Work Text:
In the darkness of a grimy warehouse, Orion Pax had only one thought screaming through his damaged processor; would they be okay without him?
When he dares to pick his hand up from the gash in his crumpled midsection, he finds energon oozing between his brightly stained fingertips. He stares at it dimly, watching the bright globs of energon trail down his arm with a dull detachment. If they were to find him, (don't be silly, Orion, when they find you, not if), will he frighten them? He could only imagine what a ghastly sight he’ll be to stumble upon; crumpled in the deepest part of the farthest, and therefore least used, warehouse. Nothing but a mangled frame, cold and gray, whose only color comes from the large pool of brightly glowing energon that’s been slowly forming around him since he had crashed. Yes, his friends are strong, both physically and mentally, and Orion has no doubt that they will be there for each other once he deactivates (if, if he deactivates, it’s not over yet, don't give up, don’t give up). But alive or not… what a horrible sight he will be for them to find, and what if… what if he doesn't make it? (Don't say that, Orion, don't say that.) How much will it hurt them? Haunt them? Orion can't stand the thought of his friends mourning him; he doesn't want his death to break their sparks. His friends deserve happiness, peace, love, if he dies… It makes him sick, thinking about the wounds he will inflict upon them with his passing. (Stop that, Orion, you're not dead yet, don't think such things, don't think, live, live.)
The warehouse's basement is as rusty as it is dark. There is little light to speak of beyond the low glow of powered but unused machinery. Blearily Orion realizes that his optics are giving out, the glare of maintenance lights growing fainter with every passing blip. It was quite the fall he had taken, from the dock's ground floor to the basement deep beneath the surface. The warehouses weren't ever safe, everyone knew it, but as a simple dock worker, Orion had no way to fix it on his own; at least not without risk of punishment from management. They’d call it a waste of time and resources, perhaps even dock his pay as compensation. Maybe then, in some twisted sort of way, Orion’s deactivation wouldn't be entirely for nothing. (Orion, please. Stop it. Don't think that way, you’re not dead, not yet.) The docks would have to update their safety measures once he was discovered and seen severely maimed from the fall, wouldn’t they?
If they investigated Orion’s death, and he had little faith that they would, but if they did, they’d know it wasn’t the fall, nasty as it had been, that had really killed a bot like him. Orion had been built to be sturdy, he was made for hard labor: hauling ships into berths, loadings and discharging their cargo, transporting goods to the warehouses. He had faced all sorts of weathering from the seas and injuries from his work without so much as a flinch. This fall, this terrible fall, had done nothing but lower his chances of discovery or escape. He hadn't been built with a strong enough signal to call for help this far underground, and the crash itself had damaged his limbs too much for him to move, but it hadn't killed him. No, it hadn’t killed him. What would kill him was the energon loss; the damage from the knife that had impaled him. It had struck too quickly for him to even process what was happening before he was sent tumbling over the flimsy excuse the docks used for safety rails.
How long had he been down here?
Most of his internal features had shut down, whether that was due to the damage he had taken during the crash or to conserve his frighteningly low power levels, Orion couldn't say. Either way, it left him in the dark, unaware of how much time was passing. A rogue pain receptor had begun to glitch out, giving him a rather unpleasant burning sensation with each of his weakening vents. Despite that, and he hates to admit it, it's been oddly… peaceful. The soothingly low light, the faint glimmer from the energon pool, the distant thump of gears turning somewhere deep within the warehouse... all things considered, there were worse places to deactivate. (No, no, you're not going to deactivate, they'll find you. They'll find you. Don't give up. Don't give up.)
Hopefully Ariel and Dion would be alright. They were the only ones who knew Orion had left his post, which could possibly make them a target. That is, if Megatron believed that they would go looking for Orion when he failed to return. Orion knew that they would, and as much as he would like to be found, part of him hopes they won’t try to look. If they were to ask Megatron, or any of his followers, where exactly they had gone with Orion… he shudders to think what Megatron would do to them.
After all, Orion thinks dryly as he glances down at his graying form, Megatron has killed for less.
The irony of his current situation was not lost on Orion. He had been killed by the very bot he so passionately defended over and over again. Killed for speaking up in the very way Megatron's speeches had always said they should. Apparently Megatron had meant they should only speak up in ways which agreed with Megatron’s interests.
Something to keep in mind if I ever run into him again, Orion muses while trying to blink away the fuzzy lines of static that have begun to slowly consume his failing vision.
It would seem that Megatron was nothing more than another silver tongued politician. Perhaps even worse than most given how Megatron wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty himself. Orion was embarrassed to have fallen for it. What had made him so foolishly blind to Megatron's lust for violence? Was he really so dazzled by the chance to speak to a celebrity like they were equals that he was willing to ignore it? Or had he just been thoroughly intoxicated by Megatron's calls for change that he had missed all the obvious signs laid before him? He’d been blindsided by the fact that Megatron was willing to say exactly what Orion had wanted to hear, what any bot in the lower classes wanted to hear. Megatron's speeches for change were awe inspiring, and oh so tempting, Orion couldn't blame himself all too much for overlooking the mech's rumored bloody reputation when such a glorious hypothetical future had been placed before him. It felt so possible, so real, so close, and now it was terribly distant.
Orion feels light, his head spinning. It's as if he was floating, but he swears he’s still firmly on the ground. His rogue pain receptor chooses then to flare up, rather dramatically in Orion's opinion, and three different warnings pop up on his HUD. Their flashing lights block most of his already depleted vision and it makes him feel ill. He attempts to shake his head, the movement only worsens his nausea, but he's able to regain enough control of himself to dismiss the warnings. What good were they to him anyway? It wasn't as if he wasn't aware that he was dying.
Orion.
As his vision clears, Orion notices an odd light hovering above him. It is a bright, blistering orange, emitting a heat as potent as a forge. The longer Orion looks at it, the brighter the light seems to burn, and the harsher the heat gets. It fills Orion’s optics more and more as his frame begins to seize up. He feels damaged components and crushed cogs attempt to lock in place, hears a sickening click click when his broken frame can’t respond. The light burns brighter, blearing Orion’s vision with tears. He can’t seem to turn his head anymore, but he desperately needs to look away. The light hurts, it’s burning him, melting him. If he could just look away, just for a second, that could save him from the fire that’s begun to sear against his plating. Hotter and hotter the light grows, engulfing Orion’s poor vision as it scorches his frame. He hisses, maybe, he quite can’t tell. Something scrapes against the ground. His own hand? He thinks he twitches, maybe attempts to twist away from the burning burning burning, but all he truly knows is the forge, the light, the pain.
The telltale sounds of a transformation sequence echoes in the warehouse, nearly incomprehensible to Orion’s glitching processor. All at once the orange disappears, replaced by a pleasantly cool blue. It soothes over the heat in such a way that Orion begins to wonder if it ever existed in the first place. Everything feels so… muffled… distant and growing fainter with every hitch of his vents. The now merciful light continues to glow, pulsing with comfort before it begins growing stronger. Each beat turns the blue from pleasant to pressure until it’s nearly all consuming and Orion swears he can feel something pressing against his frame. Crushing, it’s crushing him- No. No, it’s nothing at all- He’s fine- He’s-
He’s fading; faster than the pulsating pressure that surrounds him. Whatever it is meant to be, comfort or punishment, he fears he is too far gone for it to be effective. He is burning out with no less intensity than the odd little light hovering above him. He is floating somewhere far away from here, floating like the light, hovering like the ships in the dock. As an onlooker in someone else’s dream, Orion watches his own hand, which he hadn’t known he could lift, reach out towards the light. It’s a titan’s task, spurred on by energy Orion swears he couldn’t possibly possess, almost convincing him he’s not actually moving at all. He is dizzy beyond belief, spinning and spiraling to who knows where, yet deep within the flickering recesses of his mind, something tells him to reach. He must reach the light, he must, even if he is not sure why.
Perhaps it's the Well of Allsparks, Orion softly wonders in a counter to his own disorganized and floaty thoughts. Something seems to settle within his mind, wrapping around his processor like a hand within his head. It offers warming comfort, as if he is finally at peace. Yes, he thinks, that must be it. It is time for him to go.
Orion reaches, up and up and up, forever reaching. The pleasant blue light seems to reach too, pouring down until it dances through Orion's stained fingers, lighting and cooling the energon between his joints. Orion’s entire frame locks up once more, seizing. He can hear it hiss violently as mangled joints are forcibly shoved into place, an unnatural stillness, a death-like stiffness, snaps over him. Orion wheezes, a vent sputters with energon. Is he drowning? Before Orion can entertain the possibility, the light becomes bright and angry, burning orange, brighter and brighter and it hurts. It hurts- Orion feels as if the light is laughing at him, mocking him, but that couldn’t possibly be true, could it? It was just a light. Just a light. A light that was burning him, hurting him, it hurt, it hurt-
The light begins to twist down his wrist, curling around his arm as if it could touch him, hold him, keep him still when all he wanted was to crawl away. Orion is overwhelmed with a deep sense of dread as the light continues to creep towards his chassis. It is seeping its terrible burn into his seams and he is completely powerless to stop it. He can't pull away from the slow, cruel path the light takes, try as he might, he can’t even twitch. Orion’s pain begins to morph into panic, the burn less important than the desire to flee. He needs to move. Why can't he move?! He has to move! Why is his frame locked? Why can’t he breathe?!
Is this what death is? Orion wonders, half delirious, as he continuously fails to pull his arm free of the light’s constricting grip.
Somewhere, distantly, so very far away, yet so very close, Orion hears a click and the faintest whir. It makes his spark lurch, he swears he jerks in his panic but he still can't move. He needs to move, he needs to get out. His limited vision is suddenly flooded with a dainty flickering light. He fails at first to even process what that means before he realizes it is emitting from his own chassis. He hadn't sent any command to open his spark chamber, had he? Why would he? The mere thought of exposing himself to that light makes his processor spin and his lines run cold. Why was it open? What had he done?
Orion doesn't get the privilege to finish his thought before his frame locks impossibly tighter. It clicks sickeningly, his ruined components unable to properly pull together in the way his frame demands. The pressure makes him feel dizzy, spiraling far away. He swears that he's floating, like the light, his limbs have somehow left the ground, and he’s spinning or flying or something of the sort, it's hard to think, there’s only painpainburningpain. Sensory receptors, which he swore were entirely deactivated given his damage, alight with a burn somehow even brighter than that terrifying light above him. It seems to pulse, uncaring and cold despite the fire that sears through his entire frame. It's as if whatever energon is still left in his failing system has been lit on fire, practically exploding in every wire. The sensation engulfs him, it makes him want to scream, but with whatever is currently forcing him to remain still all he can do is lay there (or float there?) Unable to even attempt to call for help or at least beg for the pain to cease.
There's a crash and then a wave of fresh heat. It's a heavy, suffocating feeling, eating away the mere seconds of harsh chill that had crept into his system in the brief respite. It grows and grows and grows until Orion is fully convinced that he's melting. He's melting, being crushed, moulded into no more. Someone must’ve found him and decided to melt him down for spare metal, not realizing that he's still alive. Nothing less than the crucible could possibly be this hot, but he is alive. He's still alive! He has to tell them that. He has to move. Signal. Scream. Something. He's still alive! He's still alive. They can't melt him! He's not dead! He's not dead! He's not dead! He's not dead! Please notice! Please someone notice! Please don't let him die! Not like this! Not after everything! Please, please please please!
And yet, despite the pleas for help (had he even made a sound at all?), the heat only increases. Orion is nearly positive that he screams, but if he does, all he can catch is a faint echo bouncing around somewhere impossibly far away. His vision is no longer dark, but he sees nothing. He is nothing. Nothing and too much, a fire, a forge, and nothing. Nothing at all. Everything at once. It hurts. It burns. It's killing him and they don't even know they don't know they don't know they don't know. But what if they do? What if they know? Do they know? They have to know. He's dying and they know. They know.
Orion shakes, gasps, cries, he doesn’t know. A shuddering, either from the pain or the harsh lock of his joints, courses through him. There's a terrible screech. A drawn out scratch of metal against metal, as if he's being dragged away. Is it over? Has he melted away? Is he now nothing at all? No. No, something twists, clicks into a terrible, terrible, shape and in one nauseating motion Orion is no longer on the ground. Or was he already in the air? Had he ever even been on the ground? Was he still falling? He had hit the ground, hadn't he? Did he? He should be there, shouldn't be? Isn't he? Where is he?!
Deep, deep, deep within his mind, Orion hears, no feels, a beating. His spark thrumming, spinning, too fast and too slow and it's being stubborn. Why won't it listen? It needs to sync with- it needs to… no- it's not- It's beating. No. Yes. No. Yes. It's… No… It knows. It knows. It knows. Orion twitches quickly, violently, when had his frame unlocked? Had it ever even been locked? Or is this what being locked feels like? He jerks at the feeling of something stabbing… stabbing? Like the knife? Was it the knife? The knife with its fangs and its claws and he's clawing at his own- No. Not a knife. But something. Something is stabbing him. Or no. No, not stabbed. Another whir-click. A hiss. A forge. A crucible? He's melting. No. No. Not melting. Not stabbing. No, nothing at all. There's a second beat. A whispered cry. A thousand cries. The second beat. Not his spark. Not his spark. It is heavier, louder, furious.
Furious?
Frenzied, maybe. Hungry, definitely. It is screaming. Crying. It wants- It needs energon spilled at its feet. Energon? Oh, Orion had plenty of that, but it was left on the ground, and he's not there anymore, maybe. Is he still melting? Has his energon burnt up in brilliant licks of fire? Is he anything at all? There's another click, more clicks, quick like the firing of a gun. A gun? A gun. The glint of metal, manic laughter, the hum of a- No. No, it sounds like- like teeth… teeth click-clicking away. Like some sort of sparkeater. A spark? A spark… beating… whirring… There's anger. A bright, burning, anger. It's boiling away. Boiling him. Burning him. Melting him. It wants revenge, needs revenge, needs them all to die. They all deserve to die.
Wait.
Wait. What needs to die?
Orion jerks again, it stings, steam whistles distantly from somewhere too close and too far away and Orion isn't actually sure if he's Orion at all. No… no, he can't be Orion. Orion had died… He had melted. No, he'd been stabbed. Or was it that he had fallen? His energon is still on the floor, he's not sure which floor, but it's on a floor. And who is he? Does it matter? Well… it… yes. Yes, it matters. Of course it matters… Every… Everyone has… a title? A designation? Who are you? Who are you? The teeth snap bitterly with a clickclickclick. The spark beats meekly. The melting stops. Maybe.
You are not me, and I am not you, and there is no we, but, there is a murderer and the murderer must pay.
A murderer?
There's a palace and the heat of a gun. A warehouse and the sting of a knife. Energon spilled and acid burned. Oh.
Oh.
Yes.
A murderer.
There's a pop. Then another. And another. The sound of steam. Of sizzling metal. Boiling energon. A burning spark. Something somewhere (close? far?) slides back into place with a click. click. click. Then… then there is nothing but fury. Melt-worthy fury. An anger, spark deep, no further, as if engraved into every individual wire and circuit. And a murderer? No, the murderer was no longer here, nor were they still there. So the anger lives on, grows wider, hisses venomously. Growls and spits and cries for revenge, revenge, revenge.
The ground is stained with the remnants of energon, glowing faintly, drying quickly. There is rust. It lines the walls. The shelves. The floor. It is deep. Deep like the rage. Sick like the rage. There is a frame.
A frame that is too large yet still so small because the sky is so very far away and they are all so small. It kneels heavily, cradling the angry, bitter, thing that has buried itself in its giant chassis with clunky, inexperienced, hands. The bitter thing snaps, yowls, hisses, beats as viciously as it screams. The hands do not falter. They do not shake. They simply hold. They hold to soothe. To comfort. To protect.
Be still, the frame whispers, be still. Your anger, I know it. I know it well. It is righteous, and your cause is true, but be still. Be still. Be calm. It is not the time for revenge. Hush now, rest. Be still.
The bitter thing cries, snaps, screams and wails. It burns brighter than the forge, the crucible, the flame. Revenge revenge revenge; the bitter thing demands it.
The frame does not listen, it curls over the bitter thing as well as it can. Soothing, rocking, petting. Be still be still be still. A deep hum emerges from the frame, a tune made by the sailors for the seas, a tune made by the frame for the bitter thing.
It is not the time for revenge. No, it is not the time for revenge. The frame reminds softly, the bitter thing disagrees. You do not want revenge, not truly. You desire no fire nor death. You desire justice. It is justice you seek. You are aching, wounded, as your precious world is. Your whole world. Please. Be still. Your anger is righteous and fair, I know this, I know this, be calm, be calm. Too long has your world been cruel and cold. Too long. It is the time for change, not revenge. I will bring you your change. I will bring you an era of kindness, an era of peace, of fairness. I will bring you the change you desire. I will bring you the peace you need. I will gather the hope you deserve. Be calm, be still, and know that I will fulfill this purpose.
The bitter thing rages on.