, of course, already knew some of my intentions—though not all.

“Megatron is not the enemy,” I said plainly.

My response only made them bristle in silent shock and anger.

“What do you mean he’s not the enemy?!” Ironhide burst out, his voice rising as he stood abruptly from his seat, his rage evident.

Magnus was on his pedes just as quickly, his servos slamming down onto the table with a sharp clang. “Sit back down, Lieutenant Commander! Remember who you’re speaking to!”

“I’m sorry, Commander, but we’ve been fighting on the frontlines since this civil war began!” Ironhide’s voice rose, his frustration clear. “We’ve lost many, many good mechs to those terrorists—”

“And so have they!” I countered, rising to my pedes. Though I couldn’t match Ironhide’s height—he had an inch or two on me—I met his glare head-on. “They are our people too! What did you expect would happen at the end of this war, Lieutenant Commander? That we would eliminate all of them just for standing up?”

Ironhide bared his dentas. “Standing up?! They murdered Sentinel Prime and perched his head on a pike outside the gates of Tarn—!”

“Sentinel is NOT a PRIME!” I roared, my voice reverberating through the room as the floor trembled and the table shook violently.

The Mini-Cons clutching to my plating tightened their grip, their small servos digging into me. The reminder of their presence grounded me as I vented out sharply, releasing the tension from my frame.

Slowly, the room stopped shaking.

Ironhide stood frozen, his optics darting around the room as if trying to make sense of the quakes. Prowl, on the other hand, was staring directly at me, his horrified optics wide as he grasped the reality of the power I wielded.

Prowl had always been, without a doubt, the most clever of all the Autobots.

“What is happening…?” I caught Hot Rod’s frightened whisper to Red Alert, his alarm mirroring Ironhide’s reaction to the quakes.

I ignored them, keeping my focus firmly on Ironhide.

“Lieutenant Commander,” I prompted, taking a step forward. “Listen here. Every mech and femme is the son or daughter of Primus. Each of you is as equally important to him as I am.”

I stepped even closer, my optics meeting his. “Both sides have suffered. We’re all hurting from losses. And I… I just want to bring everyone home now. This war has gone on far enough. It’s time for us to end it.”

Ironhide, momentarily caught off guard by the tremors, turned his attention back to me. His posture was rigid, his frame trembling with barely-contained rage as his vents worked overtime to calm him. He bit down on his intakes, pursing them as though the words slowly sunk in.

For a while, he said nothing, his optics distant. Then, with a heavy vent, his expression softened into one of exhaustion.

“…You are the Prime,” he relented. “You’re supposed to be the true leader of Cybertron, chosen by Primus. I—” He hesitated, his voice faltering. “I’m not sure I have a lot of faith in that… but I’ve seen the news. The fluxstream returning to Iacon City… and a clip of what you did for the people saved from the Institute.”

He paused, drawing in another deep vent. “I… I guess I gotta start somewhere.”

Ironhide’s optics narrowed at me. “But you shouldn’t trust Megatron. He is a monster, sir.”

“…I will be the judge of that,” I replied simply, though deep inside, unease gnawed at me.

I had always been able to see the crimes reflected in every mech’s optics—every transgression, every burden. No mech was without sin, unless they were newsparks, their innocence untainted by the first mega-cycles of their lives. Ironhide had his own. His crimes weren’t malicious, but they still weighed on him, much like Jazz, whose guilt stemmed from events that left scars deeper than the actions themselves. Or, inaction, as Magnus’ newest guilt was not seeing Sentinel for who he was.

I feared what I might see in Megatron’s optics—the atrocities he had committed and the lines he had crossed to rise to where he was now. Ruling three Cybertronian cities and commanding a military faction powerful enough to rival the royal forces of Iacon didn’t come without a price paid.

After a few clicks, I sat back down, gesturing for Ironhide to do the same. He complied, though his posture still held some reservations over my decisions. That was fine—I didn’t expect complete agreement.

From there, we shifted focus to the next step: making our way to Jhiaxus. Currently, Perceptor and Wheeljack were still at the energon refinery treatment centers, busy ensuring the responsibilities of running it were handed off to the right people. Once finished, they would take the train to join us in Jhiaxus.

My role, however, was straightforward: get to Jhiaxus, meet with the Senator, and greet the people there. Probably also inspect the aqueducts to ensure they weren’t as decrepit as rumors suggested.

At least… that was the plan.

After the meeting concluded, I took a moment to rest in my assigned quarters before leaving the lead airship to explore Circuitspire a bit more. By sundown, my usual entourage and I returned to the encampment, which had now been fully cleared.

As if on cue, Rivet, Aegis, and Dredge hopped off me and bolted into a sprint.

My entourage stopped in their tracks, dumbfounded.

“Wait. Where are they going?” Red Alert asked, quite puzzled.

“They cannot leave their homes, so they have decided to stay here,” I answered simply, not breaking stride as I continued toward the ship.

“Aww, I wanted them to stay,” Codex pouted. “This is my first time learning Mini-Cons could be that cute. Why don’t we have them working at the Hall of Records?”

…Why didn’t we? I wondered, silently cursing at Micronus Prime within the Matrix. His presence wilted in shame at the oversight. The rest of the Primes within the Matrix balked at our shared reaction, their collective exasperation exuded like a silent groan. Clearly, they were fed up with all the mini-con hype—of which I ignored.

Honestly. Ya’ll are missing out, I thought, my human slang slipping through as I chastised the Matrix.

By the next morning, the entire 44th Fleet took to the skies, leaving Circuitspire behind as we set our course for Jhiaxus.

.

.

.

= = =

Prowl’s POV

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.

.

Prowl was absolutely certain of one thing: Optimus Prime had the ability to control metal. Ferrokinesis.

The moment Optimus left the ship to further explore Circuitspire, Prowl seized the opportunity. He intercepted Ultra Magnus, requesting a private conversation. Magnus, ever composed, granted it without hesitation.

“Prime. He’s ferrokinetic,” Prowl stated bluntly.

Magnus’ optic ridges furrowed. “Ferrokinetic?”

“Optimus Prime can bend metal with his neural networks alone. Can’t he?” Prowl’s tone shifted, rephrasing his statement into a probing question.

Magnus froze for a moment, his frame stiffening as he stepped closer. “Lower your voice, Major,” he vented harshly. “What makes you say that?”

“The shaking,” Prowl replied evenly. “It happened too often today.”

“It only happened twice,” Magnus countered, his optics narrowing.

“Both times,” Prowl pressed, “were during displays of anger from Optimus Prime.”

The old commander vented a heavier sigh. “Indeed…” he agreed, though he didn’t seem to have anticipated that such emotions could trigger the Prime’s abilities. “You must not say a word of this to anyone, Major. Not even to Lieutenant Commander Ironhide. If he figures it out, fine—but it must not come from you.”

Prowl gave a sharp nod but persisted, his questions cutting through the tension. “How powerful is he, Commander? What are the limits of his abilities?”

Magnus hesitated, the pause stretching into a few nano-clicks before he finally answered. “The day Orion Pax became Optimus Prime, Zeta ordered the guards to restrain him. None of them could even get close. With a single gesture, Optimus forced everyone standing to kneel—myself included. It felt like the weight of ten mechs was crushing down on my shoulders. My knees dented the floor as it cracked beneath me.”

Magnus’ optics darkened as he added, “He even broke Zeta’s voicebox… just by looking at him.”

Prowl’s vocalizer clicked softly, as if clearing itself. “…I’ve reviewed records of ferrokinetic users before, but… they could only ever levitate objects they could physically carry in their servos. And even then, they are exceedingly rare. None of the records ever mentioned anything approaching the scale of what Prime can do—at least, not at this magnitude.”

The Major paused, his neural networks running calculations and scenarios before he spoke again. “…He could easily defeat Megatron if he wanted to. Couldn’t he?”

Magnus vented, his tone heavy with resignation. “…He could, but that is never likely to happen,” he said, almost forlorn.

“And why not?” Prowl pressed.

At first glance—well… Prowl’s first meeting with Optimus Prime was only a few joors ago. The red-and-blue Prime had been covered in Mini-Cons from helm to pedes, clinging to him with something resembling desperate devotion, making beeping noises of varied pitches. Prowl’s processors struggled to compute the scene; the Mini-Cons’ actions struck him as profoundly strange. He had never seen—or even heard of—anything like it before.

Optimus Prime hadn’t seemed all that terrifying at first. That changed during the private meeting in the conference room. In that moment, the mech embodied a regality befitting the highest of the upper-class status. The effect only magnified when he raged about Sentinel, dismissing the deceased mech as a false Prime. The room had trembled in sync with his anger, the quakes making it abundantly clear that Optimus was nothing like the previous Primes.

Needless to say, Prowl had quickly concluded that Optimus Prime could likely dispose of Megatron with ease—crushing his helm with a mere gesture, if he so chose. Right?

And yet, there was Zeta. Also accused of being a false Prime, Zeta hadn’t been executed but instead imprisoned, still awaiting an official trial. For reasons unknown, Optimus Prime continued to delay it.

“Come,” Magnus said abruptly, interrupting Prowl’s train of thought. “There’s something I must show you.”

Curious, Prowl followed Magnus to his office, where he was introduced to a game called chess. Apparently, Optimus Prime had invented it. The rules were straightforward and easy enough to grasp as Prowl familiarized himself with the roles and movements of each piece.

But once the game began, Prowl found himself thoroughly engrossed. The sheer range of strategic possibilities captivated him, and his neural processors buzzed with potential maneuvers. In the first match, Magnus defeated him soundly, though Prowl was still getting a feel for the game. By the second match, he managed a hard-earned victory. By the third, the challenge felt notably easier.

By the fourth game, Magnus vented a short chuckle as he tipped his holographic king over, signaling his defeat.

“Fun, isn’t it?”

Prowl’s optics whirred softly as he registered just how much time had passed and how deeply he had fixated on this simple yet intricate game. “Yes… Optimus Prime invented this?”

“Indeed he did,” Magnus confirmed with a nod. “He won a few rounds, but I think I bested him more often.” His optics glimmered faintly with amusement as he added, “Do you know why?”

Prowl couldn’t answer. If Optimus Prime had invented this game, shouldn’t he be a master of it?

A smile—warm and unfamiliar on the usually stoic Commander—spread across Magnus’ faceplates.

“Optimus hates sacrificing his pieces, even the little pawns,” Ultra Magnus said, his tone filled with quiet fondness. “In fact, he often uses the more powerful pieces—rook, knight, bishop, and queen—just to protect the pawns.”

…Oh.

Prowl was beginning to understand. While most would consider such a mindset weak, for Optimus Prime, it didn’t come across that way. It felt… different. It felt like he just…cared too much.

Prowl’s thoughts then shifted to the Prime’s earlier speech to Ironhide, where he declared that every mech was equally important to Primus.

“I…I just want to bring everyone home now.” Those words echoed in Prowl’s processor, louder and more resonant than before.

By the next morning, the fleet was en route to Jhiaxus. Six airships soared together, five flying in a protective delta formation around the lead vessel. As Prowl made his way toward the starboard, he spotted one of the Prime’s principal aides—Codex, if he remembered correctly—carrying three energon cubes.

“Oh, good morning!” Codex greeted him, stopping briefly to bow his head.

Prowl nodded in return. “Good morning.” His optics shifted to the energon cubes. “Are those for Optimus Prime?”

Codex’s face lit up with a cheery smile. “Yes! One’s for Optimus, one’s for me, and one’s for Jazz.”

“Is it alright if I accompany you?” Prowl asked. “I have some questions I need to discuss with Optimus Prime.”

At this, Codex’s expression faltered into a grimace. “Ohh, uh… sorry. Could you come back another time? Red Alert’s guarding the entrance, and I just told him not to let anyone through—Prime’s orders. He’s really, really busy. Something about reviewing the schematics of the energon aqueducts with the Primes of the Matrix. It’s a very complicated process.”

Prowl frowned at the aide’s explanation but nodded, though his thoughts lingered on Codex’s words. Unlocking the fluxstream must have been far more complex than he’d initially assumed. And the Primes of the Matrix?

He had read in historical records that the memories of past Primes were imprinted within the Matrix, but he’d never imagined it could be real.

“I see… very well. Tonight then?” Prowl pressed.

Codex’s smile tightened, just a little too forced. He nodded his head with an odd, almost frantic energy. “Mm-hmm! Tonight!”

Without waiting for further conversation, the small aide hurried off, his brisk stride quickly breaking into a near-jog. Something about Codex’s behavior left a nagging unease in Prowl’s processors, but he chose not to pursue it.

And he would soon regret that decision.

By noon, alarms blared throughout the ship as it came under heavy fire from an aerial assault.

“DECEPTICONS!”

“BATTLE FORMATION!”

“PROTECT OPTIMUS PRIME!!”

The airship’s hull shuddered as it was breached, and the Iacon royal forces engaged the incoming terrorists with unrelenting determination. Prowl cursed under his breath. This situation was well within the predictable parameters of his processors, yet he still should have anticipated it sooner. He knew Megatron of Tarn couldn’t be trusted. The truce was nothing but a ploy, a temporary charade to lull them into complacency. Now, the Decepticons were attacking, just as he had feared.

“Go, Prowl!!” Ironhide’s voice roared over the chaos. “Get to Magnus and Prime! Just got word—Overlord is here!”

Overlord. The name alone struck terror into every mech who heard it. Prowl’s spark seized momentarily. He knew of Overlord—another gladiator, a behemoth who rivaled Megatron himself. Stories of his monstrous feats were legion: a machine that gorged on the energon fuel lines of his enemies with unquenchable ferocity. That Megatron had not only defeated but managed to control such a monstrosity was a testament to just how dangerous the Decepticon leader truly was.

“On my way.” Prowl broke into a run, his systems working overtime as he tried to use the comms to reach Magnus. No response. Frag! Had Overlord already gotten to them?

His pedes pounded against the floor as he sprinted toward the private quarters. Oddly, there were no signs of battle in this area, but the sound of frantic yelling reached his audio receptors, growing louder with every step.

“Codex, what the frag—!?” Hot Rod’s voice rang out, sharp and incredulous.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Codex’s panicked cries followed. “Optimus used a portal gun to warp himself and Jazz out of here before we took off!”

Prowl’s optics widened in disbelief as his pace slowed to a halt just outside the open doorway to Prime’s quarters. Inside, the retinue was gathered in the center of the room, surrounding Codex, who was visibly trembling at their scrutiny.

“What…” Magnus hissed, his voice low and sharp as he gripped Codex’s shoulders firmly, leaning in. “What are you saying…?! Are you telling me he was never on board when we left?!”

Codex’s optics brimmed with fluids as his vents hitched. He pursed his intakes tightly, trying to hold back a sob, but ultimately nodded frantically.

“I’m sorry! I was following his orders!”

Prowl stood frozen, his processors struggling to compute the gravity of the situation. Should he feel relieved that Prime wasn’t aboard during a Decepticon raid—or utterly mortified that their leader was somewhere out there in unimaginable danger? The variables were too many, the outcomes too dire for his tactician skills to keep up.

The King piece of the chessboard was missing.

“Where?” Magnus demanded, his vocalizer tight, almost static with urgency as he gave the aide a firm shake. “Where did they go…?! …Codex!”

Codex hung his head low, his frame trembling under Magnus’ grip. The volume of his voicebox was small, barely above a whisper, but audible enough to hear.

“Optimus Prime and Jazz… they’re heading to Vos.”

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= = =

A/N: Heeeeeeeeeeeeyyy… =D cliffhanger!!

I’m not gonna say anything right now to the situation, but I sure as hell surprised you all didn’t you?? From the mini-cons to the disappearing act! Bwuahahaha!

Also, I am better, sorta? I’m just so physically tired from work now. I work for amazon and since the beginning of thanksgiving week, I’ve been working 12 hours for five days a week! How FUN! @.@ Basically stuck playing Santa’s elf, wrapping gifts in satchels, but at least I’m getting paid—I guess. This is like the end of the 4^th week, and I’m sooo burned out. I still have Christmas shopping to do and more presents to wrap! AAAAAH!

Nevertheless, I will get another update before Christmas. Hopefully. We’ll see.

Happy Holidays to you all! In case I don’t make it before the 25^th

Please leave a comment and subscribe! Remember that I am a comment Ho! Ho! Ho! …*facepalm* I’m sorry.

“Primus, what is happening???” -- by Hot Rod

Chapter Text

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Overlord's POV

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Overlord's existence began in chains. When he first came online, he was little more than a laborer—a demolisher, tearing down crumbling structures to make room for the new. Destruction was ingrained in his very being, a purpose etched into his circuits. Yet, it felt hollow. The act of obliteration lacked fulfillment, an emptiness he couldn't quite name. Breaking things simply wasn’t enough anymore.

That changed the day he crushed the sparks of his overseers. In their demise, he found his true calling: the arena. Fighting as a gladiator for the Decepticons, Overlord rose to prominence, shedding his old identity to claim the name he now bore with pride. In Kaon’s pit, he lived like a king.

But even kings can fall.

He never anticipated losing a match to a mech half his size.

Megatron of Tarn.

If anything, it gnawed relentlessly at Overlord’s pride. How could someone so weak, so puny, best him in battle? A mere miner—an energon digger destined to be crushed beneath tons of rock and rubble, just like all the others doomed to their predetermined fate.

And yet, this so-called miner had managed to slay a Prime.

Overlord had to admit—there was something about Megatron. Something undeniable that made him a force of nature, a harbinger of war and the promise of glorious battles to come. It was that promise that compelled Overlord to align with him in the first place, to help topple Megazarak. Overlord struck down his Decepticon leaders, ensuring Megatron’s rise to power, now having complete control of its faction and using it for his own agenda: obliterating the Senate and the Primacy.

From that moment on, the civil war erupted in full force, and Overlord claimed victory after victory, his strength unrivaled on the battlefield. Yet, despite his triumphs, it was Megatron’s name they chanted—not his.

It grated on him.

If anything, Overlord was better suited for war than Megatron. His body count was proof enough.

But that was fine. For now, Zeta Prime and his royal forces were the bigger thorns in his back strut. However, they made for excellent stress relief. And there was still some payback he needed to deliver to a certain mech—what was his name again?

Ah, right. Prowl.

Overlord could hardly wait for the next battle. He longed to find that irritating mech, the one who had dared to plant mini-bombs beneath his plating when he managed to slip away. He wanted to feel Prowl's helm collapse in his vice grip, to watch his optics flicker and fade.

But then, without warning, the Royal Forces of Iacon pulled back, striking a bartering contract with Megatron that included a temporary truce.

All because of the ‘new leader’ of Cybertron.

Optimus Prime.

Overlord stormed into the Decepticon command chamber, his loyal warriors flanking him. His footsteps thundered like cannon fire as he made his entrance.

“What’s the big idea, huh?!” he roared, clenching his servos into fists. “Giving away OUR energon to the ENEMY? We’re barely scraping by as it is!”

But Megatron, ever composed, merely smirked at him—calm, infuriatingly so.

“Overlord,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery, “if you had any self-control, you’d have enough energon rations to last at least two days. But no—you guzzle it down like some carrier with a brood of sparklings to feed.”

Overlord’s frame bristled with barely contained rage. How dare Megatron speak to him like that? Did he forget that without Overlord’s prowess in battle, his victories would be nonexistent?

Grinding his dentas, Overlord forced himself to simmer down, though his optics burned with defiance. He squared his shoulders and growled, “I just want to know what your next big plan is when the deal is over! When this so-called truce comes to an end!”

Fight. Fight. Destroy everything in my way.

His neural processors throbbed with thoughts, pulsing like a relentless storm, each one feeding a craving that could never be satisfied. He needed to feel the pliant, fragile frames of his enemies in his servos again, to crush them until their sparks flickered and died.

Destruction was his purpose, his calling. He was forged to destroy—and destroy he would.

But Megatron dismissed him.

Over eight deca-cycles had passed, and still, the war had not resumed. The entire Decepticon regime was preoccupied, scrambling to keep the cities from collapsing under the strain of the new order, and desperately trying to meet the energon quotas they were still handing over to the enemy. What was the point of this trade, anyway? Why keep fulfilling it when they already had the alt-mode kits—the very ones that Optimus Prime had foolishly handed over first?

But no. For some infuriating reason, Megatron insisted on completing the contract.

Frag them all. Frag Megatron. Frag Optimus Prime.

This was his fault—Optimus Prime’s fault. The fighting had stopped, and with it, Overlord’s chance to claim the glory he so rightfully deserved!

Then came the news: the fluxstream had returned to Iacon City. An endless stream of energon, and yet the Prime was hoarding it all. The grid’s newsfeeds buzzed with talk of Optimus Prime, speculating that his actions stemmed from fear of the Decepticons.

And now, the Prime was heading to Jhiaxus.

That’s when Overlord had a brilliant idea. He could deliver the Prime to Megatron personally, seize the glory he rightfully deserved, and ensure the fluxstream flowed in Vos as well. Megatron would have no choice but to acknowledge his triumph and reward him for delivering a Prime.

Besides, Overlord had seen the grid—seen Optimus Prime’s faceplates with that faint smile that hid many secrets while still exuding arrogance and power he didn’t rightfully earned. So, a wicked thought surged through his neural networks. Perhaps he’d take the time to break that arrogant Prime, make him squeal, before handing him over to Megatron with a broken valve.

And that’s where Overlord found himself now—soaring over the skies with his valiant troops, diving straight into the fray as the Royal Iacon airships zoomed past. They targeted the lead ship at the heart of the delta formation, tearing through its hull with ruthless precision.

Inside, chaos erupted. Blaster shots greeted them immediately, the shrill blare of alarms accompanied by flashing red lights. Overlord’s thick plating shrugged off even the strongest shots, leaving him unscathed. While his troops ducked behind cargo for cover, Overlord charged straight into the enemy’s firing line, tearing through them with raw, unstoppable force.

Finally. He could fight again. He could crush their mechanical forms and watch the light fade from their flickering optics.

Suddenly, rapid bursts of fire struck his plating, denting the thick armor and forcing him to drop one of the soldiers in his grip. The mech scrambled away, transforming to a ground vehicle, speeding away.

Overlord snarled, his optics narrowing at the source of the shots. His dentas bared, furious.

“OVERLORD!!” A deep, commanding voice rang out. The red and dark-gray plating of the shooter marked him clearly as a foe he battled before.

A smirk tugged at Overlord’s faceplate as he soon recognized him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, his smirk widening into a grin. “If it isn’t Ironhide.” He took a step forward, his tone dripping with mockery. “That must mean I’m on the right ship. Now, tell me—where’s your precious Prime?”

Ironhide leveled his turret guns, the barrels humming with barely contained energy as he aimed them squarely at Overlord.

“You’re not getting anywhere near him!” Ironhide growled, grinding his dentas. “I knew you Decepticons would betray us—betray OUR Prime after he put his trust in that piece of scrap you call a leader!”

Ah. That foolish mech was talking about the contract for the alt-mode kits, wasn’t he?

Overlord’s intakes just smirked. “Ah, so Optimus Prime is here.”

“The TRUCE is OVER!” Ironhide bellowed. Without hesitation, he roared and unleashed a rapid barrage of shots.

Overlord didn’t flinch. In one swift motion, he transformed into his jet mode, engines roaring as he launched straight at the attacking commander. Bullets scraped his paint and left shallow dents in his armor, but he powered through, slamming into Ironhide with unrelenting force.

The impact sent them both hurtling down the corridor, where they crashed violently into a wall, the metallic clang reverberating through the ship.

Overlord transformed back into his towering robot mode, immediately driving his fists into Ironhide’s faceplate—one devastating blow after another. The sound of metal cracking filled the air as Ironhide writhed beneath him, struggling desperately, clawing at Overlord to break free. But it was futile. Overlord was far stronger, and he relished every second of Ironhide's helplessness.

This. This was what Overlord had been missing for the past several deca-cycles. The fight. The thrill of overpowering his enemies, feeling them struggle for their sparks, only for him to extinguish them in the end.

Destroy. Destroy. Destroy—

SMASH!

A blinding flash of blue lightning accompanied the impact as a servo-clenched fist slammed into Overlord’s faceplate, snapping his head back. His optics flickered, momentarily disoriented as they whirred to reset. When his vision cleared, he was met with the imposing form of a silver mech clad in overall-blue armor and red-paneled plating, blue electricity crackling around his fists and heavy gauntlets.

Ultra Magnus.

Before Overlord could fully register the attack, a second, electrified blow struck him with explosive force, sending him hurtling several meters down the corridor, crashing into the ground with a metallic thud.

“Ironhide!”

“I-I’m fine, Magnus! Ugh!” Ironhide groaned, struggling to rise.

The Ultra Magnus.

How Overlord had longed to face Ultra Magnus in battle. But the mech was always stationed at the rear of his precious soldiers, infuriatingly out of reach. Only Megatron had ever fought Magnus directly, and that duel had nearly killed them both. They had been moments from tearing each other apart when an explosion interrupted the fight, forcing them to evacuate with their troops before the collapsing structure consumed them.

But if Overlord had been the one fighting Magnus that day? He wouldn’t have left the job unfinished.

“Magnus, he’s here for Prime,” Ironhide managed, his vocalizer strained and sparking as energon dripped from the fracture along his nasal ridge. Despite the damage, he forced himself back onto his pedes.

Ultra Magnus’ expression darkened, his demeanor turning icy. His servos clenched tightly, blue electricity crackling across his gauntlets with renewed intensity.

“What does Megatron want with our Prime?” the blue-and-red commander demanded, his voicebox cold like tempered steel.

Megatron. Always that fraggin’ Megatron.

“You think this is his brilliant plan? Ha! No. No, no,” Overlord scoffed, shaking his head as the cannon blasters on his back primed with a menacing hum. He wasn’t about to let Megatron take all the credit. Not this time.

“I’m the one taking the initiative here,” he sneered. “Maybe even sully your glorious Prime a little, make him my leftovers before I present him to—”

Overlord’s words were cut short as Ultra Magnus launched at him, thrusters on his shoulders roaring to life. The commander closed the gap in an instant, delivering another electrified blow. Overlord managed to block the strike, but the impact left a visible dent in his gauntlets.

Frag. What was it with all these puny mechs getting the best of him? He was Overlord—the King of Kaon’s Pits!

Ultra Magnus lunged forward again, his fists crackling with electricity as it slammed into Overlord’s side, forcing the larger mech to stumble back. Overlord retaliated with a wide arc of his own, his massive fist swinging toward Magnus’ helm. The blow connected, sending a sharp clang echoing through the corridor, but Magnus didn’t falter. Instead, he pivoted, driving his knee into Overlord’s midsection before following up with a spinning uppercut that sent sparks flying from Overlord’s chin.

Overlord roared, his optics blazing. He surged forward with a burst of jet-powered speed, tackling Magnus and driving him into the wall with a resounding crash. But Magnus brought up his thruster-powered elbow, slamming it into Overlord’s jaw and forcing him to release his grip.

Before Overlord could recover, a shot rang out. He turned just in time to see Ironhide charging in, turret guns blazing. The heavy rounds dented Overlord’s chest plating, staggering him further. Overlord snarled, pivoting to swipe at Ironhide, but the red mech ducked under the strike and delivered a solid punch to Overlord’s already dented gauntlet. Ultra Magnus didn’t miss the opening, following up with another electrified blow to Overlord’s shoulder, forcing the massive Decepticon back another step.

“Two against one?” Overlord spat, his vents  working over time as he braced himself. “You think that’ll stop me?!”

With a furious roar, he swung his massive arm, the sheer force of the blow knocking Magnus back several steps. Ironhide lunged in, turret guns firing point-blank, but Overlord moved faster than his bulk suggested. He slammed his shoulder into Ironhide, sending the smaller mech crashing into the wall with a dent-rattling clang.

“Enough!” Overlord bellowed, his cannon blasters priming with a deafening hum. Blue energy surged from the barrels mounted on his back, firing in rapid succession. The explosions forced Magnus and Ironhide into retreating, diving behind scattered debris as Overlord advanced.

Magnus tried to counter, launching himself with his shoulder thrusters for another electrified strike. But Overlord anticipated the move. He swatted the commander out of the air like a toy, sending him sprawling down to the floor. Without hesitation, Overlord turned his cannons on Ironhide, who barely managed to roll aside as the blasts tore into the corridor, leaving smoking craters in the walls.

Then he reached down, grabbing Magnus by the helm and lifting him effortlessly. With a savage swing, he hurled the blue commander into Ironhide, the two colliding in a tangle of limbs and sparks, metal plating denting.

“PATHETIC!!” Overlord roared, his weapons primed and glowing with lethal energy. “No one can best me! I am the Overlord! I’m—!”

Suddenly, everything stopped.

His words caught in his vocalizer, his servos frozen mid-charge. His optics refused to blink, his systems unresponsive. It was as if time itself had locked him in place. But to his mounting fury, the same wasn’t true for his enemies.

Magnus and Ironhide staggered to their pedes, battered but upright. They exchanged incredulous glances, clearly as confused as Overlord. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t their doing either.

“Okay, keep him there, Codex!” a voice shouted from somewhere behind him. Overlord’s auditory sensors caught the sound of rapid movement, and then a blur of red streaked past him, heading toward the hull where the sounds of battle still raged.

Moments later, two more figures rushed by without so much as a glance at him—Prowl and another mech, this one with a red visor. They bypassed Overlord entirely, heading straight for Magnus and Ironhide. He was being ignored. Like he was nothing.

What… was happening? Overlord raged silently, helpless in this immobilized form, unable to move.

“Commander Ultra Magnus! Ironhide! Are you both alright?” Prowl called as he approached.

“We’ll live,” Magnus replied with a groan, straightening his posture despite the damage, a sight that only deepened Overlord’s mounting fury.

“Yeah... Ha, it was nothing,” Ironhide vented heavily, then muttered low to his commander, “Pits, though—you’re heavy, Ultra Magnus, sir.”

The blue mech didn’t even bother responding to that.

The mech with the red visor stepped closer, running a quick scan over both of them before letting out a relieved sigh. “Nothing critical. Remarkably, you’ve both only sustained superficial wounds.”

Overlord seethed silently. Move. MOVE. FRAG IT!! His systems screamed in protest, his rage roaring through every locked circuit, but he remained helpless, his towering frame completely frozen.

At this point, all four of them cautiously approached him, keeping a deliberate distance from his immobilized form. Overlord seethed internally, his optics blazing with frustration as Ultra Magnus stopped to stare at him with curiosity and caution.

“What… happened to him?” Magnus asked warily as his gaze swept over Overlord’s frozen frame.

A new voice, unfamiliar to Overlord, spoke from behind. He couldn’t even turn his helm to see the speaker, but based on the fragile, almost hesitant voice, it had to be the mech called Codex.

“H-he’s in a stasis lock,” the voice explained shakily. “Optimus gifted me this… device to protect myself, just in case. Ever since the assassination attempt, Optimus was worried Jazz and I might get hurt—especially me, since I’m not a fighter mech, so…”

“…Slaaaag…!” Ironhide uttered, his vents finally steadying as he crossed his servo-arms, the turrets powering down. “Use it sooner next time, kid.”

Overlord raged silently. Stasis lock?!

Suddenly, the red streak from earlier zipped back into the corridor, halting beside the group with a slight skid mark on the floor. The blur resolved into a red-and-yellow mech, who straightened and raised a quick salute.

“All Decepticons have been apprehended and cuffed, Ultra Magnus, Sir!” he announced proudly, his tone brimming with confidence. “They were just way too slow to react to me.”

Ironhide gawked at the mech. “Hot Rod, wha—?! Ugh, never mind. Where’s Optimus Prime?”

Hot Rod cringed, his expression tightening as he leaned closer to whisper, “He’s not here—”

“Be quiet!” Ultra Magnus quickly interrupted, raising a servo to silence him. “Do not say anything. And certainly not in front of him. I do believe he can still hear us.”

“He can!” Codex confirmed with a nervous nod.

Hot Rod winced. “Ahh frag, sorry, sir.”

What…? Overlord’s neural networks reeled. If his optics could move, they would be whirring frantically as his processors churned. Optimus Prime… wasn’t even on the airship.

Then… where the FRAG was he…?!

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= = =

Op’s POV

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I kept the program running for the three Mini-Cons as they used their servos to slice through holographic energon cubes of varying sizes. The cubes floated down from a few feet above them, descending slowly as they swiped and cut through the glowing images. The program I designed was a lot like Fruit Ninja, and it was doing its job—keeping Dredge, Rivet, and Aegis entertained.

They’d been at it for over two joors now.

“Optimus, the games you come up with never cease to amaze me,” Jazz said, his optics flickering as he watched the Mini-Cons continue chopping through the holographic cubes. “Ever thought about marketing them?”

“Maybe,” I replied, though the idea hadn’t really crossed my mind. My only plan was to upload them on the grid for anyone who wanted to test their servos on it.

The reason was simple—I already had more credits than I could ever need. After Zeta Prime was arrested, along with the other Senate officials involved in the murder of Quintus Prime and the Institute’s shadowplay, all their assets were seized and dissolved under my authority. Naturally, I distributed most of the funds to places that desperately needed the currency, but even after that, there was still so much left over. It just went to show how much they had stolen over thousands of mega-cycles.

In the end, I wasn’t interested in making more money anyway.

What I was really interested in was setting up a digital platform on the grid—a place where mechs could buy and play games, discuss them, join forums, and organize cooperative playdates. Something like Steam from Valve Corp. I’d start by uploading my own games, but the goal would be to inspire other mechs to create and share their own as well.

The problem was, I couldn’t do that right now. There were still so many things demanding my attention before I could even think about creating something like that.

Which was why we were on our way to Vos.

Since returning the Fluxstream to Iacon City—and brushing off the latest assassination attempt on my life—I’d been busy planning my next move. When I finally joined Jazz and Codex in the Cybertronian Relicarium, I led them to the Forge of Solus. There, we sifted through the ancient yet fully functional gadgets and devices cluttered all over the workshop, cataloging and arranging them to what made sense. I kept the useful ones and securely hid the most dangerous—like the transwarp key.

I buried that thing deep in the metal ground. Solus Prime, speaking from the Matrix, claimed I was overreacting, insisting it shouldn’t function the way the movie had shown it. But I wasn’t about to take any chances.

So, it’s gonna stay buried. Forever.

Otherwise, I managed to pick up a few useful items. I gave Codex a stasis gun and handed Jazz a pair of energy knife gauntlets. I also found some color-changing modules, which would be invaluable for sneaking around and disguising our identities.

Honestly, I doubted anyone would easily recognize me in the streets anyway. They probably only remembered me as a red-and-blue mech, but right now, I was sporting a purple and black frame with a dark-silver protoform. Jazz, on the other hand, looked completely different too—his colors were fully inverted.

“Remember, you’re Meister, and I’m Convoy,” I said to Jazz.

He gave me a deadpan look. “You really need to work on names, Op—I mean… Convoy.” He winced, as if just saying the name physically pained him.

“You don’t even look like a warship!” he added.

I ignored the comment, turning my attention to the window as the train finally approached the border of Vos.

Jazz groaned. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this. You know Ultra Magnus is going to kill me for even letting you go through with it, right?”

“He’s not going to kill you,” I assured him, then added with a smirk, “Now, if looks could kill…”

“I’d drop dead,” Jazz finished with a dramatic sigh. His optics shifted to the Mini-Cons, who were now tapping the floating energon cubes with their servos, making them bounce back up like a game. He tilted his helm, intrigued. “…Still, I didn’t know Mini-Cons could do that—the ‘portal gun’ thing, I mean.”

To escape the airship, I had to tweak my plans slightly to include the Mini-Cons. At the time, it seemed like a better idea than trying to sneak out in the middle of the night. Fortunately, I’d brought along a chip of warp technology.

After that meeting with Prowl and Ironhide, I quickly got to work on a makeshift portal gun with the help of Solus Prime and Micronus Prime. The concept of a “portal gun” fascinated them so much that they ignored the protests from the other Primes about assisting in my escape.

Honestly, the Matrix was developing more of a personality with every passing cycle, but I wasn’t complaining.

Once the schematic was complete, I uploaded it directly to my Mini-Cons. A powerlinx wasn’t necessary for this to work—they simply shifted together into the portal gun themselves. I aimed and fired it at a wall away from the doors, watching as the swirling blue portal materialized. I was confident it would go unnoticed. After all, no one would dare step into my assigned quarters without my permission.

Later that night, I informed both Jazz and Codex of my plan. Unsurprisingly, they were against it, but I was determined to go through with it anyway. I felt a little bad for Codex, who looked like he was about to cry when I handed him the responsibility of breaking the news to Magnus once it was discovered I was gone. I also entrusted him with my written will—just in case. Not that I expected it to be necessary. This was purely a precaution.

Besides, if something did happen to me, Hot Rod was there. He’s destined to become Rodimus Prime—though the Matrix didn’t seem to agree with me on that. I had to remind it, as usual, that this wasn’t really its decision. It’s Primus’s call.

The next morning, the Mini-Cons waited for the right moment to open the second portal. As soon as it activated, Jazz and I stepped through, and I sealed it behind us. No turning back now.

As soon as we stepped off the platform, we were immediately stopped at the checkpoint.

“I don’t think we’ve ever seen you two around here,” the Decepticon remarked, his optics narrowing as he scrutinized us. The designation KD-6 was stamped boldly on his shoulder. My Mini-Cons, thankfully, were currently disguised as inconspicuous attachments to my frame—cosmetic pieces that blended seamlessly into my armor.

“I’m Convoy, and this is Meister,” I introduced confidently, flashing a wide smile. “We came all the way from Iacon to join the Decepticons!”

“Convoy…” Jazz—sorry, ‘Meister’—hissed quietly from behind me, his tone dripping with exasperation.

But KD-6 let out a hearty laugh. “Is that so? Well, let me show you where you need to go,” he said, all suspicions fading as he pulled up a holo-map and gestured to the location of the recruitment center.

“Thank you! Come on, Meister, let’s go!” I said cheerfully, grabbing his servo arm and dragging him along as the checkpoint cleared us into the city of Vos.

Jazz leaned in close, his voice low and full of concern. “Convoy, sir, I really, really don’t want to get branded.”

“We’re not getting branded,” I assured him. “We’re just… exploring. Besides, not everyone here in Vos has a Decepticon logo—only those who’ve officially joined the military. I doubt those guards will even remember us.”

Jazz sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Well, I hope you’re right.”

As we ventured deeper into the city, we came across a gathering in the streets. A mech stood at the center, standing on a makeshift platform, addressing a small crowd. He didn’t bear a Decepticon logo.

“I wonder what’s going on over there,” Jazz said, tilting his helm curiously.

I nodded, gesturing with my own. “Let’s go check it out.”

As we moved closer, the mid-size grounder’s voice grew clearer, his words sharp with frustration.

“—We’ve followed their rules! We’ve worked hard, contributed to the city’s revival, and yet… we’re still treated as outsiders. Don’t we deserve the same energon rations? The same respect? I thought Vos was supposed to be free now—free from the caste system, free from the Senate’s oppression, free to choose our own paths! As Megatron himself said!”

I furrowed my optic ridges. The same energon rations? Are the civilians who haven’t chosen a side receiving less energon than the Decepticons?

The irate speaker pressed on, his tone rising with every word. “But what do we have instead? A system where the Decepticons lord over us! Where those without the ‘brand’ are treated as lesser. We’re being drowned out by their boasts of victory and power. Is this the equality we were promised?”

The murmurs of agreement from the crowd grew louder, a wave of discontent rippling through the gathered mechs.

Still, something about this didn’t add up.

I’d read the reports, combed through the recorded logs of the bartering conversation between Megatron and Prowl. The trade agreement for energon in exchange for alt-mode kits was set at a reasonable price—in fact, a steal for Megatron. He wouldn’t have agreed to such terms if energon was scarce. The logs even showed him shouting that our demands were outrageous before the terms were negotiated down to his preference.

If Megatron had the resources, why are these mechs saying otherwise? Something just wasn’t right.

“HEY! You again!?”

The sudden shout jolted me, and I immediately turned to see where it came from—along with most of the crowd. A red mech with a black helm stormed toward the mid-size grounder, grabbing him roughly by the servo-arm and yanking him off his makeshift podium.

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Oh, it’s Misfire!”

Misfire? The name didn’t sound familiar at all. I suppose there were plenty of Decepticons I either forgot about or who died too early in the story to make a proper introduction.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve talking like that!” the soldier—‘Misfire’—snarled, his vocalizer shrill and grating, almost like G1 Starscream. “You think you’re better than us? That you deserve the same rations we fought for? Huh?!”

The grounder stumbled but quickly straightened, narrowing his optics at Misfire.

“We all deserve the same rations!” he shot back. “Are you really fighting for Cybertron, like Megatron intended it to be? Or just for yourselves?!”

The lead soldier snarled, drawing his weapon and aiming it directly at the grounder.

“Enough of this! If you’re not with us, then you’re against us!” he shouted. “A traitor!”

The crowd recoiled, panic rippling through them, but no one made a move to stop Misfire—not even the other Decepticons lingering on the sidelines.

“Op—Convoy…!” ‘Meister’ hissed tensely.

I didn’t need to be told twice. With a subtle gesture of my servos, I manipulated the firearm’s trajectory, forcing it to aim high into the sky.

And Misfire—well, true to his name—completely misfired.

Jazz vented a quiet sigh of relief, grasping my shoulder with his servos, silently thanking Primus. Meanwhile, every optic was fixated on Misfire questionably. Did he miss on purpose??

Misfire’s faceplates flushed a darker hue, his gun arm trembling as he held it up for a moment longer before finally lowering it. He stared at the weapon with a confused expression, clearly thrown off. For a brief moment, silence hung in the air—until snickers and muffled snorts began to ripple through the crowd.

Then, a piercing, mocking laugh cut through the noise.

“BAHAHAHA! What a loser!” a scrappy voice jeered boldly.

Curious, I stood on the tips of my pedes to see who had dared to mock him. The crowd was beginning to disperse, parting just enough for me to spot two Mini-Cons waltzing casually toward Misfire.

The mid-size grounder, who had been preaching moments ago, glanced at the small bots and wisely decided to scoot away, removing himself from the unfolding drama—that he started, mind you!!!

The second Mini-Con, his voice just as scrappy but with a deeper tone, laughed along.

“Right? Misfire, I can’t believe you still miss at point-blank range!” he mocked. “You might as well sell us your optics if you’re not using them for aiming!”

“Grrraaahh! You infuriating little tools!” Misfire roared, marching straight toward the Mini-Cons. Before they could dart away, his servos shot out and snatched them up, his grip tight. The Mini-Cons yelped and squirmed, their earlier confidence vanishing as they struggled to free themselves.

At that point, I wasn’t thinking anymore. I half-blamed Micronus Prime for what I did next. Ignoring Jazz’s voice calling out my real name, I rushed forward without hesitation, just stopping a meter away from Misfire.

“Let them go!” I cried out, my servos clenching tightly.

The Mini-Cons stopped squirming, both of them giving me strange looks that made me feel like I was missing something crucial. Their expressions were almost… puzzled, as if I wasn’t seeing the whole picture. My optics locked onto Misfire’s, and suddenly, rapid flashes of his misdeeds burned through my mind like fragmented memories.

I stood there, frozen and dumbfounded, long enough that I completely missed whatever Misfire was snarling at me. Before I could react, he strolled right up, dropped one of the Mini-Cons to the ground, and backhanded me across the faceplate.

The strike sent a sharp jolt through my systems, and the taste of energon flooded my mouth where he’d busted my intakes.

Okay… Transformers can feel pain. I don’t know why I thought we couldn’t, but the stinging sensation was unmistakable. It wasn’t quite the same as organic pain—it felt more like little bursts of lightning shooting through from my intakes to my neural networks, registering sharply as discomfort.

“—Great! Another weak-minded bot trying to join the Decepticons,” Misfire sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. “Do yourself a favor, socket-seeker, and go home—AHHH!”

Before I knew it, the situation spiraled completely out of control. Aegis, of all bots, revealed herself and launched straight at Misfire’s faceplates, her little drill stabbing into his optics. Misfire howled in pain, flailing as he tried to claw her away, but she was too quick. Before he could grab her, Aegis leapt off his face, landing on the servo that was holding the other Mini-Con hostage.

With accuracy and ferocity that I never thought she possessed, she drove her drill into the circuit wires on his wrist, forcing his grip to slacken. The scrappy Mini-Con slipped free, landing on its pedes as it too was gawking at her.

Okay. Primus! Is this really Aegis?! Shy, bashful Aegis?!

Aegis dropped down, landing in a super-hero pose as she turned toward the still-screeching Decepticon, her tiny frame trembling with righteous fury.

“D-d-d-don’t hurt m-m-m-my Convoy!!” she beeped in a high-pitched tone, and I was both mortified and impressed.

Before I could process it, Meister appeared, his energy knives extending from his gauntlets as he deftly sliced through the weapons Misfire was carrying. Guns and blasters clattered to the ground in a heap. With a quick motion, Meister knocked the Decepticon down with a kick and then retracted the knives while he scooped up one of the two scrappy Mini-Cons.

“Convoy, let’s go!!” he shouted.

His voice snapped me into action. I picked up Aegis and the other Mini-Con, and we bolted. The Decepticons, who had been idling on the sidelines until now, finally decided to act. Shouts rang out as a seeker and two grounders broke from the group and started chasing after us.

While running, I glanced back at the Seeker chasing us, focusing on his frame. Willing it to move against his control, I forced him to veer sharply into the side of a building with a deafening crash. We rounded a corner and kept sprinting, but I turned again to face the remaining pursuers. My servos extended instinctively, and the mech on the right suddenly flailed, tackling his companion against his will and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Meister paused, likely to check if we were clear, but quickly tugged me along as we pressed forward, now with no one left on our tail.

Eventually, we ducked into a deserted alley. Our vents heaved, and the whir of cooling fans echoed as our overheated frames worked to recover. Meanwhile, the Mini-Cons—including Dredge and Rivet—gathered on the ground between Jazz and me. At first, I thought they were chatting, but… no. They were fighting. Over Aegis. Aegis seemed like she was stuck in the middle.

“Seriously, Convoy… Haa… what were you thinking?” Jazz panted, his voice strained exasperation, ignoring the little fight that was happening on the ground.

“I… Haa… I wasn’t thinking…” I admitted shamefully, avoiding his optics.

“Yeah, you sure weren’t!” one of the scrappy Mini-Cons snapped, drawing his attention away from Aegis. “You ruined our plan!!”

I blinked, taken aback. “Your plan?”

“Yeah!” the other one shouted. “We were supposed to get captured by that slagger! And then make him take us to—uhh, somewhere!”

. . . Whaaat?

Jazz narrowed his optic ridges at the two chattering Mini-Cons. “Who are you little cogs, anyway?”

“I’m Rumble!!” / “And I’m Frenzy!!”

Oh. The all-blue one with the higher-pitched voicebox was Frenzy, while the darker-hued one with the deeper tone was Rumble. At this point, I should’ve recognized their names immediately, but after living on Cybertron for so many deca-cycles, names like theirs tended to blur together. They weren’t exactly the same, but they sounded similar enough to countless others that it didn’t click in my head… not right away, anyway.

Instead, I simply smiled and waved. “Hi! My name’s Convoy. And this here is Meister.”

Jazz gave a casual wave, his expression half-bored and half-unimpressed.

“Them knives you’ve got were amazing!” Frenzy exclaimed, turning to Jazz with a gleam in his optics. “Say, are you guys planning to join the Decepticons?”

“Hold up!” Rumble interrupted before we could answer, pointing an accusatory digit at Jazz. “Hey, didn’t you just call your buddy there ‘Optimus’??”

If Jazz’s faceplates could pale, they would’ve. Instead, his entire frame went rigid, and I realized it was up to me to save his sorry aft from that earlier slip-up.

“Ha! Optimus???” I barked out a laugh, waving off the accusation. “As if! No, you must’ve misheard. He called me Optronix,” I said, cringing internally at the name. It hurt to even say it—it was just so… wrong. The most misplaced name ever slapped on Optimus Prime. “That used to be my name. I go by Convoy now.”

Rumble stared at me, his optics narrowing before he threw an unimpressed look my way. “…Meh. Sounds even worse.”

This cheeky little—

“Convoy!” ‘Meister’ suddenly called out, closing the distance between us. He cupped my chin, tilting my helm to examine the cut along my intakes. His grimace deepened as he leaned in and whispered, “My Prime, why isn’t it healing right away? Can’t you… you know… do that to yourself?”

I shot him a sharp glare. Really? He was bringing this up now, of all times, while we were trying to keep our identities hidden?

“I can’t heal myself, Meister,” I replied tersely. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

Jazz’s optics widened to their limit. “What…?!”

“Shh!” I hissed, cutting him off before the scrappy mini-cons would pick up what we were talking about.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected things to escalate this much when we got off the train in Vos. Already, we’d stumbled onto what felt like a conspiracy: a shortage of energon rations. Something didn’t sit right. I knew, without a doubt, that Megatron wouldn’t starve those under his rule—not even those who weren’t part of his regime or didn’t bear the Decepticon brand.

“Say, Rumble, Frenzy,” I began cautiously. “You mentioned earlier that you were hoping that mech—Misfire, wasn’t it?—would take you somewhere. Where exactly would that be?” I pressed, both curious and skeptical of their so-called plan.

Before the Mini-Cons could respond, the sharp click of a primed blaster cut through the air.

Jazz reacted instantly, stepping in front of us with his energy knives drawn. Down the corridor, a stranger stood with guns aimed directly at us. The mech’s frame was nearly all white, with red streaks accenting a darker silver protoform. His helm bore two arching horns, similar to Prowl’s but wider and more imposing.

“So this is where you two went,” the mech growled, his optics narrowing on Rumble and Frenzy before shifting to me and Jazz. “Let them go.”

I tilted my helm, my optics narrowing slightly as I studied him. There was something about him… something awfully familiar.

.

.

.

= = =

A/N: HEY! :D Merry Christmas Guys! Here’s another cliffhanger for you!

So Overlord, he is a piece of work, but I needed to write him like that for his villain arc. X3 sometimes you gotta know what the villains are thinking about. Notice: I might be changing the rating of this fic to mature audience in the future.

So yes, almost immediately as they got off the train, Optimus and Jazz had stumbled into something off—like some DnD adventure, right off the bat! But hey, they’ve met Rumble and Frenzy!

By the way, if you guys don’t know, in the Japanese Dub Version of Transformers cartoon series, Optimus was called Convoy and Jazz was Meister.

Also, guess who the mech is at the ending! Ya’ll know him since everyone pairs him up with a certain medic bot. *wink, wink*

Anyway, I’ll see you all soon after the Holidays~~~ or maybe before New Years. We’ll see.