Chapter Text
This new universe was different. That much was glaringly obvious. It wasn’t even a fact that needed to be stated. The navigation technology had absolutely no information of the star systems here. The way the planets orbited each other, while familiar and of course, logical, was something never seen before, not by their optics. The flora and fauna of these worlds were so new, so untouched. Nothing had hurt them yet. Their leaves freely swayed in the wind for eons. Their beasts had evolved and given their offspring their best chance at life, over and over again. On some planets, life persisted. On others, storms and dust dominated. Sunsets and sunrises were different everywhere, the skies taking on a wonderful watercolor blend. It was beautiful. All of it was beautiful.
Despite the grand differences here, the actual characteristics of this universe weren’t what stood out the most to Minimus Ambus. He found the environment of the Lost Light to be different as well. Some things were always consistent, such as Whirl continuing to steal his desk tidy and other office supplies, and Minimus walking along the same patrol of the ship every cycle. He still had to enforce the rules, even without the influence of a higher government. He stepped into his armor on occasion to break up a scuffle, or to more easily chase after a criminal offender.
Though he was out of his element in the more personal relations, Minimus definitely saw a change in the attitude of the crew. Conversations lightened. A certain tension that was ever-persistent before seemed to be slowly evaporating now. Minimus didn’t exactly know the difference between drinking to escape and drinking just for the sake of enjoying engex, but he was able to note that the attitude of Swerve’s bar had changed. It was rare to see someone drinking all alone. Even Whirl had taken to hanging around Cyclonus and Tailgate, and Swerve on a few occasions, though it tended to disrupt his bartending abilities. Perhaps that was the whole point, but it didn’t seem vindictive. Mischievous and full of mirth, yes, but it was not really mean-spirited at the core. Minimus still wouldn’t trust the mech for a minute, nor were there many mecha he would fully trust for that amount of time, but it was still a testament to what this new universe did to the crew.
Megatron and Minimus still had their weekly, off-duty poetry meetings still, a consistency that Minimus was very, very grateful for during this time of change. Something new grew between them though… Minimus couldn’t put his digit on it. He wasn’t particularly skilled with relationships outside of a professional setting, but it seemed that a lanquidity of sorts settled within their interactions, much like the rest of the Lost Light’s crew. A weight was taken off their shoulders and replaced with other new and little things. One such development felt real enough to be tangible. Perhaps ‘tangible’ was the wrong word for it. Minimus couldn’t touch it, he couldn’t run his digits along it, and it couldn’t touch him back. It wasn’t something physical, like Megatron gently resting a large servo on his shoulder or like the slight shiver that met him at the feeling.
Regardless of the word choice or any of the thoughts that bubbled up while thinking about it, the new development still existed. Megatron had started sending him poetry. Occasionally, Megatron did send Minimus works of mecha and people, as something he wanted the other mech to read in preparation for their weekly meetings. That was expected. This was a deviation from that though. This instance was unique, and utterly fascinating, because it was not only works by others that Megatron sent — Megatron had started giving him lines of his poems. They were fleeting sometimes, drafts of little moments turned into something meaningful. Megatron could turn a description of even a desk into something emotional and stark, Minimus didn’t know how he could do it. Private comm messages with poetry had started popping up, and only during his off-duty cycles. Minimus could not be certain, not without asking, but it seemed to show clear attention to Minimus. His work ethics and strict scheduling... Minimus wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Over a short amount of time, Minimus felt his spark flutter when Megatron sent him these little lines of poetry. His spark would cycle faster for a moment, sometimes to the point where he could press a servo to his chest and feel it swirling and dancing away underneath his layers of armor. This planted a very small seed of worry in the minibot’s processor. Was there something wrong with his internal comm systems? His spark? An old injury playing up…? Hm. He never noticed it happening with comm messages from any other crew members, which was very peculiar. Could someone have messed with his comm systems as some sort of sick prank? Maybe as a jab towards his pleasant interactions with the tankformer? He loved the crew as a family, but he still had his reservations about some of them.
As if it sensed his worry, Minimus’s comm pinged. The number on the top was Megatron’s, and that odd sensation presented itself once again. Putting his helm in his servos, Minimus sighed. If this persisted, it would warrant a visit to Ratchet.
Very soon — too soon, in fact — Minimus was treated to another Megatron related sensation. It wasn’t even something new . It had happened a few times before, but he never quite took it into consideration. He didn’t know how he could have forgotten about it — Dear Primus, what could be wrong with Minimus to make him forget about details of an event? He didn’t even recall the feeling until he and Megatron were alone. Until they were alone and Minimus had started paying attention to his frame’s oddness.
It came to him when Megatron was simply asking a question. They had been working independently, in each other’s company — Both of them sitting in chairs in front of Minimus’ desk. The chair at the head of the desk was empty. They were equals, not superior and inferior officers anymore, at least for this moment. Minimus had been rather intent on writing a report, and he didn’t notice Megatron lean towards him until the larger mech spoke.
Megatron simply uttered his name to get his attention and Minimus felt a shiver make its way up his spinal strut. When he looked up at Megatron’s face he even felt his faceplates heating up. The flushing Minimus could understand. Partially. When embarrassed, mecha had the capability to get a bit pink in the face, of course. This wasn’t exactly a regular occurrence for Minimus, but it was the only thing he could think of, getting embarrassed because he didn't notice Megatron at first. That in conjunction with the shiver was truly an odd event though. The only emotional response that a shiver could be to would be fear… yes? Yes. But Minimus didn’t feel afraid in front of Megatron. It might have been strange, but he felt comfortable in his presence. Happy, even. Minimus might have taken longer than necessary to respond to Megatron after that thought, but life went on as it usually did. It wasn’t something Minimus hadn’t realized before. He knew that Megatron just being there was a calming presence for Minimus. It was that the word ‘happy’ was a new descriptor for this. It wasn’t something Minimus had experienced often and so labeling things as such was no easy task for him. But with Megatron? It almost came naturally. Three things he had forgotten to note, oh Primus. He flushed, at times. He shivered, at times. Megatron made him happy…
Somewhere between the end of their short exchange about an inconsistency in the ship’s resource reports and Megatron’s departure on that day, the large bot had somehow moved his chair closer to Minimus. Their servos had brushed against each other and stayed in contact for longer than was professional. Minimus felt his spark in his throat, whirring and swirling so fast he almost felt nauseous. He had no explanation for why his servos shook the slightest bit for minutes after Megatron left, nor as to why a lightning-fast shiver jumped over his frame as Megatron’s pinky digit nudged against his.
He needed to see Ratchet.
Frustratingly enough, the visit to Ratchet did not yield anything . The medic just stared at him over steepled digits and sighed as Minimus explained his symptoms. Ratchet wasn’t one to show grand amounts of emotion when someone came to the medbay — he’d been a war medic for four million years, it was impossible to push him to the brink — but currently he didn’t even seem concerned at all. He looked just about as fed up as when Rodimus came in with an injury from racing in the halls for the umpteenth time. The orange and white mech rested a firm servo on Minimus shoulder.
“Magnus. Ambus . You know I respect you, but this slag is ridiculous ,” the medic sighed, “You’ve got to talk to Megatron. You do know that, right?”
Minimus titled his helm at the other bot, his brow furrowed.
“I… speak to him on a daily basis, Ratchet, but I don’t see what this has to do with what I am feeling.”
A groan came from the medic. Perhaps Drift was rubbing off on him, but this made him want to send up a sweet little prayer to whoever was listening.
“You’re hopeless… I hate to be the one to tell you this but if you don’t resolve—” Ratchet vaguely waved a servo in the air, frowning throughout the whole gesture. “— whatever’s going on between you and Megatron, you’re going to put a lot of mecha on this ship on their wits’ end.”
…
Coincidentally , it seemed Minimus was the first mech at their wits’ end. At least, he was the first one he knew of. It wasn’t like he could take a survey on this, asking all the two-hundred-and-on mecha on the vessel if they could properly identify just what was going on at how fed up with it they were. It wasn’t like he could do much of anything about it! He felt powerless! Minimus sat at his desk, datapad in hand. If he clutched it any harder, he would start to hear the metal creak and would break the glass. His other servo was balled up in his lap and his optics stared aimlessly across the page.
Minimus barely even knew what was going on between him and Megatron. At least, he did not know what was so significant about it. He knew they were friends. Of course he did. It still felt odd and novel to use that word for Megatron, but he knew it. He held Megatron close, as a very good friend. He cared deeply for him, and in turn, Megatron cared for him. Minimus could not figure out, for the life of him, what had changed and why his frame had suddenly started flustering him at the sight, comm, and touch of Megatron. Had anything even changed?
The minibot scoffed at that line of thought. Yes. So much has changed. They were in a damned new universe! They had thrown away old issues in exchange for new ones. They were running out of fuel, for Primus’ sake! A horribly new issue, indeed! Minimus even felt the way he sat at his own desk had become different. It became a home for him, more than it ever had before. His routine even received some new elements, like it was a sheet of plain cloth, finally having subtle edges of embroidery being sewn into it. He didn’t work himself to the bone, he found it in himself more and more to look past his work.
But this — don’t make him clarify it, for the sake of his dignity, please — was different. This was different and everything was different! There were so many changes that Minimus could barely keep track of them all! Usually he was quite able to keep track of multiple things! He could do it quite well! A pile of datapads in one hand, a cup of warm energon in another, information racing past his HUD as he walked. Those were manageable!… Those were in a professional manner. This was his off-duty life. This was him talking to others and communicating about things other than overdue reports. This… This was Minimus Ambus . Not Ultra Magnus. He still had the armor, but it wasn’t Ultra Magnus anymore. It was just another face that the minibot had. It meant nothing more than his own mid-sized armor these days, it was another way of living his life. It was Maximus Ambus now, the name Brainstorm had coined. It was Minimus Ambus. It was him.
Minimus hasn’t truly been himself in so long, and only now he was really settling into his own plating. It scared him. He was — he might have felt odd about using this word for himself — he was so proud of how far he’d gotten, but scared nonetheless.
But damn it, what the hell was he feeling? Feeling comfortable in his own plating and armor meant nothing if he couldn’t decipher what his feelings actually were. He never knew quite how to manage them, he either brought too much to the table — in sudden, hard grabs to the arm or unexpected hugs — or too little — running away when he saw a grieving mech.
Minimus was absolutely not a fan of exaggeration, but this — all of this, damn it! — seemed to be the probable cause for it. Minimus was being driven insane by his feelings . He mildly considered tossing his datapad across the room, for Primus’ sake! He heavily chastened himself for that. He didn’t do it of course, but he might have put it down on his desk with a louder clatter than necessary. He huffed and sighed before looking at it again. He could not resist the impulse to straighten it so it would be aligned with the rest of his office materials.
Minimus just — ugh ! — he couldn’t concentrate ! He was in an off-duty cycle, so he didn’t need to work, but he was really looking forward to getting some things done early! But what was going through his helm instead of editing an introductory paragraph? Megatron! He was thinking about Megatron and where he stood with him! Minimus wasn’t pondering about how to introduce his discussion about a new plan for energon rationing and production on the ship! No, no, no! He was busy with thoughts about Megatron, damn it! The minibot was looking over their interactions and… and… The minibot was just waiting for — Primus no, anticipating — Megatron’s comm signal to pop up in his messages. His spark was twirling fast on its own accord at the thought of Megatron sending him more snippets of his poems. Those short lines that tugged at his processor… The ones that flowed based on rhyme, and those that danced their way along even without that sort of structure… The metaphors and euphemisms that sometimes went over Minimus’ head… and Megatron’s gentle explanation of them, as necessary.
Minimus jolted up from his seat, the chair sliding back a few inches with a screech. The minibot couldn’t bring himself to even cringe at the sound. He was damn well determined at the moment. Perhaps it wasn’t on the right thing, but his digits were flying across the keyboard of his datapad. He needed something to fill the space, and what better than music? Minimus dragged up a song, one that served to calm him before. He might have had enough speed in his digits at the present to rival Blurr — no one tell Swerve .
It had been so long since he’d listened to this piece, happenstance had proven unfortunate it seemed. Still, the lyrics rested right on the edge of his vocalizer, like they’d tip right out if Minimus didn’t keep his mouth shut for a moment more. Minimus took a vent in. The lyrics start suddenly, barely even a breath’s room of an opening to the song. Walking away from his desk with slow and methodical steps, he started to sing.
“And it’s hard to write about being happy, because the older I get… I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject…”