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“Does it hurt, kiddo?”
It was weird to see Ratchet work on his legs -- reattaching them and everything, and Smokescreen could only watch in almost morbid fascination as sparks flew while the medic used a small blowtorch and a panoply of other tools on the stumps, preparing them for… reconnection with his lower limbs? Normally, he should have been knocked out -- or at least Ratchet had wished he’d be -- but Smokescreen had panicked at the idea someone could modify his frame in any way while he was unconscious. He still kept a vivid image of Knock Out’s smirk and Megatron’s fist to his head to feel even slightly comfortable with the idea.
Thankfully, Optimus had backed him up, soothing both the medic’s rising but concerned irritation and the younger mech’s rapidly growing fearfulness. Which was why Smokescreen was lying on a makeshift medical berth, Optimus Prime sitting by his side and holding his hand while the grumpy medic was slowly reattaching his legs under a local anesthesia. That didn’t meant the process went smoothly.
Smokescreen shrugged. “It stings a little,” he said honestly. Ratchet grunted and scanned him again quickly.
“Hmm. I’ll have to apply another patch in half an hour. Are you sure you don’t want-?” he tried again and Smokescreen shook his head quickly.
“No thank you, doc, not going under if I can help it. Besides, it doesn’t change much to the process, does it?”
“It would still go faster and smoother if I didn’t have to reapply painkiller chips every megacycle.” The medic was frowning, but there was no true heat behind his words and he was watching Smokescreen with an almost sympathetic expression. It was both reassuring and unnerving; on one hand, it was nice to know Ratchet cared. On the other, it was also disquieting to see the medic wanted to treat him like… like a traumatized victim, which Smokescreen wasn’t!
… Mostly.
He opened his mouth to protest again, and not as nicely as before, but Optimus tightened his hold on his hands just so, and Smokescreen closed his mouth without a sound. “Smokescreen,” he said simply, softly, and in that single word, the young Autobot felt the care and worry but also the support. “I think we already debated the subject, Ratchet. Let it go, old friend.”
The medic sighed. “Okay, okay, let’s forget I said anything.” He looked down again at his work with a frown and Smokescreen couldn’t help but fidget. He didn’t like that face; Ratchet had already looked like that when he had opened the first stump to get access to the circuits underneath, though he hadn’t commented. Now, though, Smokescreen wondered what was so wrong Ratchet didn’t want to admit it.
“Is… is everything alright down there?” he asked worriedly.
“Ratchet?” Optimus asked worriedly, and his hold on Smokescreen’s hand went even tighter, to the point it almost hurt.
“Oh no, no, nothing is wrong,” the medic waved, though he was still frowning. “Well… it’s more like, I was expecting more things to be wrong. Knowing the Decepticons, I had anticipated a botched work, but…” he hesitated and glanced at Smokescreen’s apprehensive face. “Reconnecting your motor relays will be far easier than anticipated. Knock Out didn’t cut anything at random, he was in fact very professional. I can easily see where he cut, where he unscrewed something, where he cauterized an energon like,...” He shook his head. “It’s no savage amputation, as I had feared from your first report. It’s in fact a perfectly executed medical procedure.”
Smokescreen blinked. “It… doesn’t make sense. I remember him bringing his rotary saw online!”
Ratchet shrugged. “I only tell you what I see. The slagger probably just tried to scare you.”
“Well, he managed to,” Smokescreen mumbled even as he glanced at Optimus. The Prime’s face was inscrutable, his optics focused on the stumps of the younger mech’s legs. What was he thinking? Smokescreen didn’t dare to wonder and even less ask. “How long until I can walk, doc?” he asked instead, turning toward Ratchet. “I really, really want to go stretch my tires like you have no idea!” He put on a cheery smile though in truth, he was less than cheery. His T-Cog had been reimplanted first thing upon his return and it felt good to have it back, but without lower limbs, it was next to useless, and he was worried, so worried Ratchet wouldn’t be able to repair the damages the Decepticons had caused.
The medic grumbled. “Don’t get so hasty, Youngling.” Smokescreen’s Spark sank, and something must have reflected on his face because Ratchet was fast to reassure him. “Reattaching your legs will be easier than planned, even if I have to tread more carefully since you’re awake -- wouldn’t want to hurt you, would I? -- but just because they’re rooted back to your body doesn’t mean they’ll work right away. You’ll need to take a few tests and probably go through some reeducation.”
“Is there no way to skip that?”
“Afraid not, kid,” Ratchet grunted as he returned back to fiddling with… whatever components he was working on. “For all we know, the moment you try to stand, you’re going to fall flat on your face. Though hopefully, your Carrier will catch you first.” It was almost teasing, but his optics were dead serious as he looked over Smokescreen’s shoulder and at the Prime’s face. Smokescreen swallowed.
“I don’t intend to let him fall, old friend.” Optimus’ voice was smooth, reassuring, but Smokescreen could feel the tension underneath. Truth to be told, he was tense too; the open acknowledgement he was the Prime’s Creation still didn’t sit well with him. It was just too slagging unbelievable to be true. And Optimus… the Prime called him ‘son’, but he hadn’t said anything else so far. Not why he had abandoned Smokescreen, at any rate, and it rested heavily over the young mech’s Spark.
Part of him wanted to snuggle against the Prime’s taller, heavier frame while the other just wanted to run the Pit away and avoid dealing with it entirely. Sadly, there wasn’t much of a choice for him presently.
A large hand brushed against his helm and Smokescreen startled, looking at Optimus with wide optics. Blue optics and a kind smile looked down at him. “Do not worry so much Di-Smokescreen. Ratchet knows what he’s doing, and you’ll be walking again soon.”
Smokescreen swallowed. “If you say so… Carrier.” Optimus almost beamed, and the doorwinged mech swallowed again. “Sir? You said… you said we would talk,” he finally said in a small voice. He glanced down at Ratchet who hadn’t stopped whatever he was doing to his stumps. Smokescreen could barely feel the stings anymore and he didn’t care. His whole attention was turned back toward Optimus. The happy look on the Prime’s face immediately decreased and something like sadness and regret filled his optics.
“Indeed,” the Prime said with sadness, his hand still holding Smokescreen’s. “I don’t even know where to start,” he finally sighed. “Perhaps… is there something you want to ask me first?”
He didn’t seem bothered by Ratchet being there either, but Smokescreen still looked at the medic, unsure if he should ask now. The setting was anything but private, even if there were only the three of them inside Ratchet’s make-shift medical bay. Bulkhead, Arcee and Bumblebee had been more or less thrown out and were doing their best to keep the kids busy and stop them from sneaking in -- especially Miko, apparently, if the deep rumble of Bulkhead and the repeated ‘Miko! Get back here!’ they had distantly overhead were anything to judge from.
Ratchet looked up briefly and waved. “Don’t feel bothered on my account. Go ahead and ask him anything you’d like, Youngling. I have heard it all already -- and I screamed at him while I was at it. Of all the stupid, rusted,...” he started to mumble incoherently before shaking his head and going back to his work.
“I… Megatron said he was my Sire,” Smokescreen said in a small voice, refusing to look at the Prime in the optics as he said so. “And he said you were my Carrier, and I didn’t want to believe him, but you are, aren’t you?”
Optimus nodded slowly. “Yes, Di… Smokescreen. I am.”
Such a simple admission… and it makes Smokescreen’s Spark both sing in happiness and roar in pain. His hand shook -- or was it Optimus’ hand which was shaking? He couldn’t tell.
“So why… Why did I end up in Praxus? Why did you never come and pick me back up? Didn’t you want me?” The last one was barely above a whisper, but Optimus reeled as if he had been struck by lightning, horror on his face.
“Never, ever say I didn’t want you, Dion! Never!” he shouted.
Dion. The name sounded foreign to Smokescreen. His memory banks overworked to try and bring out anything containing that designation, but to his frustration (but he had expected it, hadn’t he?) nothing came up.
“Dion? Is that… is that what you kept trying to call me earlier? Is that my true designation?”
Optimus sighed, frame sagging. “Dion is the name I’d given to the son I Carried and birthed in secret in the earliest day of my Primacy,” he nodded. He gently caressed Smokescreen’s cheek. “In other words, it was indeed your designation when you emerged from my body and for your first solar cycles of life.” He sighed. “That much I was able to choose and give you, if nothing else.”
Smokescreen felt as if his vocalizer was clogged. He tried to speak, but no sound escaped him. “Why?” he finally managed to say in a broken tone, far more lost than he truly felt. Optimus flinched, optics shuttering.
“That, my son, is a very long story.” He lighted his optics again, looking down at Smokescreen with a mix of sadness and love. To the younger Autobot, he looked very dignified and regal, even in that moment. “What did Megatron tell you exactly?”
“Not much. He…” Smokescreen had to pause, sorting out his memories. “I didn’t want to believe him,” he started softly. “I mean, who would believe Megatron of all mechs could have a Creation? And being told I was? No way, I told myself, and I claimed so many, many times, until he pointed out several things, like my coding being a mix of Iaconian and Kaonite instead of Praxian, and the lack of records I existed to begin with -- but records could have gotten lost and destroyed with the city, and I knew Smokescreen wasn’t my original designation anyway even if I like it and…” he paused, biting his lips. “I won’t have to be called Dion from now on, right?”
Optimus shook his head sadly. “Of course not. I understand if you want to keep ‘Smokescreen’ as a designation; it is, after all, a name tied to your past and your present. It is who you are, while ‘Dion’ is a name from far long days which doesn’t means anything to you. It does for me, of course, but... It would be wrong of me to refer to you as anything but what you wish to be called.”
Smokescreen smiled a little, cheered by the reassurance. ‘Dion’... Dion didn’t meant anything to him, even if it was nice to know what he should and could have still be called if circumstances had been different.
Whatever those circumstances were.
He coughed, trying to hide his uneasiness? “Ah… so we were talking about Megatron, right, As I said, I didn’t want to believe whatever he was sprouting at first because, you know, it sounded so crazy, and not the harmless kind of crazy. But… I couldn’t stop listening to him.” He looked down. “He’s… awfully convincing, you know?”
Optimus smiled a little. It was sad and brittle. “Yes, Smokescreen, I do know. I knew him well, after all. And I also know you well enough by now to know you’re stalling.”
The younger Autobot rubbed the back of his helm. “Yeah, I guess so. But it’s not something easy to talk about!” he added quickly. The Prime just nodded, looking so understanding it made Smokescreen’s Spark and doorwings flutter. “I… Well, he really destabilized me with throwing my lack of records at me and my supposed coding -- but I guess this part was true, right? -- but what really got at me was the way he kept… kept comparing me to my Carrier. To… to Orion,” he added in a whisper. “Which, uh…”
“Was my name once upon a time, before I became a Prime,” was the calm answer. Blue optics so similar to Smokescreen seemed to get lost in the past before the Prime shook his head. “So he drew comparisons?” Optimus asked gently, not seeming troubled the slightest. “And how so?”
Smokescreen blinked. “Ah, uh. He said we looked alike? That we shared the same colors -- which we do, Sir, now that I think about it, though you’re far more red and blue than I am -- and that we had the same optics. He, uh, also said we had the same tastes when it came to fuel? I kinda discovered just how much I loved sweetened ones… and desserts. Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling ashamed for that one, but Optimus just chuckled. It felt nothing like Megatron’s own. It was not mocking him, and it didn’t held a dark undertone. No, it was clear like a crystal bell, gentle and reassuring.
“Do not excuse yourself for something so benign. I happened to like sweet fuel myself when I was younger, and I loved energon goodies, something Megatronus teased me about.” He looked at Smokescreen up and down. “As for the rest… It’s hard to contest them, and those are very fair points for Megatron to bring forward. There is resemblance, even if it’s not obvious at first glance.”
“Is that why you didn’t recognize me at first, Sir? Or was it intentional? Were you too disappointed in me to acknowledge who I am?” Smokescreen blurted out before blushing, feeling ashamed for his outburst. Optimus looked pained and Ratchet had paused in his work, glaring up at Smokescreen.
“Now listen here, kid! Don’t you…!”
“Ratchet!” Optimus warned him immediately, his optics narrowed, though he lost his hard expression immediately, his shoulders sagging. “I’m so sorry to have hurt you so much, Di… Smokescreen. It wasn’t intentional. The truth is, I had not recognized you when we met. You might think it unbelievable, but it’s the truth,” he added at Smokescreen’s look. “I’ve only learned about your identity when Megatron called me to gloat a decacycle ago. You can’t imagine how shocked I was.” He shuttered his optics. “You see, as far I as knew, Dion, my son, had died during Praxus’ bombing. I had been so certain he was, I never looked beyond appearances and possible resemblances, and whatever I might have noticed, even subconsciously, I passed off as a mere coincidence.”
“He’s telling the truth, Smokescreen,” Ratchet added. “It gave him a nasty shock when Megatron’s call ended. Gave us all a nasty shock, because nobody on this team even knew the Prime had had a Sparkling.” He glared at Optimus, who fidgeted in his seat.
“But… you’re his medic!” Smokescreen exclaimed. “How could you not have known he Carried? And for that matter, how come you didn’t notice who I was? From what I’ve learned from Megatron, Knock Out discovered it by accident when scanning me and seeing my Spark’s frequency matched Megatron’s in part!”
Ratchet grimaced. “Yes, I’m Optimus’ medic, but when he first took the Primacy, I wasn’t. I only started to work on him after the official Primacy Physician got himself slagged during the Hydrax Plateau’s campaign. I had known Optimus before, when he was still going by Orion, but I wasn’t of a high enough clearance to treat a Prime.” He glared at Optimus. “And I slagging can’t believe you hide it from me, ‘security clearances and concerns’ be fragged!” The Prime didn’t seem moved.
“Ratchet, language around the…!”
“Don’t ‘language’ me, Prime,” the medic groused, but his fury seemed abated. He looked at Smokescreen with an apologetic look. “As for the second part of your question, Smokescreen, I’m afraid you can blame a combination of me not knowing about Optimus’ little secret and inferior human technology.” He seemed very annoyed by it. “I may have repurposed the computers around here, but they’re far from being as functional as the Nemesis’ owns must be. When I scanned you after your arrival in order to build a medical file for you, the computers didn’t react like the ones in a proper medbay do.” His shoulders sagged. “Normally, medbay computers are linked together and sort out files to help the medic go faster in case he has to deal with multiple patients or infectious diseases. They immediately identify your closest kin if any of them were treated in the same place as you or by the same medic and then open his file side-to-side with yours. This way, a glance suffice for any medic worth its crosses to identify common issues and possible shared traits relevant on a medical standpoint. It certainly help figure out if your Spark line has had precedent such as bad reactions to medical grade energon or coding glitches making you unsuitable for certain types of treatments. Earth’s technology is so below my usual standards and I got so used to it I…”
He paused. “But let’s not go there. As it is, I wasn’t searching for any comparison points between you or the other members of this team. I just registered your vitals and your Spark frequency, but without dwelling too much into them. If I had observed your Spark’s reading next to Optimus’ own…” he shook his head. “I would have know immediately. But I didn’t, and for that I’m sorry, kid.”
Smokescreen looked at the red and white ‘bot in surprise. Excuses? From Ratchet? Wow. “You’re forgiven, Doc. I get it, you know. Nobody was expecting me and whatever relation I might have had with the big boss, right? But… that doesn’t explain why I ended in Praxus, and why nobody knew?”
He was looking at Optimus in wonder, silently begging him to explain. And the Prime, after rubbing a thumb across Smokescreen’s cheek, did just that.
“You must understand first, Smokescreen, how things were before the war started.” Optimus looked somber and Smokescreen swallowed, knowing he might not like what he’d be hearing. “Lots of mechs will talk about the Golden Age of Cybertron with nostalgia, telling you how good things were ‘back in the old days’. But those mechs didn’t always see the downside of the Caste system.” He shuttered his optics. “Corruption had spread far and wide in every aspects of our society. Back then, I was one of many Archivists working under Alpha Trion in the Hall of Records, and if I didn’t have to suffer from most of it, my job of monitoring and archiving communications and news reports made me curious about our way of life. What I discovered as I dug further gradually made me aware of just unfair the system had become to a growing part of our society and, appealed, I decided that there had to be a way to change the system for the better, but reinstalling fairness and giving every mechas the possibility to choose their future jobs, their way of life,...” He looked at Smokescreen with a sad smile. “It’s during those time where I was still developing a strategy to peacefully present my findings and ideas to the Council that I encountered for the first time a former miner turned Gladiator. Like me, he had come to the conclusion that corruption was suffocating us and that changes had to be done. His name was Megatronus.”
“Uh, you mean…”
Optimus, guessing what Smokescreen was trying to ask, shook his head. “He shortened his name to Megatron much later. At the time, he had taken the designation in honor of the original Megatronus, one of the Thirteen, thus replacing his original designation as a miner.”
“What was it?” Smokescreen asked curiously.
“D-16. You understand why ‘Megatronus’ felt nicer to him,” he added with a touch of humor which made Smokescreen grin.
“It sounds like a Vehicon’s designation,” he tried to joke, but Optimus didn’t laugh. He just nodded.
“With good reason. Most of the Vehicons and Eradicons, if not all, belonged to the lower Castes such a miners or industrial workers. Most of them were cold-forged and put to work immediately after receiving only a set of numbers and letters to help identify them. Megatron had Creators, or so he told me, but they still applied the naming conventions of their Caste.”
“Oh…” Smokescreen muttered. “Sooo… what was he like back then? As crazy as now?” He knew he shouldn’t try joking or laughing about it, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to… to lighten the mood, his own or Optimus he didn’t know, but he needed the humor to make it more palatable.
“He was far from crazy, Dion,” Optimus said with a vaguely angry expression, using Smokescreen’s original designation by reflex. “And be more respectful when you’re talking of your Sire!”
For a moment, Smokescreen froze. The tone, the expression… it resembled a nicer, lighter version of Megatron’s own reaction when he had denied Orion’s existence and accused him to be a figment of the Warlord’s imagination. He looked at Optimus, shocked. Was it possible that the Prime… still loved Megatron? Or ‘Megatronus’, rather? Kinda like Megatron spoke almost fondly of Orion, but grimaced hatefully whenever Optimus Prime was brought up? Ugh. That… that made no sense! After everything Megatron had done? After he tried to kill the Prime so many times? How could Optimus still be in love?
… unless it was just the nostalgia? Like… he wasn’t in love with Megatron, but with his memory? In love with the younger Megatron who hadn’t been a monster (at first) with him and with Cybertron as a whole? Yeah. Yeah, that had to be it. Smokescreen almost chuckled nervously, reassured. Of course Optimus wasn’t still in love. He just wanted Smokescreen to be… respectful toward someone who was trying to kill them. Because he helped Create Smokescreen. Uh. That was weird. But it made more sense than Optimus being still pining after the Warlord and the war being a out-of-control lovers spat!
“So… sorry!” he said quickly, looking at Optimus as if he was seeing for the first time. And perhaps it was the case. “It’s just… He’s not a very nice mech.” Understatement of the megavorn. He almost kicked himself and he heard Ratchet snort loudly, but Optimus just smiled in that sad way of his.
“No, he isn’t,” he acknowledged. “There was a time where he was nicer, though. Happier. Gentler. He could be very sweet and mindful of his words and acts, bringing me gifts of crystals and old datapads he found Primus only knew where and that I hadn’t seen in the Archives or had wished to get a copy of. And sometimes, he had the strangest sense of humor when he brought me something.” He sighed and raised an optic ridge. “The teddy bear would be a fine example.”
Smokescreen felt his cheeks burn. The look on Bumblebee’s face when he had pulled the giant (by humans’ standard) plush toy out of the case! But that had been nothing next to Arcee’s raised optic ridge, or Bulkhead’s disbelieving expression. And then there had been the kids as they caught sight of it. Miko had squealed -- loudly -- and hugged it, and Raf hadn’t been much better, if more controlled. Jack had been the only one not falling head over heel, and that was because as a ‘male teenager’, whatever that was, he pretended not to like cuddly plush toys.
Nurse Darby seemed to be of another option, but Smokescreen hadn’t caught it before he was carried to the medbay for T-Cog’s reinsertion and a first debriefing.
“I don’t even know why I brought it back with me,” he confided. Even now, it confused him. He shouldn’t have accepted anything from Megatron, and still he did, implicitly, by taking the stuffed bear with him. “It’s stupid. I just made a sarcastic comment and the next thing I knew, he just gave it to me.”
Optimus’ smile had turned both sadder and both more amused, if it was possible for a smile to convey both emotion at once. “Megatron at his finest. I still have something he gave me…” he paused, probably thinking better than to share his tale. “But let’s talk about Megatronus as he was then. Perhaps it was because I was naive and easily swayed by his enthusiasm, but Megatronus and I quickly became friends. We were of widely different background, but I was fascinated by this passionate mech. Megatronus might have belonged to the lowest castes, but he was very literate, his diction and speeches were on par with politicians… even if they were still rough, reflecting his personality and background. I was quite surprised to learn, as we got to know each other better, that he had been a prolific writer even before politics swayed him.”
“Really?” Smokescreen had to blink. “He didn’t strike me as someone loving to hold a stylus or even type.”
Optimus’ smile was definitely more amused. “You must never trust appearances, my son, for they’re often misleading. Megatron developed his talent for rhetoric over time while writing short essays and poems. He was quite talented.”
Smokescreen perked up. Poems? His mind stalled. Megatron. Writing poesy. The approving look on his face as Smokescreen said he enjoyed… “Did he write them under his own name?” he asked in a small voice; he had the sneaky feeling his suspicions were right, and Optimus confirmed them right away.
“No. He usually signed them Dee -- for D-16, as he had started redacting them while working in the mines. They were his primary inspiration when he debuted. Later he switched to…” The Prime blushed suddenly and cut himself off, but Smokescreen didn’t notice. He was too busy groaning and facepalming with his free hand.
“Of course he would. Of course my favorite author had to be him!”
That made Ratchet snort. “Well, would you look at that; like father, like son! I dare to hope it doesn’t mean you have the same poor taste in partner than your Carrier,” he added with a look at Optimus, who sputtered indignantly. It cheered Smokescreen up slightly.
“I don’t have poor taste in…! Ratchet!”
“So you say, Prime. I stand by my observation. And shouldn’t you be finishing your story? As nice as it is for Smokescreen to learn about his Sire -- something I’m not sure he fully approves of -- it wasn’t what he asked you.” Optimus deflated, and Smokescreen awkwardly patted him.
“It’s alright, Sir. I… I won’t mind hearing more later.” Much, much later. “But… as nice as it would to learn about Cybertron pre-war, I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
Optimus sighed. “Of course, of course. You see,” he said as he watched Smokescreen in the optics, “as time went, my relationship with Megatronus, now Megatron, went sourer, though none of us wanted to admit it. Our ideologies, even if they reposed on the same basis, had become fundamentally different. The last straw was our first and last meeting together in front of the Council. While Megatron threatened them, I tried to move them through a speech which, strangely enough, seemed to move them. And so they decided to grant me the Matrix of leadership, which had remained in storage since the passing over of Sentinel Prime. As you can imagine, Megatron didn’t take it well and stormed out as I accepted the honor. We parted ways this very solar cycle. What Megatron didn’t know at the time, and what I ignored myself, was that I was Carrying his Creation.”
“Me.” Smokescreen said simply.
“You,” Optimus nodded. His shoulders sagged. “When I realized what was going on… Trust me, my son, it was probably the best day of my life. Despite the war which had just started, despite the lists of dead and destructed properties which ended on my desk every solar cycle, the simple realization I was carrying a new life inside me gave me strength and hope. The little life I felt nestled in my abdomen provided me with support through every dark moment I lived through, and there were many. Friends turned enemies, Councilmembers tried to have me assassinated, but just thinking of my child and feel him kick was enough to allow me to carry on through another day. And I was hoping…” he paused, shaking his head. “Well, I had at one point hoped the news I was giving him an heir might calm Megatron and allowed us to discuss and come to a truce. I had to forcefully drop the idea when the fights intensified and Megatron started to target more and more Autobot bases with increasing brutality. So, even as my state was starting to become more and more visible, I choose to stay mute and hide my pregnancy from everyone but my closest allies at the time: CMO Triage, who was the Council medic and as such my primary physician at the time, Special Ops Commander Jazz, who had been a friend even before I became the Prime, and Alpha Trion, my old mentor.”
“And you managed to hide it from everyone? Truly? But how? Carriers get… noticeable,” Smokescreen asked in disbelief, gesturing vaguely toward his abdomen. Not that he was an expert or anything, but during his time in bootcamp, one of the other Cadets had to stop training when he had started to gain mass as a result of having gotten Sparked. The lot of them had ended up staring at the rounder and rounder shape of the Cadet’s belly while he sat by and watched them go through obstacle courses with a wistful expression. Heavy with Spark or not, Smokescreen knew he would have joined them running if Kup hadn’t kept such a close optic on them all.
Optimus chuckled mirthlessly. “I was lucky, I suppose. And I managed to get the right combination of factors. I ended up injured during an assault and Triage used my ‘convalescence’ as an excuse to keep me out of the public optics. Alpha Trion was quick to drag me to the archives under the pretext of ‘reading sensitive, Prime-level of clearance only intel’, while Jazz always covered my public and semi-public appearances, using a body double for the most obvious ones.”
“A body double?”
“A Shifter, if you prefer,” Optimus further explained. “There were a few working under Jazz at the time, and one of them became my official ‘shadow’ for whatever public appearance Jazz deemed a security risk. I hated the fact I had to hide but… I couldn’t risk anyone learning of my Sparkling. Not when I could easily see how many mechs were watching me, trying to find a weakness to exploit in order to further their own agenda.”
Smokescreen hesitated. “Megatron…”
Optimus shook his head grimly. “Megatron was only one mech, Smokescreen. The Autobots weren’t as united as they became over the course of the war in the very beginning. The definition of what an Autobot was and is largely varied from one faction to another. It still does for some mechs, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “As it was, hiding the fact I was Carrying was safer -- and yes, Ratchet, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but at this point, I couldn’t,” he added for the medic’s sake when he heard him grunt. “I wish you could have been here, though. Triage was a good medic, but we were never close or intimate. I’m certain Dion’s emergence would have gone easier had you been heard.”
Smokescreen’s doorwings stiffened. “You… you had troubles having me?” That didn’t sound good at all. Optimus waved away his concern, gently stroking his palm with his thumb.
“Emergences are always painful, Smokescreen, especially when it’s the first. The stress, the unfamiliar process and the fact I had to let my Sparkling emerge in my quarters and not in a fully stocked and monitored medbay only added to my confusion and my difficulties. This had nothing to do with you, son. Besides,” he added with a soft smile, “everything was soon forgotten when I heard the soft whimpers of my newly unfurled newspark as Triage cleaned him. Then he put him over my chest, near my Spark, and when he curled, seeking my warmth and soaking in my EM field, I was truly and fully conquered. I had loved my son while he grew up in me, but as I laid my optics on him for the first time, so small and vulnerable, so innocent, I knew I would love him until the day Primus reclaimed me. He emerged dark grey, like most Sparklings do before their color nanites settle, but I could already see how blue his optics were as they peered curiously at me. As I gently stroked him, calming him down, I couldn’t help but think he was the most perfect being I had ever been graced to see. And still, my Spark hurt that his Sire couldn’t have been here at my side to meet his new Sparkling.” He lowered his head. “I knew by this point I couldn’t contact Megatron, though. I was tempted to do so, to tell him, but… I had my doubts, and Alpha Trion, Jazz and Triage all advised me against it, for various reasons. They were right, of course, or so I told myself. And still, it seemed unfair my Creation wouldn’t know his Sire, and wouldn’t inherit anything from him. That’s the moment I choose to name him -- to name you -- Dion.”
For a moment, Smokescreen didn’t understand. Then he realized and felt as if Megatron had just shot him. “Dion… it’s a combination, isn’t it? ‘D’ for D-16…”
“And ‘ion’ for Orion, my original designation, yes,” Optimus nodded. “It seemed fitting for my Creation, my sole heir, to reflect both of his Creators’ origins. It sounded… right.” He didn’t sound defensive, but the way he fidgeted in his seat let the doorwinged mech know he was far from being as calm as he pretended to be.
Smokescreen swallowed. To know he was named partly after Megatron was a bitter pill to swallow, but who was he to judge? The relationship between the Prime and the Warlord had been (was still?) far more complicated than he would have guessed at first glance, full of nuances he didn’t think he would ever understand. He tried to console himself, that ‘Dion’ had been given out of love and besides, D-16 hadn’t been the Warlord they knew today as Megatron. He had just been a surprisingly literate miner and a poet. Right. If he thought of his Sire as the poet Dee, it would be easier to admit.
Still, it bothered him that for all the love Optimus seemed to have had for him as a newspark, he had still abandoned him. “Then why? Why didn’t you keep me?” he asked in a raspy tone.
The Prime shuttered his optics. “Because I had no choice, Smokescreen. You were so little, so fragile… It painted you as a target, especially as the first attacks on Iacon started. Those were only tests to evaluate our defenses, but we lost good mechs in those three solar cycles. Some of which were my friends.” His expression was painful. “I had first planned to keep you in Iacon, entrusted in the care of a few loyal mechs. I wouldn’t have been able to raise you myself, but I would have taken solace in the knowledge you were near and that you were safe, but the attacks made me rethink my plans. I realized that keeping you in Iacon at this point was too dangerous and the more I thought, the more I realized I had no right to keep you in such an environment, where you’d be inevitably shaped by the mindset of those around you. That you would be indoctrinate right away by the Autobot’s way of life. It felt… wrong.”
“But you’re an Autobot, and I am!” Smokescreen stated. “I don’t see what the problem would have be!”
Optimus was smiling sadly again. “Yes, you ultimately joined the Autobot, but try to see things from my point of view and remember who your Sire is. You were part of Megatronus as much as you were part of me. In those conditions, would have it been right for me to raise you according to what my beliefs were, without also letting you know your Sire’s own? And once adult, if I had asked you to join, would you have done so because you believed in the Autobots, or because you’d feel obligated toward me? Wouldn’t you have decided to reject what I would have taught you and join your Sire’s side instead?”
Smokescreen bit his lips. He really wanted to say he would have still be the same if Optimus had raised him but… there was no way to know, was there? He had first wanted to join the Autobots because of Praxus’ fall. If Praxus hadn’t fallen, would he have joined the conflict? Likely not; he would have probably joined other Neutrals in exile off of Cybertron. And as much as he wanted to claim he would have never joined the Decepticons… Well, who could be certain?
Optimus caressed his cheek gently, probably aware of just how much turmoil was boiling under Smokescreen’s helm. “Megatronus and I might have separated on bad terms, but I couldn’t turn his Sparkling against him, even unintentionally, and that’s why I felt I had no right to raise Dion myself. I couldn’t be impartial -- and no one around me could have been either. Which is why, in the end, I decided it would be best for you to be raised by someone who took no side in the conflict. Someone who would be able to teach you both sets of values without taking side and without aprioris. Several city-states had already claimed their desire to stay neutral in the spreading conflict and Praxus was chief among them. It was a good city, well-defended, and I convinced myself that if my son had a chance to be safe, happy and not forced to follow either of his Creators as he grew up, then Praxus would be the best place for him.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“You bet,” Smokescreen mumbled, doorwings fluttering. “So… you just let me go? Entrusted me to the care of strangers and hoped everything would go for the best?”
“Of course not!” the Prime exclaimed, shoulders sagging. “Even if I couldn’t raise you myself and wanted you to have a Sparklinghood as devoid of influences as possible, I couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning you alone. And so Jazz and I choose a Special Ops Agent to shadow you and provide you with protection should you ever need it. She took you, smuggled you out of Iacon and brought you to Praxus, where she arranged to become a staff member of the Youth Center you were going to be raised at -- with the complicity of the Headmaster, who was an old friend of Alpha Trion and as such, willing to help take care of a Sparkling with a secret background.”
“The Agent… was it a femme?” Smokescreen asked softly, his mind conjecturing the picture of the half-forgotten caretaker from his Sparklinghood. The one he wanted to almost call ‘Carrier’.
Optimus nodded. “Yes. She was named Razorwire. You do remember her?”
“Not much,” Smokescreen confessed. “Almost everything before Praxus’ fall is corrupted, but she’s always there when I think of, of before.”
“As she ought to be; you were her charge, after all. In more than one way. I was so shocked to learn of Praxus’ attack… and when she was confirmed dead, I immediately feared the worse had happened to my child,” he whispered.
Smokescreen swallowed. “Tell me about it? Please?”
“Where to start?” The Prime shuttered his optics. “The first reports were the worse. Upon hearing Praxus had been attacked, that Seekers had bombed the city and that Decepticons ground-based troops had then raided the ruins to hunt down as many survivors as possible, I blacked out. I must have given orders, but I can’t remember what I said or did to that day. I saw a few video files, of course, but… It never felt as if I was the one talking and moving. There was only one thing on my mind, on my Spark: reaching Praxus as fast as possible and get my Sparkling back. I had to be physically restrained by my bodyguards and by Jazz to stop me from running into the still burning city. I do remember Jazz trying to talk sense into me, that he had already dispatched Agents toward the Youth Center, that he was waiting for their reports, but I didn’t care; I needed to go there myself and search for Dion.” He sagged. “They relented, eventually. After I apparently teared off someone’s arm, something for which I’m still sorry. But at this time, Dion -- your fate -- was more important than anything else in the world. The Youth Center had been…” he swallowed. “It was still burning when we got there. A team of builders and rescue workers were lifting the rumbles in search for survivors. At this point, we really hoped we’d find plenty, but the carnage was such… I will never forget the sight of all those little broken bodies being lined up in what had once been a large avenue. And I think no one who participated in the rescue will ever forget either.”
He looked at Smokescreen painfully. “The ruins of the Youth Center had become a mausoleum. Only three Sparklings were found alive inside what remained, two of which later offlined from their injuries. But none of them was Dion. For a time, I remained hopeful; the Center had started to be evacuated when the attack first started, and there was a good chance my Creation had been taken out of the Center before it was entirely destroyed. But then Jazz told me he had found Razorwire dead and… my hope wanned. She was a loyal soldier, and she would never had abandoned Dion, the Creation of her Prime, so long she was alive. There were so many corpses… and so many were beyond identification… not to mention the many who had just disappeared, their bodies reduced to fragments and spare parts by the explosions and the fire. I continued to search, though. I couldn’t give up hope. I searched in the list of survivors, I searched for testimonies among the surviving staff members who approached the Autobots -- or rather, Jazz searched discreetly. At this point, I had been dragged to a medbay and been put under heavy sedation. It was attributed to the shock of the destruction, and nobody ever knew why my reaction was so extreme.”
He cupped Smokescreen’s cheek. “Jazz was as thorough as the circumstances allowed him to, and so when he grimly announced me he couldn’t find any trace of you, any clues you might have survived, I keened. As far as I knew, my son was dead. I couldn’t be certain, because there was no corpse for me to mourn, but… with no proof of the contrary, I had to resign myself. Perhaps, if we had had a true Creator/Creation link, I would have been certain, but we spend so little time together before you were taken from my arms and brought to Praxus…” A thumb stroked Smokescreen’s cheek, spreading moistness all over it and with a startle, Smokescreen realized he was crying. “I’m so sorry, Dion… Smokescreen. So sorry. I should never have given up. I should never have allowed you to be parted from me to begin with…”
“It’s okay, Carrier. It’s okay,” the young Autobot mumbled, awkwardly hugging the Prime and being hugged back in turn. It felt nice and reassuring, but tears still silently rolled down his cheeks.
“I only wanted the best for you,” Optimus said brokenly, “and look what happened…”
“You couldn’t know,” Smokescreen insisted. “You… you were only trying to do what you thought was best, Sir. I can’t hate you for that. Never.” And it was true. Because, as much as Smokescreen would have wanted to rant and accuse the Prime of not caring, the truth was… the Prime did. He cared so much he hadn’t wanted to raise Smokescreen to hate his Sire. The irony, though, was that Smokescreen still hated Megatron, but not because of his education. No, he hated him for his actions.
Optimus’ smile as he looked at him in the optics was almost blinding. “Thank you, Di… Smokescreen. Thank you. I wish…”
“Will you two stop being so sappy already?” Both mechs startled as Ratchet spoke. Caught up in the revelations, they had forgotten he was here. The medic was watching them with a raised optic ridge. “If you have finished, I’d like Smokescreen to try and bend his knee to test the reparation. Unless you prefer I leave you alone and go my merry way?”
Smokescreen blinked and looked down at his stumps -- or rather, his remaining stump and his now repaired leg. “You… you did it already? But I thought…?”
Ratchet grunted. “You two don’t seem to realize how long you’ve been talking already. Besides, when you stay quiet and do not keep fidgeting, it helps. I will also, grudgingly, give Knock Out a few points for knowing what he did. While it was tricky to connect, he didn’t damage any of the receptors and they were easier to put back in order than initially planned. Now, can you bend your knee and tell me how it feels?”
Hesitantly, Smokescreen sent the comment. The fascination with which he watched the articulation work and his knee bend was perhaps childish, but at this point, he didn’t care. Joy was bursting through his Spark: his leg was working! He had a knee! He could walk!
“Do you feel any pain?” The medic was watching him like a cyberhawk. Smokescreen tried to bend his leg again and shook his head.
“No, no. It doesn’t hurt. But it feels… stiff?” he offered, unsure. There was a slight resistance each time he tried to bend the knee. It didn’t sting or anything, but he couldn’t ignore it. Ratchet just hummed, as if he had expected the answer.
“Given the joints are new, it’s nothing unusual. You’ll have to be extra careful during the first decacycle,” he warned. “No trying to run, and no transformation either!”
“What? But Ratchet…” he whined.
“No ‘but’, Youngling,” the medic scowled. “New joints mustn’t be strained right away. They’ll need to adapt to your body moves, less you’ll accidentally damage them by pushing too hard. We’ll have to test your limits once I’m finished working on your second leg. If you dare to try and make a run for it before I clear you…!” he warned, looking unhappy.
“He won’t, old friend,” Optimus assured him and Smokescreen tried not to look too disappointed. He wanted to be able to walk and transform already but displeasing the medic was always something stupid to do.
“But I’ll walk soon, right?” he asked worriedly.
“We’ll see once I’m finished with your other leg,” Ratchet just grumbled. “Perhaps you can take a few steps and hope your weight won’t be too much for your legs.”
“Is that possible?”
“Your systems need to be properly reset and at this point, I won’t dismiss any possibility,” the medic shrugged. He didn’t look unsympathetic, though. “You should an easier time than Bulkhead, though. The damages were far less. Once your joints have taken the cue, you’ll be running circles around everyone. In the meanwhile, you’ll have to enjoy making baby steps like a newborn Sparkling.”
Was it him or had the medic just winked? Why would he…? Oh. Smokescreen froze, a sudden understanding striking him. How old had he been when Optimus had… sent him away for his safety? Certainly no more than a few decacycles off, if even that. Optimus had never heard him say his first words, never saw him take his first steps. For a Carrier -- for any Creator -- those were milestones in their Creations’ lives they took great pride and joy in. What had Optimus thought, when -- if -- he had heard report from Razorwire detailing Smokescreen’s life? Had he wept not to be able to witness them by himself?
The younger Autobot eyed his leader -- his Carrier -- with hesitation. Should he offer? That seemed silly. But, then again, hadn’t the Prime said he wouldn’t let him fall?
“Optimus Prime, Sir… Carrier? Would you mind, I mean, when Ratchet says it’s okay, not right now, but… would you mind helping me walk? After all, you missed my very very first steps, right?” he added at Optimus’ startled look, chuckling. “Since you’re here, wouldn’t it be neat if you could help me take the first with my new legs? It’s Carriers’ role to teach their Creations how to walk, isn’t it? Besides, it’d be helpful to have a bigger mech to help me keep steady, wouldn’t it?”
Optimus Prime stared at him for a long while, before a grin spread over his face. His optics shone with mirth as he laughed shortly. He tightened his hold on Smokescreen’s hand briefly.
“I’d be honored to, my son.”
The doorwinged mech smiled in turn.
He still had mixed feelings over, well, everything, but who could blame him? It was a lot to take in, from being a random Praxian orphan and Autobot warrior (even if he was still a rookie) one day and be declared the Creation of both Optimus Prime and Megatron (wow, did that meant he was a Prince for both sides?) the next. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say or do now, what he was supposed to think or how he was supposed to act.
But having Optimus Prime looking at him like that, as if Smokescreen was the best thing invented since energon goodies? He thought he could get used to it pretty quickly.
End