Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Look, Smokescreen, do you see the Dioptase-Doe with her fawn?” Optimus cooed as he lifted his son in his arm to allow him to look out of the wagon’s window. The tiny Sparkling chirped and clicked happily, pointing at the nearby-but-not-too-nearby shapes of the two wild animals drinking their fill in the small oil stream running by the caravan’s campsite.

It amazed the adult mech how bold the two mechanimals were; normally, wild ones fled the presence of mechs and civilization altogether, and with reason he supposed. It was well-known the barbaric nomads tribes prowling the Wastelands preyed on the mechanimals for their hides and -- it was whispered with a shudder -- for their energon, which they sucked out like vampires from those bad, pseudo-gothic tales the young mech had browsed through when he had been bored. Optimus couldn’t help but grimace at the mere idea. It sounded awful.

Thankfully, they themselves were civilized mechs. They drunk oil and energon straight from the wells and natural streams, or extracted from grinded crystals -- which they also cooked in a variety of dishes and sweets -- and on the coast, they even filtered it out of the Rust and Cobalt Seas through enormous distilleries. The mechanimals had no need to fear them -- unless they were predators too dangerous to let running around habitations and, occasionally, more harmless ones threatening the crystal fields. Perhaps it was the reason the doe hadn’t fled already, Optimus mused as he shifted Smokescreen in his arms to look at the peaceful cyberwildlife duo. She was recognizing they weren’t a threat to her and her young, unlike barbarian hunters.

The doe raised her head briefly, audio sensors twitching as if listening for danger before she went back to drink, her fawn having never stopped refueling himself. A smile tugged at the blue and red mech; the scene was just adorable, and from Smokescreen’s happy coos, he guessed his son was conquered as well, even if he was too young to truly understand the beauty of the moment.

“Our son is awake?” came a brisk voice outside and Optimus startled a little, tightening his hold on Smokescreen’s small body and looking right and left in search of the speaker, who he finally spotted right outside, at the edge of the wagon, sitting in its shadow in an attempt to get shelter from the unforgiving giant sun overhead. Why he hadn’t come inside the wagon yet, Optimus couldn’t fathom and he knew better than to ask; his Bonded disliked being questioned over anything. Bright red, orange and yellow paint gleamed under a ray of sun as red optics peered at him over a frowning face, and Optimus forced himself to nod and smile.

“He is, Flame. Do you want to come in and hold him for a moment?” he asked respectfully and -- even if his Bonded seemed unaware of it -- hopefully.

Flame rarely spent time with their Creation, preferring to retire to his office or his laboratory and letting Smokescreen’s Carrier take sole responsibility for his upbringing. But here in the Wastelands, between two city-states, there was no private ward, no laboratories, no important experiences and no research papers to redact and publish. It was the perfect time for Flame to show at least a modicum of interest in Smokescreen asides of a passing glance and a pat before Optimus took him to his crib for recharge.

But Flame shook his head and Optimus’ hopes faltered. Still, he didn’t show his disappointment, just rocking Smokescreen a little against him, making the little one giggle happily. That was a balm on his Spark already.

“You should put him back in his crib and make sure he’s get back to recharge,” the flames-painted mech commented as he leaned back against the wheel of the wagon.

“It won’t work,” Optimus commented. “He already took a long nap, and he won’t fall back asleep so easily now.” Indeed, Smokescreen was wiggling in his arms, little head turned toward the doe and the fawn still drinking by the stream, pointing at them and kicking his little legs, obviously eager to run -- or rather, to waddle and stumble -- toward them to see them closer. Flame grimaced briefly but seemed resigned to the fact. Optimus tried to find something to say, to discuss, and scrambled for something.

“They’re beautiful aren’t they? The Dioptase-Doe and the fawn,” he added when Flame glanced up at him. “Such pretty colors! And they don’t seem to be afraid of us at all. Why is that?”

Flame hummed. “Yes, I suppose that for potential test subjects, they do have a look about them.” Optimus deflated immediately; of course his Bonded would first and foremost see a ‘practical use’ to the two wild lifeforms, and primarily one benefiting his work in the Sciences Guild. “They certainly aren’t shy, but I suppose the only identified oil spring in the area is too tempting for animals to play skittish with mechs sharing the space. Of course, there might be other streams we don’t know about -- the Wastelands are hardly marked, after all, and who know how many wells are formed and depleted during the Storms Season and the Drought -- but this one is probably the more accessible one for the fawn. See how his legs are trembling? I wouldn’t wager on him having more than one orn, perhaps two. Also, see how translucent their plating is? I’m sure that from close up, we could have a very good view of their circulatory system… I wonder if perhaps we could trap a specimen?” he mused aloud.

“I… don’t think we have the time and resources for that,” Optimus put in diplomatically. “The guide did said we would be leaving in half a megacycle, right?”

“One quarter of a megacycle now,” Flame corrected him. “The Zap-Horses have rested and drunk enough by now, it’s high time we get back on the trail and go back to some civilized place. Even if it’s Kaon. I don’t know about you, but I’ll be happy to stretch my tires on a properly level ground. Slagging Wastelands,” he added grumbling, making Optimus’ lips twitch in amusement despite the fact he would have wished his Bonded refrained to swear when Smokescreen could hear him.

It was true traversing the Wastelands wasn’t easy, and almost impossible in a vehicle altmode, thus why they were walking and using wagons and Zap-Horses instead of rolling. The ground was uneven for the most part, aside of a few trails the caravans took from one city to the other -- when said trails weren’t wiped out by a storm or by a horde of mechanimals.

The landscape, according to the history files Optimus had read in the Archives, had once been lush, full of plants and various mechanimal species, and true roads had linked together the southern city-states with the northern ones. Then the War had happened, causing great destruction across Cybertron. The ravages it had caused had scarred the planet forever, causing great changes in its ecosystem, especially in the Southern Hemisphere, where they were currently traveling. The weather had become harsher, acid rains, storms and tornadoes racking the planet regularly. Metalloplants and mechanimals started to die out, energon wells dried up. Several city-states were lost to the destruction, and the Wastelands formed.

The great, mostly arid plains covered a little less than half of Cybertron and hide the remains of once great civilizations. Praxus, Vos, Kolkular, Helex, Tarn,... All great cities once upon a time, now just names whispered in wonder and fright, half-forgotten by everyone but by those who could trace their ancestry to those cities. A popular theory said that the nomads tribes which roamed the Wastelands were the remaining descendants of the wiped cities inhabitants who had stubbornly remained behind to save what they could of their homes instead of taking refuges in the north, like many of their brethren did.

Not many believed the rumor, though, for it would have drew kinship links between them, civilized mechs, and a bunch of savages who devoured mechanimals and attacked caravans or outposts build in the Wastelands in and attempts to recolonize the devastated fields.

Still, the rumor probably had it right, Optimus mused. The nomads hadn’t just appeared out of thin air, after all. He had once discussed the matter with his mentor, the old Head Archivist Alpha Trion. The ancient, knowledgeable mech had just smiled sadly, bitterly.

“Of course they didn’t, Optimus. They were like us; survivors who had to find a way to adapt and survive in a new environment. We were lucky our infrastructures, government and civilization was left mostly intact; we were able to rebuild and reorganize ourselves in a coherent society very close to our previous model. They, on the other hand, didn’t get that chance. That said, our positions could have easily been reversed, and we could have been nomads ourselves. Never forget that.”

And the subject had been closed. Optimus hadn’t dared to ask more on the moment, and later on, with his upcoming Bonding and his resignation from the Archives in order to become a housemech, it had been too late.

Smokescreen chirped, breaking Optimus out of his reminiscences, and he bowed his head to smile at his son, stroking him under the chin with one digit.

“Kaon isn’t such a bad place,” he tried to comfort his Bonded. Which was true; the biggest of the remaining Southern cities, Kaon was well-defended and was known for it’s booming business. Some were already nicknaming it the ‘Southern Capital’ or the ‘Southern Gemstone’. “Of course, it’s a little far from Iacon and most of our clan, but you said yourself there would be plenty of opportunities for you to further your career,” he reminded him. Flame wasn’t a very family-oriented mech, but he was always willing to see reason when it was related to his job and career.

The flame-painted mech nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. I just wish we didn’t have to go through the Wastelands on foot to join Kaon. A pity that with the upcoming Storms Season, no aerial transports was willing to make the trip.”

“There already were two crashes reported in the news, one of which involved a civilians transport,” Optimus reminded him, rocking the still wiggling Smokescreen to calm him down. “I understand the pilots weren’t in a hurry to continue the liaisons with the Southern Hemisphere. Besides, walking has its advantages. We… we can spend some time together that way,” he offered. He fought to not add more; Flame could take it the wrong way if he did, and he didn’t want to give the impression he was complaining. Even if he was.

Flame looked nonplussed, but finally nodded. “Of course. Ah… Optimus? I’m sorry I didn’t have much time for you lately -- or for Smokescreen,” he added after a moment of silence, and he sounded truly sorry, to Optimus’ surprise. “My work was just too important for me to drop it like that. You understand, don’t you? But once we’re properly settled in Kaon, I’ll try to arrange for more free time so we can go out together. Would you like that?”

Optimus nodded, smiling. “I’d be elated.” But he didn’t believe a word of it. Flame had promised that before, and he had always forgotten in favor of something he deemed more important: that one, capital experience he needed to keep an optic on, that unplanned trip to Protihex University for a lecture, that research paper he needed to complete in order for it to get published in the next sciences newspaper,... Spending time with his mate always came second to what he deemed more important.

The only things he didn’t forget were the official receptions they needed to attend together as part of the Prime’s household -- even if they were only distantly related to the Prime himself. Showing himself and looking important or playing sycophant to more influential members of their extended family or of the nobility was something Flame always had time for, much to Optimus’ disgust. It wasn’t even as if Flame was gathering any true favor, but still he went and tried and Optimus had to smile and play the part of a good Bonded, even when he wished to be somewhere else entirely.

He wished… Yes, he truly wished his Creators had arranged for a different match. Sadly, the distant kinship they shared with the ruling Prime had ensured early on Optimus wouldn’t get much, if any say in whom he would eventually Bond. The purity of the Prime lineage had to be conserved through careful breeding. Love held little role in the process. Cue his Bonding to Flame, with whom he shared little to no common interest. Flame wasn’t much happier himself with the Bonding arrangement, of course, but since his rank had been higher than Optimus’ own, he had ended up as the dominating partner, and so he hadn’t had to sacrifice all his ambitions as Optimus himself did.

Both were descended from the lineage of the Prime, but to different degrees. Optimus was the only Creation of the fifth Creation of the second Creation of Lio Convoy, the late Zeemon Prime’s younger brother, whereas Flame was the second Creation of the current Prime’s cousin -- on his Carrier’s side -- and he was also the nephew of the current Mistress of the Flame to boot. His very name was an homage to that Aunt, for he had been born on the day she had accessed to the grade. With such ties, he was closer in kin to the current Prime than Optimus was, and so he had naturally been chosen to become the Sire in his and Optimus’ couple. Besides, being a scientist was a more important occupation than being an archivist, even if Optimus had been training under Alpha Trion himself. At least, that was what several family members had let him know, more or less directly.

This disdain for his chosen profession had stung a lot, especially from some mechs he had thought were his friends. Flame had showed himself genuinely supportive and upset on his behalf, for which Optimus had been grateful, but even his show of support hadn’t meant much -- and couldn’t change the way their society worked. In a Bonded couple, the Sire continued to work, but the Carrier was expected to stay at home and bear and raise the Sparklings -- and even more so in families belonging to the nobility. Commoners might be allowed a derogation, but a noble? Unthinkable.

Still, Optimus reasoned, he shouldn’t complain too much. Flame might have been distant and far from being his ideal mech, but he wasn’t so bad. He never drunk until he was overcharged, he had never raised a hand toward Optimus even when he was frustrated, he provided him with everything Optimus asked him for… and he had given him Smokescreen. That alone was worth everything in the universe for the red and blue mech.

“I’ll be sure to give you two a treat,” Flame promised again. “Do you need something in the wagon? More oil skins to fill perhaps? Smokescreen hasn’t lost any of his toys?”

Optimus smiled despite himself. “No, everything is in order. Smokescreen has everything he needs, and the skins are all full. Do you… do you wish to come in, perhaps? Do part of the travel in the wagon with us?” he asked belatedly. He didn’t dare asking if perhaps he could walk besides Flame; had it only been the two of them, or had they been commoners, he could have. With a young Sparkling to care for, though, the unspoken, right way to act for a noble, even a minor one, was to ride inside the wagon the entire way with the little one. As such, the long treck to Kaon was starting to feel very lonely, and he wished Flame would have picked on it.

“Thank you for the offer, but I prefer to walk,” Flame declined with a polite nod, missing the unspoken plea for company. “Besides, more space for Smokescreen and you to play, right?”

“Right,” Optimus said after a moment of silence, shuttering his optics.

“You should got back to lie on your berth,” Flame added after a moment of silence, something like concern in his voice, making Optimus light his optics again to look at him. “You don’t look too good. Do you still have trouble recharging? You’re sure the fuel you took wasn’t contaminated, right?”

“It’s nothing,” the blue and red mech waved asides the concern, though he felt touched his Bonded even addressed the issue. “I think it’s just the rocking motions of the wagon which upset my tank; I don’t have any problem anymore. As for the recharge… well, I’m just unused to the heat and the constant motion. Once we’re back into a proper apartment, I’ll feel and rest much better. I promise.”

“If you say so.” Flame looked dubitative, but he let it go. Nibbling his lips, he raised a hand toward the window, stroking Optimus’ hand and, to Optimus’ delight, Smokescreen’s cheek. The little mechling chirped and waved happily at his Sire, making Flame break into a rare smile before he withdrew his hand. “I’ll go see how the preparations for the departure are going. From what the guides said, we’re still five solar cycles away from Kaon. It won’t be much longer.”

Optimus nodded. They exchanged a few more words before Flame left. He watched him go wistfully while Smokescreen made a plaintive sound; him too would have wished for his Sire’s continued presence. It couldn’t be helped, though. With a sigh, the blue and red mech looked back toward the stream.

The Dioptase-Doe and her fawn were long gone.

They were still three solar cycles and half away from Kaon when the attack came. It started so silencious and at such an unexpected moment that it took a moment for Optimus to register what was happening.

One moment he was nodding at one of the caravan’s guard as he passed by the wagon’s open window, and the next he was blinking as the guard stiffened and fell from his Zap-Horse with barely a whimper, armor smoking from a hole in his back. There had been no blaster discharge, and Optimus contemplated the injury silently for a few kliks, not understanding what had caused the damages.

It struck him around the same time cries of warning echoed across the caravan and blasters discharges as well as shout of pains and dying gasps replaced the previous silence.

Energy arrow. They were a primitive weapon, especially next to modern blasters, but they consumed far less energy, and they had the advantage to be perfectly silencious.

Nomads used energy bows.

Optimus was moving before his processor had really registered what he was doing. In a matter of kliks, he had closed the reinforced shutter of the window, somewhat managed to dislodge one berth from its fixation and pushed it in front of the door to lock it up as best as he could, and now he was huddling in a corner, holding a wailing Smokescreen against his chest he listened anxiously to the noise outside.

It didn’t sound good at all. Silently, he addressed a prayer to Primus as he tightened his hold around Smokescreen. Whatever was going to happen, he wouldn’t let anyone hurt his Sparkling. He swore it on his Spark.

Insistent banging at the wagon door made him startle and he tensed, looking around desperately for a weapon -- and he belatedly realized he was holding one foot of the berth as he would a club. When had he tore it up?

“Optimus? Optimus are you alright?!”

“Flame! What’s going on?!” he anxiously called back, feeling stupid for asking. They were under attack, of course he knew what was going on! “Are you alright?!” Nevermind himself, so long Smokescreen and him were inside, they had little to fear -- or so he hoped -- but Flame was in first line for the barbarians to attack!

“Stay where you are and protect Smokescreen!” the flame-painted mech shouted, his voice barely audible in the chaos outside.

“Flame!” Optimus shouted desperately, hearing his Bonded cry -- not a cry of pain but an actual war cry. The idiot! He knew the distant scientist knew how to use a weapon -- and for that matter, so did Optimus; all nobles, even minor ones, learned to use a sword and a blaster to defend themselves should they need to -- but it must have been vorns since the last time the flame-colored mech picked one! And still he did, in defense of his family, and the part of Optimus’ Spark and processor who weren’t seized with fear and worry actually felt proud of Flame’s courage.

“Optimus?” Flame panted outside. “It doesn’t look good here. You have a weapon?”

The red and blue mech looked down at his makeshift club. “Sort of…”

“Anyone come in, don’t hesitate to use it. I’ll defend the entrance, but they’re too many…” he paused and gave another war cry. “Optimus? Optimus, I… I’m sorry. I haven’t been… ” Another cry, but this time, Optimus almost wailed as he realized it was a cry of pain.

“Flame! Flame!” His Spark gave a flutter.

“... you take care of Smokey, okay?” the exhausted voice of his Bonded said, pain lacing his words. He gave a cry again, a sharp, defiant cry even as a more powerful roar resonated near by, making Optimus shudder. Then there was a gurgle, and a sharp sting to his Spark that made him shutter his optics, cleansing fluid leaking out as he realized that the Bond had broken.

He didn’t have time to weep, however, as loud banging started to be heard. Someone was trying to destroy the door. Optimus’ hold on his club tightened and he rose to his pedes, still holding Smokescreen’s small body to him with one arm. His Sparkling was wailing from fright, but in the chaos outside, it sounded like a mere whisper.

The blade of a sword finally transpierced the door, and Optimus shifted, optics narrowed, never leaving the door out of his sight as he carefully moved out of the corner. The wagon wasn’t very large, and he would have a hard time fighting in it especially with Smokescreen to consider, but he had to try. Flame had laid down his life for them, and he would do the same for Smokescreen should the need arise.

Let those barbarians come in; he was ready to receive them!

The door broke, its remain sprawling on the floor. A large hand pushed aside the few fragments still standing as a mech made its way inside with a grunt. Optimus’ hand shook slightly as he readied his makeshift club and he swallowed as red optics fell on him. Primus. Sharp dentas, clawed hands. A grey frame that looked dangerous and lethal, sprayed with energon -- and not a drop of it looked like its own. The red and blue mech didn’t whimper, but it was close.

The nomad’s optics went from him to Smokescreen and back, widening slightly. He glanced back behind him, shifting just so, and with horrified optics, Optimus caught the hint of a greying frame outside as the wagon’s feet. A familiar frame. The nomad’s optics were still glancing at it when Optimus roared and, in a fit of pain, rage and fear, threw himself at him, wanting to avenge Flame. True, there hadn’t been any true love between them, but he was… had been his Bonded and Smokescreen’s Sire. He had tried to defend them, and he had paid a heavy price. He merited Optimus’ efforts to avenge him.

The club connected with the nomad’s head with a clang, making the mech hiss in pain, but he didn’t stumble. Instead, a sturdy hand caught Optimus’ armed wrist and forced him to drop his weapon lest he’d also drop Smokescreen due to the pain. With a cry, Optimus let go, blue optics catching red ones.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, then Optimus moved, kicking as well as he could while still holding and protecting Smokescreen with one hand, the Sparkling desperately crying as he could do nothing to sooth his fear.

The nomad didn’t bulge. With a grunt, he let go of his own weapon, the sword which had destroyed the door, and grabbed Optimus’ shoulder, bringing him close to him, trapping Smokescreen between their two frames. The red and blue mech immediately stilled, for fear of accidentally crushing his son in the struggling. Everything became still, asides of his son’s continued panicked wriggling and wailing. The nomad looked at him up and down, frowning, his olfactive sensor sniffing like that of a Hellhound, making Optimus feel uneasy for some reason as the mech breathed in his scent. The red optics widened slightly, a grimace briefly crossing his face before he schooled his expression again.

He said a word, but Optimus could only stare at him, mute. He hadn’t understood what he had been said and truthfully, he was past caring. The word was repeated, but Optimus just stared in mute confusion again.

The nomad’s face narrowed as he manhandled Optimus, forcing him to move and walk toward the destroyed door of the wagon and outside. Smokescreen’s eventual fate still resting heavily on his mind, Optimus obeyed, trying very hard not to look at where he knew Flame laid. As it was, the nomad gently but firmly grabbed his chin so he was forced to look in another direction but the one of his greying Bonded.

Not that the rest of what was going on outside was much better.

There were bodies sprawled everywhere, mechs and Zap-Horses alike. Most belonged to the caravan’s guards, but two or three, more massive, must have belonged to the attacking nomads. One of the wagons was burning, heavy smoke rising from the open door and shutter. A few mechs were still fighting, but it was clear it wouldn’t last much longer. Several caravans members laid unconscious but still alive in the shade of another wagon, three armed nomads standing watch over them. The rest were busy sifting through the boxes and packages the Zap-Horses and wagons had been transporting, sorting out items in several piles -- probably what they considered useful, what was good loot and what was rubbish. A youngish looking nomad was collecting oil skins. There wasn’t much noise left.

Smokescreen’s wailings, diminished by his tiredness, cut through the semi-silence like an armor-piercing blade. Several nomads startled and turned to look at him, and Optimus’ Spark sunk at the sudden attention. His captor’s hold on his wrist didn’t allow him to seize his son with both hands, but oh how he wished so, so he could try and hide him against his frame!

A few nomads walked in their direction, all speaking the strange dialect Optimus didn’t understand. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t pinpoint what -- and he was in no state to try anyway. Behind him, his captor spoke again, answering what was probably questions headed at him. Nomads started to form an half-circle around them, looking curiously at him and at Smokescreen… Curiously, or with a strange sympathy, while other gave his captor’s glares or unimpressed looks as they spoke.

His captor spoke some more, and the disapproving looks disappeared. Nods were exchanged as most of the other nomads turned away, letting Optimus completely confused as his captor frog-marched him toward two other nomads. They were, Optimus noted with dread, busy tying up two unconscious members of the caravan. His captor gave them a sharp call and one of them threw him a roll of rope, looking at Optimus up and down with a smirk.

The other huffed and shook his head before he moved, reaching out for Smokescreen and -- as Optimus realized with alert -- obviously intending to take him out of his Carrier’s arms.

“NO!!!!!!” he shouted, kicking and hissing at the nomad, who took a step back in surprise before laughing. He started to speak at him in their strange dialect, but Optimus didn’t care. He wouldn’t let them take Smokescreen away from him!

His captor leaned toward him, whispering at his audio receptor in a soothing way, but Optimus shook his head and continued to kick and thrash to keep Smokescreen, shouting his head off at the nomads, who watched him nonplussed and tried to speak to him to no avail. With a sigh, the grey mech holding him let go of his shoulder and put his hand on Optimus’ neck, clawed digits digging into a seam and searching for something.

Optimus felt a pinch over one of his neck cablings. The next thing he knew, he was falling down, optics blurring, vision darkening, and Smokescreen’s panicked wails still resonating under his helm.

Chapter Text

He was lying on something soft. Not only that, but something just as soft covered his frame. That was the first thing that came to Optimus’ mind as his processor slowly rebooted. For a moment, he almost believed himself back home, in the spacious apartment he had occupied with Flame in downtown Iacon and…

Flame.

His Spark seized as he remembered the previous events. His Bonded was dead. The nomad had dragged him out of the wagon, and then someone had tried to take Smokescreen and…

Smokescreen! Where was his son?!

He sat up quickly, throwing aside the… pelt? which had been covering him, optics darting right and left for his precious Sparkling. His Spark fluttered in relief when he spotted him. Smokescreen laid swaddled near him, installed in… a basket? It looked like a basket anyway, but Optimus didn’t care.

He jerked forward, intent on taking his baby in his arms, only to gasp as he almost fell flat on his face, his legs blocked. He looked down at himself, optics widening as he noticed the chains binding his pedes. A pair of cuffs linked his ankles together, while a length of chain bound him to a mast in the center of the dome-like structure he rested in. He vaguely tugged at the chain before focusing once more on Smokescreen. The chain didn’t allow him to go far, but it was enough to reach for and take the Sparkling out of the basket and in his arms. Only then did he feel some of his panic leave him. Relief menacing to choke him, he hugged him. The little one didn’t wake, though he made a soft sound that threatened to make Optimus’ Spark melt in relief and happiness.

Gingerly, he sat back, his cuffed legs giving just enough leeway to sit cross-legged. His back to the mast, he finally took the time to look at his new environment with curiosity and wariness. It was obvious he had been captured and put in a nomad dwelling, but never before had he wondered what such a place looked like.

The answer was: very… spartan. The dome-like structure seemed to be a mix of light, foldable metal panels, fabric sheets and pelts. Dim light shone through the sheets, allowing him to stay in semi-darkness. Big, weaved baskets with assorted lid and weaved trunks were lining the ‘walls’, too far for him to reach. There was only two metal ones, and he noticed with interest they were equipped with outer power-cells. It vaguely resembled a cooler, but with a more primitive and massive design -- not to mention they were much larger. Asides of that… nothing. And certainly nothing he could use as a weapon.

With a sigh, he reported his attention on his sleeping Sparkling, gently rocking him against his frame, softly humming a lullaby he knew Smokescreen enjoyed. The little one moved and whimpered a little in his recharge, but didn’t wake. Optimus smiled softly. His baby was growing so fast. Already, he could toddle around… and, come to think, it probably was the reason the nomads had swaddled him: to avoid the little one wandering around unsupervised should he wake up without anyone around. That was… very sensible, if it was truly the case.

The images of the grey bodies of his Bonded and the guards and other travelers flashed before his mind and his lips curled. Sensible or not, the nomads had truly lived to their reputation of barbarians. The fact they had kidnapped him, and those two mechs they had tied up… what did that meant? Why had they done that? What did they want with them? With him and Smokescreen?

Nomads weren’t in the habit of ransoming captives, that much he knew. Eck, they rarely took prisoners when they raided an outpost or attacked a caravan and when they did, those they took were never seen back in civilized society. The fact they bothered to take him and his Sparkling… it was more than worrisome.

But there was little he could do about it besides wait and see what would happen. With a soft sigh, he settled more comfortable against the mast, listening to the noises and smelling the scents filtering from outside. The air was filled with a mix of sweets and sour scents and the stench he had come to associate with spilled energon and mechanimals’ natural scent. He could hear the echoes of voices calling out for each others, the happy chirping and cries of young Sparklings and Younglings as they ran around, but also the hum of mechs and femmes singing a low, exotic air.

Wherever he was, the place was busy and not just filled with warriors like the ones who had attacked the caravan. For some reason, he found it reassuring; if there were families around, as the Younglings’ presence seemed to indicate, then he was reasonably sure nothing bad would happen would happen to Smokescreen. Even among barbarians, he didn’t think someone would have the Spark to offline a Sparkling in cold blood. Whatever would happen to him was more mysterious.

He dozed off after a while, optics half-shuttered, until a ray of light made him blink and shift. Turning, he saw someone had opened the ‘door’ to the dome-like structure and was peering inside -- peering at him and Smokescreen. Tensing, Optimus shifted his hold on Smokescreen, trying to hide him from view in his arms. The nomad at the door, whom he recognized as his captor, said something that Optimus didn’t understand as he entered and closed the opening behind him. The mech repeated what he had said again as he walked closer, and Optimus just frowned, shifting and moving away from the mast and from the nomad as much as his chains allowed him to.

The nomad paused in his steps, but he continued to speak, alternating between soft sounding words and more inflamed ones. No matter the tone, though, they made absolutely no sense to the blue and red mech. Primus, this one was stubborn! By now, he should have realized Optimus didn’t understand him already! He kept his face blank, though, and didn’t utter a word, just shifting uneasily and staying as far as possible from the grey, almost silver mech.

The nomad finally huffed, probably realizing his speech had no effect. Giving Optimus a look, he turned and left the dome-like structure again. He came back a moment later, holding out two bowls of… something. Optimus frowned at the content. It could have been energon, but Optimus had never seen energon with that color, or that consistence for that matter. There even seemed to be solid bits in the gooey liquid. Weird. Still, the scent was agreeable and his tank gave a pang as he realized suddenly how hungry he was.

The nomad carefully put them down on a pelt before walking toward one of the baskets and foraging inside until he made a sound of triumph and took out two spoons. He sat down in an almost regal way next to the bowls, put a spoon in each and then made gestures inviting Optimus to come closer. Optimus hesitated, not wanting to make the smallest move that would bring him nearer the nomad, but his tank gave a loud rumble, making him blush as the nomad laughed, showing off his sharp dentas.

Cheeks flushing, Optimus finally gave in and started to move, settling back at an arm's length from the grey mech, still holding Smokescreen. After a moment of hesitation, he put the swaddled, recharging Sparkling on the nearest pelt, making sure he was comfortable before turning back to his captor. To his surprise, the grey mech was watching him with something akin to approval on his face, making Optimus feel uncomfortable. He wished he understood the nomads’ language so he could ask the questions that haunted his processor. For now, though, he had to concentrate on regaining his strengths. He didn’t know where he was, nor if he had a chance to escape with Smokescreen, but if there was the smallest chance he could, then he would need to be at his best.

He gingerly reached for one of the bowls but before he could put a digit on it, a hand swatted at him and he had to retire it quickly, looking in surprise at the nomad sitting across him. The grey mech looked amused as he withdrew a bowl out of Optimus’ reach and took the other, turning the spoon inside before filling it. Confused, Optimus looked at him with his head tilted. What was going on here? Hadn’t the nomad brought the second bowl for him after all? Or…

The nomad handed him the full spoon, trying to press it against Optimus’ lips.

Oh. He wanted to… feed him by hand, Optimus realized dimly, shocked, before he frowned as he started to feel angry.

“No,” he stated, turning his head away from the spoon. “I can eat by myself, thank you,” he added, deciding to try and be polite if only for the sake of appearances. The nomad, of course, didn’t understand and continued to try and slip the spoon in his mouth -- or perhaps he did understand Optimus’ refusal, but didn’t care. He said something -- no, he actually cooed at Optimus! -- trying to entice him. “No,” he repeated, reaching out to grab the spoon, only for the nomad to withdrew it out of his reach. Optimus sighed in frustration. “That’s childish and petty, do you know that?” he asked, frowning. The nomad just smirked, once again pressing the spoon to Optimus’ lips.

With a sigh, the red and blue mech finally relented and parted them. As humiliating as it was, he couldn’t avoid it. He needed to refuel, and if the price to pay was a small part of his dignity, then so was it. The spoon slide between his lips and over his glossa and he finally tasted the fuel.

It was… weird. Not bad, but weird. The taste was as thick as the consistency, and he munched carefully on one of the tiny solid bits inside, trying to identify what it was and coming short. It tasted like nothing he had ever refueled with. Swallowing, he let the spoon slide out of his mouth. The nomad spoke to him again in soft tones, handing him another spoonful which Optimus took obediently.

The grey nomad continued to spoon-feed him until the bowl was empty, after which he grabbed the second bowl and started to refuel himself. Optimus leaned back, watching him warily in between two glances at Smokescreen. He looked so peaceful… but wasn’t he hungry too? Then again, he had been unconscious for a good while, according to his chronometer. Perhaps the nomads had seen fit to feed Smokescreen themselves before he awoke? It wasn’t as if his captor had tried to ever hurt the Sparkling, after all…

He startled when the nomad started to speak to him again, and Optimus tried to focus on him, alarmed when he noticed the grey mech was bend over Smokescreen’s small frame, smiling down at him. Part of him wanted to lunge and push him away from his Sparkling, while the other was frozen in place as the large grey mech brushed one clawed digit over Smokescreen’s cheek. With a grace and carefulness unexpected for his size and sharp looks, the grey mech gently took the Sparkling in his hands and installed him back in the basket where Optimus had first found him. Was it the nomad’s version of a cradle?

“What do you want with us?” he finally asked, even if he knew the nomad wouldn’t understand him. The mech looked up at the sound of his voice after drawing a square of fabric over Smokescreen’s frame and said something back, making Optimus sigh.

“I think we have many progress to do when it comes to communication. Do you even understand any word I say? Do you even care?” The nomad looked puzzled. “Why did you bring us here? Why did you even attack us to begin with? Were we trespassing on your territory or something? I read some nomads tribes do that when caravans pass through grounds they consider sacred, but still…”

No flash of comprehension from the nomad, of course, but he hadn’t expected any. “What are you doing to do with me? Or with my Sparkling? Did you take us as slaves to serve you?” That sounded like the most logical explanation to their kidnapping when one knew the nomads didn’t ransom prisoners. So much for trying to buy his way out by flashing his family’s wealth. With a sigh, he flopped on the floor and rolled over to lie on his back, head tilted as to keep Smokescreen’s basket in his vision field.

The nomad said something in a tone that was vaguely questioning before moving over to where Optimus laid. Immediately, the blue and red mech tensed. The close proximity of his captor felt vaguely threatening, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

“What do you want?” he asked warily. The nomad spoke again and, to Optimus’ surprise, brushed his fingers against his captive’s chest. The gesture may had seemed inoffensive, but the gleam in the mech’s optics… He recognized it easily; Flame had bore the same whenever he had been in that mood. Optimus sputtered. “What do you think you’re doing?!” He jerked back, or at least tried to, as the grey mech grabbed his wrist and immediately straddled him. “Get off!” He kicked and thrashed, trying to dislodge his captor, but the mech was considerably heavier than him. “Get off!”

The grey mech growled, grabbing his other wrist and pinning them both down on the pelt under them, simply holding down Optimus while the red and blue mech cursed and kicked. He could feel himself getting tired already despite the bowl of fuel he had just taken, but desperation kept him going. He had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen if he stopped struggling -- or even if he continued to; in the end, he doubted it’d make a big difference. He shook his head, repeating ‘no’ as often as he could until he froze, optics focused on Smokescreen’s basket.

Primus Almighty…

His body sagged suddenly as he fought back a whimper. He could see the grey mech’s patience waning already, and if he kept fighting… if he continued to resist him… if his captor got angry, then he could very well take his frustration out on Smokescreen, and Optimus couldn’t allow that, never.

He could endure, he promised himself. So long Smokescreen was safe, he could endure anything the nomad did to him. Shuttering his optics, he let himself be manhandled as the nomad spoke above him, his tone suddenly more gentle as he released Optimus’ wrists and started to roam his hands over the red and blue mech’s frame. They rested together on his stomach plates before sliding lower. The nomad moved, gently kissing Optimus’ stomach plates at the same spot he had caressed them. More caresses were given as the nomad tried to… to make him relax? That was almost laughable, and it would have been had Optimus not been in the process of being molested.

His frame shook, but the nomad didn’t comment on it. Was it mistaking Optimus’ fear for arousal? Optimus didn’t dare to look at him and see his face, maintaining his optics shut. As it was, his frame was starting to react to the gentle touches and kisses, even if Optimus truly wished it didn’t. Flame used to touch him like that too… He couldn’t help it; a sob escaped his vocalizer, making the nomad pause.

A kiss was pressed to his lips before the nomad started to speak again and coo -- probably reassurances, but Optimus couldn’t understand them and truthfully, he didn’t care. More kisses were littered across his frame even as the nomad’s hands slide between his thighs to spread them apart. The angle was slightly awkward, the chains around his ankles not allowing for much, but it was sufficient for the nomad to get access to what he sought. Insistent pats and caresses rained down over his interface panel as his captor crooned softly. Trying not to sob again, Optimus let it slide open, and his captor made a small sound of triumph. Fingers started to probe at his valve, which was completely dry by this point. The triumph in the other mech’s voice was replaced with something akin to annoyance, but it was so soft it carried no real heat. The fingers continued to probe and caress him between his thighs, slowly but methodically heating up his interface array.

The first finger sliding inside him made him tense, his back arching slightly from the ground, making his captor chuckle as he moved his hand to press on Optimus’ hip to keep him still. He was still mostly dry, but his frame, heated up by the ministrations of the nomad, had started to produce lubricant, easing the friction as the finger started to move in and out of him with the same gentleness as before. It continued for a while, until the grey mech decided Optimus’ port was ready to take a second digit, which he swiftly pressed in as well. Optimus keened softly, letting his head loll to the side, keeping his optics shuttered.

Primus, make it fast, he begged silently.

Perhaps their legendary Creator heard him, because the fingers were soon out of him. There wasn’t any relief to be found at it, though, because soon enough something blunt was pressing against the rim of his valve, rubbing against his array in a final attempt at arousing him further. Optimus moaned softly, and the nomad probably took it as an encouragement, for he pressed forward, pushing the tip of his spike in. Optimus whimpered, trying not to make too much noise -- the risk Smokescreen woke up if he was too loud was too great for him to risk it.

His near silence and stillness didn’t seem to bother his captor that much, though, because he continued to press further in. Optimus choked a little as his body struggled to get used to the girth. The nomad was thicker than Flame ever was, and longer too. It felt uncomfortable, but not painful -- the grey mech was still showing the same care, the same patience, speaking soft words to Optimus as he stilled, buried to the hilt inside the red and blue mech.

Optimus panted, systems and valve straining to take in the girth of his captor. He was gently nuzzled in the neck, the nomad’s hands roaming his frame again, clawed digits plucking into seams to tease at the wiring underneath, making Optimus hitch and moan softly, to the nomad’s amusement. More soft words -- praises, perhaps? -- and caresses, and then he started to move his hips, rolling them at a slow pace that made Optimus moan and writhe despite himself.

“Ah…!” His own hips rolled back by reflex, just like he did when it had been Flame atop him in the earliest parts of their common life. Their lovemaking had always been rare, even more so after the birth of Smokescreen. The moment they had had an heir, the flame-colored mech had judged their ‘duties’ as Bonded fulfilled. He hadn’t deserted Optimus’ berth, of course, but their late night meetings had gotten rarer and rarer.

Perhaps it was to blame for the way he was reacting now, his body easily answering the pleasurable stimuli as the nomad pounded into him. He rocked with each thrust, letting his optics half-shuttered, watching Smokescreen’s makeshift crib and reminding himself he was doing it for him, for his safety. That didn’t stop the trail of tears on his cheeks, though. His captor roared above him in a last thrust and Optimus felt transfluid rushing into him, almost flooding his valve. The nomad slumped and withdrew before rolling off of Optimus with a contented sigh. He started to happily speak until his speech faltered, his tone turning questioning.

A hand grabbed Optimus under the chin, forcing him to turn his head to look at the nomad in the optics. Another question, to which Optimus had no idea how to answer, since he didn’t even understand what was being asked. The grey mech continued to ask things in a questioning tone, growing more and more agitated even as he tried to wipe out Optimus’ tears to no avail. With a growl, he jumped to his feet and, after cleaning the mess between his legs and covering Optimus’ body with a rag, he excited the dome-like structure in a hurry.

Rising back in a sitting position, Optimus bowed his head once alone and, tired, sore and distressed, went back to stand silent vigil over Smokescreen’s basket, smiling down sadly at his Sparkling. Yes. So long his son was kept safe, he knew he could and would endure.

Chapter Text

By the time is captor came back, Optimus had uncurled himself from his position on the floor and Smokescreen had woke up, confused but in relative good mood after noticing his Carrier looming over him. Smiling to reassure him, the red and blue mech had undone the tight bindings swaddling his Sparkling and was now watching Smokescreen crawl on the pelts and carpets as he explored this new, unknown place with the sheer determination and curiosity only Sparklings could own.

Optimus was watching him with a twinge of amusement and worry, knowing that if Smokescreen moved too far from the mast, he wouldn’t be able to catch him. The chain only extended so far and Optimus hesitated to try and break the links. For one, they looked sturdy, and breaking them with his bare hands would be long and complicated, especially with Smokescreen to keep an optic on. Not only that, but if his captor came back while he was busy freeing himself, he knew the silver-grey mech would be angry. And, well… he knew he was in a camp, so that meant more nomads outside, ready to catch him if he tried to make a run for it. Not to mention, they were in the Wastelands, and Optimus hadn’t the smallest clue about how to navigate them. His best bet so far was to lay low and wait, while making sure his son remained unharmed.

He almost didn’t notice the round opening of the dome-like structure being opened, but he certainly didn’t miss the urging inflexions in his captor’s voice as he entered, dragging another mech, this one sand-colored, inside behind him. Optimus gave him a passing glance as he rushed to take Smokescreen in his arms; he couldn’t let him out of his reach or sight with two strangers present. The new mech who seemed to be in a grumpy mood, judging by the way he answered to the grey nomad as he rebooted his optics, probably to adapt them to the dim light in the dome -- the sun outside seemed to be exceptionally bright. And if he had been grumpy before, the moment he laid his optics on Optimus, whose face was still dirtied by tears he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, his temper fully exploded.

“What has that rust-infected son of thrash compactor done this time?!”

Optimus didn’t know what shocked him the most: hearing someone swear so much in the presence of an impressionable Sparkling, or hearing a nomad swear in proper Cybertronian and not the strange dialect they used between them. Jaw falling open, he could only stare at the… not-very-polite mech.

The newcomer pushed his captor away rudely and, in a few steps, he had reached Optimus, crouching down before him and Smokescreen with inquisitive optics. His Sparkling yelped and burrowed his face against his Carrier’s chest, which in turn seemed to distraught the newcomer.

“Hush, little one. I mean you no harm,” he said in a more gentler tone. “Nor to your Carrier,” he added as he looked up to look at Optimus in the optics.

Optimus’ first realization was that the newcomer had blue optics, just like his owns. His second was that, unlike what he had first thought, the newcomer wasn’t sand-colored. What he had assumed was plating was revealed to be a… strip of cloth like some of the caravan’s guards had worn -- they had called it a poncho, if he remembered right -- with a hood which the mech quickly pushed back, revealing his helm. His true colors were red and white, and on his arms…

“... I know those glyphs. It’s… Protihex Medical Mechanical’s old markings, isn’t it? You… You’re a medic?” he asked tentatively, and the red and white mech nodded slowly. “Who are you?” he whispered, taken aback. What was a graduate from Medical Mechanical doing with a bunch of barbarians? Sure, the markings were old, and they seemed to be of an old model no longer in use, but they clearly identified him as a medic. At the same time, the relief he felt at meeting someone from the civilized part of Cybertron, someone with whom he could actually communicate, was tempered by the place he was meeting him at. If he was here, unrestrained, then it must meant he was yet another kidnapper. Was he truly safe?

“Peace,” the newcomer said as he raised a hand in a pacifying gesture. “My name is Ratchet. And I was indeed a student at Protihex Medical Mechanical, once upon a time. It must have been…” he frowned, trying to remember before shrugging. “... 20,000 vorns, give or take a few, since I last walked the Academy’s halls. I once served as medic in Iacon and later Kaon. And nowaday, well… I’m one of the tribe’s healers.”

Optimus’ Spark sunk a little at the confirmation of his fears. If he identified himself as belonging to the ‘tribe’, then Ratchet wasn’t an ally who would allow him to escape the clutches of the nomads. He glanced past the medic at the form of his captor, who was staying near the door, optics narrowed and arms crossed over his chest. He said something to which Ratchet answered back curtly. Whatever it was, it mustn’t have been polite, because the grey mech snarled and tapped his heel to the ground. Ratchet snorted and added something before making a dismissive gesture and turning his attention back to Optimus and the Sparkling.

In his arms, Smokescreen gave a questioning chirp, turning slightly to glance at the medic. Ratchet smiled at the little one, optics soft.

“Hello there. Remember me, little one?” he cooed as he shifted and sat on his heels.

“‘Remember’?” Optimus mouthed, optics narrowed before understanding dawned on his mind. “You saw to Smokescreen while I was unconscious, didn’t you?”

The medic nodded. “I did. I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, for I know how Carriers are when it comes to their young Sparklings, but when the raiding party came back to the camp, your son wouldn’t stop crying in distress. I quickly saw to his need. I checked him over for injuries and swaddled him to protect him from the heat and stop him from wandering without supervision.” He paused, hesitating. “I… had to give him a calming drop to help put him to sleep. He was crying so hard his vocalizer almost fritzed. I’m sorry to have done so without your permission, but my options were limited.”

“A… calming drop?” Optimus inquired. “What did you give him exactly? What are the effects? Will he suffer from any…?”

Ratchet raised a hand. “Calm down, please. Your son is fine, and will suffer no secondary effects. I’m a medic, I know what doses I should give my patients, even the smallest ones. As for what I gave him… Nomads like our tribes don’t have access to state-of-art remedies and the newest surgical tools, to my greatest regret. We must make-do with more ‘natural’ medicines, such as ‘potions’ I prepare with the extracts of several metalloplants. I gave your Sparkling two drops of a watered-down potion I give ‘bots who have trouble finding sleep at night. It doesn’t taste good,” he confessed, “and it’s slow acting, but it works. It just help the body relax so recharge comes more easily. Once I gave him that look over, I handed him to a Carrier so he would feed him. By the time he finished suckling, he was so sleepy we were able to put him with you without him raising a ruckus. I trust he slept well? Oh, may I ask for his name by the way? And for yours?”

“He… does seem to have rested well,” Optimus confirmed, nodding slowly, at loss over what he could say. Should he reveal his name and Smokescreen’s just yet? The mech sounded genuine, but he couldn’t trust him. Not yet. “Suckling?” he finally asked. “You… do not feed Sparklings from a bottle?”

Ratchet smiled. “That’s a very naive question, young mech who still haven’t given me his name,” he teased good-naturedly. “Bottles break too easily, and it’s hard to come up with a good energon mix a Sparkling can easily digest without risking to purge. Young ones are fed from their Carrier and Sire’s pouches until they’re about four vorns and their tank able to process more components. You don’t feed your Sparkling like that? Are your pouches not working? Unless your son is old enough to process more complex mixes? I couldn’t pinpoint his age, but I don’t think he’s more than three vorns old; or is he?” he asked curiously.

“2.87 vorns,” Optimus corrected the medic honestly; he could remember the exact moment Smokescreen had unfurled from his body, his systems starting to work independently from his. The moment was forever etched in his Spark, memories banks and chronometer. “And I did breastfeed him, in the very beginning. Medics encouraged it for the first orn so Smokescreen would better imprint on me and absorb medical nanites through my filtered energon. But I was discouraged to continue the practice after that, since Flame and a number of our relatives thought it was too ‘plebeian’. My pouches are still in working order, though,” he added after a moment of silence.

“Smokescreen? That’s a nice designation,” the medic commented. “Hello Smokescreen,” he cooed, making the Sparkling raise his head and smile as he recognized his name. “If they’re still working, then you’ll have to use them sooner rather than later. Smokescreen is too young for most of the energon we have. Though if you need a moment to get used to the idea, I can request someone to nurse him. Tell them you’re still too weak or something, they won’t ask questions.”

“I… think I will be alright. It doesn’t bother me,” Optimus contemplated. It was true; he had never minded feeding Smokescreen from his lines. If anything, it made him marvel his body was able to do it, and he was humbled by the way Smokescreen’s small body was latching on his for support and fuel. He looked at the medic carefully, weighing his options before taking a decision. “I’m Optimus,” he finally revealed, bowing his head slightly in respect and greeting.

“‘Optimus’...” Ratchet repeated the name slowly, as if tasting it. “It’s Iaconian, isn’t it? You’re far from home. What business did a mech from Iacon had in the South?”

The red and blue mech smiled without joy. “Oh yes, Iacon is far, and I suspect that I’m not farther from it than ever before,” he commented, jabbing. “As to why I came through the Wastelands…” His Spark gave a squeeze of pain as he remembered Flame’s greying body sprawled on the ground, the flames, and the grey mech dragging him out. He was still standing silently by the opening of the dome-structure, optics on them. He seemed less angry than before, but one could see he was impatient. “He killed my Bonded,” he whispered, looking down, voice soft and sad.

He couldn’t cry -- and he didn’t even need to, surprisingly. Flame had been his Bonded, and Smokescreen’s Sire, and he had swore before Primus he’d be faithful and loving until death did they apart, but the truth was, their relationship had been so distant he didn’t feel any true, deep sadness over his passing. Of course he regretted his death, but he didn’t feel Spark-Broken as did the characters in the romance novels he used to read when he was younger.

Ratchet’s face softened. “I know. I’m sorry for your loss, Optimus. He was… Flame, wasn’t he?” Optimus nodded and Ratchet sighed, shuttering his optics briefly. “You may not believe me, but I’m truly sorry. Had you been Bonded since long?”

Optimus shook his head. “Seven vorns at most.” Ratchet grimaced.

“That’s… good. Sort of. I’m sorry, it’s coming out wrong,” he quickly said as he noticed Optimus’ expression. “I meant to say it was better your Bond was still young, there are less risks you’d suffer from deep shock. Considering you have a Creation to care for, and your state…” he trailed off, sighing. He looked at the red and blue mech in a vaguely pitying way. “We have a lot to discuss, Optimus, and I don’t know where and what to start with. Your situation… Ah. Let’s start with something simple. Do you know where you are?”

Optimus nodded slowly, Spark trumming. He had the feeling the whole conversation was going to take a toll on him, and that he wasn’t going to like what he was going to hear. “I’m in the middle of a nomad encampment; I was kidnapped from the caravan I was traveling in by the mech who’s behind you. The same mech who killed Smokescreen’s Sire,” he stated with a steady voice, narrowing his optics as he glanced at the grey mech, who raised an optic ridge at him but stayed silent. “And I guess I’m in his… house? I don’t know how to call this place,” he confessed.

“It’s called a //tent//,” the medic told him, the word foreign to Optimus’ audio receptors. He committed it to memory, though, and repeated it several times until he got the pronunciation right. At the door, the grey mech perked up as he spoke, and Optimus realized it had to be a purely nomadic word.

“A tent it is, then,” he nodded. “So, he killed my Bonded, grabbed me, dragged me outside of the wagon I was travelling in, rendered me unconscious and brought me here. But I don’t understand… why have they attacked the caravan? We did nothing to them!” It deeply bothered him; he knew the nomads sometimes attacked outposts and caravans, but he had been lead to believe it had become rare and was always motivated, somehow. “We were just following the trail to Kaon. A simple, normal transport caravans, with a few added travelers like us. What threat did we pose? What had we done to offend them? And why did he bring me here? Am I… Am I to be his slave? Me and Smokescreen both?” he whispered. That would explain so much; the chains, the fact the nomad had taken liberties with his frame… “I don’t care about myself, I can endure, but Smokescreen…”

“Primus, no!” Ratchet blurted, before wincing. “I get why you’d get the impression; Primus knows I thought more or less the same thing when Drift dragged me under his tent the first time but…” He shook his head. “Okay, first and foremost, you’re not a slave. Nomads don’t understand the concept of slavery. They can be harsh, they can be uncouth, they can be as stubborn as Pig-o-trons, they can totally miss the point when you try to make them understand something, but they don’t keep slaves, and they won’t ask others to do what they themselves won’t do themselves should the need arise. I am clear so far?”

Optimus gave a tiny nod and the medic sighed in relief. “Good. The first thing you need to know is that neither you or your Sparkling will come to any harm. The nomads respect new lives. A Sparkling is held as almost sacred in some tribes, because they represent the future. Nobody here would dream to cause Smokescreen intentional harm…”

“And still they did, by killing his Sire,” the red and blue mech noted, lips downward as he gazed at his son with a sad look. Smokescreen looked up at him with curious optics, little hand patting his chest in comfort. He may not have been able to understand what was going on around him, but he understood his Carrier was sad and offered what comfort he could. It was adorable, innocent, and Optimus wondered how much longer that innocence would last.

“Yeah, they did…” Ratchet bit his lips and turned to talk with the grey nomad. They exchanged a few sentences, the medic looking very displeased but nodding anyway at what the other nomad said. “To be fair,” he said again as he turned back toward Optimus, “your Bonded actually killed a tribe member and injured two others before Megatron faced him. I had to clean up and repair his handiwork, so I would known. As it is, he proved himself someone hard to subdue and so lethal force had to be used. Once again, I’m sorry for your loss, but by fighting back and dealing a mortal blow to a tribe member, he had sealed his fate. Of course, if they had known what he was trying to protect with such ardor, they would have just knocked him unconscious,” he sighed.

“They would?” Optimus asked, voice flat.

“Indeed. As I told you, nomads have respect for new lives and see that they are protected. It means they usually leave alive Sires protecting their offsprings and mates, especially when it’s clear the Creations are far too young to fend by themselves. In the chaos of the attack, though, nobody heard the wails of your newspark before it was too late. Had they picked them among the war cries and the shouts of the injured, they would have backed off. They may have cut a limb or two, but they wouldn’t have killed him.”

“If that’s supposed to be reassuring, medic, I’m afraid you’re failing at your task,” Optimus said blandly, trying not to think of Flame with a missing arm or leg.

The medic actually snorted. “No kidding. I’ve been told my berthside manners sucked even before I started treating nomads; I suppose my vorns with them didn’t help matters. That doesn’t stop me from caring, though. I can’t and won’t excuse what happened with your Bonded, but I’m offering you my sympathies anyway. Now, as to why they attacked the caravan you were travelling in, you need to understand that... ”

“They attacked because they are barbarians!” Optimus snapped. He shouldn’t have, he knew it, but his sadness had suddenly morphed into rage as he watched Smokescreen peering around and making little clicks which were painfully familiar. The same clicks he did when he was calling out his Sire. Smokescreen wanted to see Flame… and Flame would never be here again, would never hold Smokescreen in his arms, pat his helm or smile at him. “What else should I understand, medic? They killed innocent mechs, for no reason! My son will have to grow up without a Sire thank to them!”

Ratchet’s optics briefly narrowed before he schooled his expression into a blank mask and spoke again, voice denuded of inflexions. “Oh? Barbarians, you say? If so, then how would you call a group of supposedly ‘peaceful traders’ whom, a decacycle ago, abused our sister-tribe’s trust after they greeted them as guests and made off after stealing two sacred relics, killing an Elder, molesting a Youngling and injuring three other Youngling members who tried to stop them?”

Optimus froze, the words replaying in his head. He swallowed. Was that the reason they had been attacked? Because the nomads were -- understandably and rightfully -- angry at law-breakers? “But… that had nothing to do with…”

“With you, your Bonded and your Sparkling? Or the rest of your caravan?” Ratchet guessed, smiling grimly. “For the most part, you’d be right. Though I’d like to suggest you pick your traveling companions better the next time… well, not that there will be a next time,” he amended. “I don’t say it was fair, for most of the mechs that walked with you were innocents. But the nomads don’t believe in avoiding collateral damages -- they don’t even understand what it is, I swear. Your caravan sheltered thieves, murderers and rapists in its midst; the tribe swiftly acted to punish them for their evil deeds and get back the stolen relics, which were suspected to be hidden among the packages you were transporting. That innocents were caught in the punishment is unfortunate, but the tribe’s actions were justified by the laws and honor code they live by.”

“And that justify the slaughter of the whole group in your optics?” Optimus asked in disbelief, rocking Smokescreen when the Sparkling started to fuss, obviously picking on the grave mood around him.

“They hardly slaughtered everyone,” Ratchet argued back, unnerved. “Just the thieves, the guards too stubborn to drop their weapons when they saw it was hopeless and the unlucky ones who couldn’t handle a proper blow. There were plenty of survivors left, and they even left them part of the supplies so they could rally the nearest oasis.”

The red and blue mech shook his head. “And you think it makes things okay?”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “One of the Younglings they injured was my eldest daughter,” he said shortly, optics bright with anger. “You’ll excuse me if, as a vengeful Carrier, I’m not objective over the whole matter!”

“Oh…” Optimus bit his lips components in turn. That… He couldn’t say it was okay, but if something happened to Smokescreen, and someone else offered to avenge him… how would he react himself? Would he do as the medic did, taking satisfaction in their demise? Or weep for the lost lives who had had nothing to go with the events.

The medic seemed to sense his trouble, because he put a hand on his shoulder in an almost comforting gesture. It didn’t please the grey mech, who snarled something, only for Ratchet to snare right back. “The rules and laws are different here,” he offered after a short silence. “You don’t have to like them -- Pit, I don’t like them myself, even after thousands vorns in the desert! -- but I’ll ask you not to judge too harshly. Life here isn’t easy, and the nomads… well, we do what we can to assure our survival and that of our owns.”

“You said ‘we’,” Optimus noticed. “You’re fully identifying with them, then?”

Ratchet had a small, pale smile. “After so long as the mate of one of their warriors and bearing his Creations, it’d be strange if I didn’t.”

It was logical, Optimus had to admit. But still… “So, they attacked because they wanted to punish a group of thieves hiding among the merchants, guards and travellers, and the rest of the deaths, like Flame, were unavoidable casualties?” Ratchet nodded, and Optimus vented. “Alright. But if that’s the case, then why did he--” he pointed toward the grey nomad who was still watching them converse with an half-annoyed, half-impatient expression “--saw fit to kidnap me as well as my son? I’m not a thief or anything, really! And what about the two mechs I saw getting tied up before I lost consciousness? What had they done for those nomads to take them as well?”

The medic visibly hesitated, and Optimus’ Spark skipped a beat. What was so wrong the white and red mech didn’t want to tell him?

“I… it has to do with the laws of the nomads, no matter the tribe they belong to,” Ratchet finally said slowly, as if weighing his words. “I don’t suppose you know how a nomad marriage works, do you?” he asked hopefully, only to deflate when Optimus shook his head negatively. “Nevermind. I knew it’d be too much to ask for.”

“I… never read or heard anything about it. I used to work in Iacon’s Archives and I perused through many documents, but the texts we had on nomads were scarce and very vague,” the red and blue mech confessed.

The medic sighed. “Yeah, I suppose they would be. Nomads sometimes trade with travellers and outposts, but they remain very secretive about themselves and their traditions. And with reasons. Some of their beliefs are… Well, they wouldn’t sit well with the caste system,” he put in diplomatically.

“Anyway, back to the subject of… marriage. As you probably know, the nomads are hunters and warriors by nature. It’s mostly due to the environment in which they evolved, but it left deep marks in their culture. Nomads are born and raised in a specific tribe to adulthood, and they’re expected to be useful to the tribe one way or another. Mostly, it’s by becoming hunters and warriors themselves, although some become shamans, or records keepers, or they help raise the mechanimals and gather plants, they cook, they sew, they weave,...” he listed off. “The thing is, since they’re faced with so much hardship, the tribe can rarely afford to lose a member. All hands are needed, especially deep into the Badlands--”

“Don’t you mean the Wastelands?” Optimus inquired curiously despite himself. The medic made a gesture of annoyance.

“There are the same things. ‘Badlands’ is what the nomads prefer to call them, since ‘waste’ imply there isn’t anything to be found. ‘Bad’ simply means it’s hard. Anyway, in the deeper part of the Badlands, the weather is worse and the predators more numerous. That implies that one has to be strong in order to protect himself and protect his belongings, especially when running into a rival tribe. Nomads try not to fight each other too much, but there are always conflicts over the best hunting grounds. And moments like that keep me busy,” he added with a self-depressing smile.

Optimus just frowned. “As interesting as it is, I don’t see what this have to do with me? Or with Bonding?” he inquired politely.

“I was coming to it,” Ratchet reassured him. “As I was saying, a tribe can’t afford to lose someone, which is why they’re always trying to boost up their number, usually by having the warriors seek out mates and have Sparklings. Marriage in itself is simple: a warrior just has to bring the mech or femme he chose as his mate under his tent. Once it’s done, then they’re considered legally mated according to the laws of the tribe.”

“That’s… that seems to be awfully simple,” Optimus said, fighting down a twinge of unease as Smokescreen wiggled to make him let go, intent on going back to crawl on the pelts. “There is no ceremony? Nothing more?”

Ratchet winced. “Yes and no. There is indeed a follow-up ceremony, where the warrior gives his new mate a gift, usually a necklace of fangs or claws coming from his preys for him to wear, but that’s about it. Here, you see?” he added, fiddling with the collar of his poncho and tugging at a length of wire around his neck. Little metal beads were alternated with sharp looking black and white claws from a mechanimal Optimus couldn’t identify. The design was simple, but it was pretty all the same. Ratchet hide the necklace again and straightened his collar. “Drift made it for me following the moment I accepted we were indeed mates. The ceremony in itself was more to prove the Bonding has been properly consummated than anything else, and the necklace proves I’ve been accepted and am recognized as part of the tribe.”

“Ratchet… what aren’t you saying?” Optimus asked after a moment as the medic stayed silent, obviously hesitating to continue. He knew already -- he wasn’t stupid, he could understand the unspoken words, but it sounded so far-stretched, so unbelievable he just couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. “You say a nomad just has to bring the one he’s interested in under his tent; that can’t be so simple, because I noticed you never mentioned the one he brought CONSENTED to be brought under said tent.” He looked at the medic directly in the optics and, as he had expected, the medic was uneasy. “And they don’t, do they? They’re being brought forcefully -- they’re being kidnapped. Am I right?”

Ratchet winced, his shoulders sagging. “Yes, they are. But before you say anything, please hear me out!” he added quickly as Optimus faltered, cold seizing his frame. He had been right.

“And what could you possibly say to justify abduction and rape?” he asked in disbelief, leaning away from Ratchet and glancing nervously up at the silent grey mech. He was watching him intently. Primus… was it the sole reason the mech had brought him here? To make him his ‘mate’? That was so ludicrous he almost started laughing in hysterical fright!

“Nothing,” the medic agreed, startling Optimus. “I’m just trying to present you with the facts. I’m not saying it’s right or anything, but it’s their culture, and they don’t understand anything else or that things don’t work this way for cities dwellers. I’m not sure how this ‘tradition’ started. Perhaps at first it was supposed to be a challenge -- capture someone from an enemy tribe and prove yourself superior before releasing him, or something like that. Only, it mutated with time, and now it’s their way to marry. It… works for them,” he said carefully.

“How can it? We’re talking about kidnapping here!”

“It works because it’s their culture,” Ratchet tried again, raising a hand. “Young nomads are raised with the idea they’ll one day show themselves the best in a duel and win a mate, or lose and accept to become the mate of the winner and part of his tribe. I suppose things were harsher in the past, but nowaday most nomads know each other in passing thank to the fact they pass the Storms Seasons holed together. Tribes communicate between them, they trade with each others, and it helps give you a passing idea of what the other tribes are like. And if one of your friends or Creations disappears due to kidnapping, then you know you will see him back to New Kolkular when the next Storms Season comes. And the tribe you kidnapped your mate from will ask for a bride price to compensate for the absence of the member you took,” he added as an afterthought.

Optimus blinked. “What…?”

“That’s usually how it goes, unless the two tribes in question are sworn enemies. But given all the tribes practice wintering during the worse part of the Storm Seasons, and they do so together in order to put resources in common, they don’t have many occasions to dish it out. But nevermind, I’ll explain that later. What you need to know is that, for nomads, it works. However, once in a while, someone takes a fancy to a city mech, and then things become much more complicated.” The medic didn’t look happy, and Optimus reminded himself the medic must have gotten kidnapped himself before he… accepted this ‘Drift’ as his Bonded. It also reminded him of something else.

“Is that why two mechs from the caravans were set apart asides of me? Did the nomads who tied them up… kidnap them to make them their ‘mates’?”

“They did,” Ratchet confirmed, looking grim. He was quick to reassure the other mech. “They’re alright -- well, a little banged up, but alright. Jazz had a sprained ankle joint and a vicious headache and Ricochet got a few nasty cuts I had to treat, but nothing that’ll stop them from walking once we move. Prowl and Barricade are being attentive, they’re taking good care of them…”

“Yeah. Raping them to force them to comply,” Optimus muttered bitterly, squeezing Smokescreen in his arms, the Sparkling making a little sound of discomfort that made him release his hold immediately. The little red and blue mech looked at him with unimpressed, serious optics and the cutest little pout. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Optimus would have laughed.

“They won’t rape them!” Ratchet protested loudly, making wide gestures. “Despite what you seem to think, consent is important! At least, it is for this tribe. I won’t lie, there are a few ones where the objective is to spark up a mate as fast as possible so there won’t be a chance, as slight as it is, to break the union, but it’s not the case here! No warrior worth it’s swords would dare to try and coerce his mate into interfacing if he wasn’t ready and…”

“Is that so? That didn’t stop your friend behind you,” Optimus stated bluntly, turning his gaze away.

“What…?” The medic sputtered. “What the frag did he do to you?! When?!”

“... Before he came to get you,” Optimus started slowly, eyeing the medic carefully, taking in the wide optics, the sudden pallor of the face, the stuttering vents. Ratchet hadn’t known…? Perhaps his ‘mate’ had been gentlemechly enough not to force the issue, but his captor certainly hadn’t been.

“Okay, okay,” Ratchet vented loudly. “Tell me exactly how it happened -- I want to hear it from you before I turn and start yelling and throwing tools at this jerk! Slag you, Megatron, I told you not to do anything until I could speak with him,” he mumbled, optics twitching. “‘Come, my mate is crying, he’s distressed, I fear he might be injured?’ Well, he’s not the one who’s going to get injured here!”

“Megatron? Is that his name?” Optimus eyed the grey mech dispassionately. The mech reacted at his name, optics zeroing on him as he smiled, revealing his sharp denta. But at Optimus’ blank face, he frowned, asking something Ratchet snapped at before grunting and crossing his arms over his chest again.

“Oh yeah,” Ratchet confirmed. “Biggest stubborn moron in the tribe, if you want my advice, but he’s also one of our best hunters and he’s being groomed to take over leadership of the whole tribe once his GrandSire pass away -- which, thankfully, won’t happen for a long, long time.” The glance he threw at Megatron was most unimpressed. “Now, Optimus, please. Tell me how things went. I need to know exactly what went down, from your point of view.”

“... I let myself fall flat on the pelts,” Optimus started. “He was speaking to me, but I didn’t understood a word of what he said. He started caressing my chest… and I recognized the light in his optics. Flame used to watch me like that when he wanted to…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Anyway, I tried to jerk back, but he straddled me. He pinned my wrists to the floor, and I… I tried to fight, to throw him off, but then I glanced to the side and, and I saw Smokescreen’s basket.” Ratchet sucked in a breath. Optimus looked down, optics dim, barely registering the little one’s wiggling. “He… Megatron? Looked unnerved already, and I started fearing what he’d do if I didn’t… if I tried to disobey. I couldn’t risk Smokescreen, I just can’t,” he stressed out, glancing up to look at Ratchet in the optics.

“So… you let him touch you out of fear he’d try to harm Smokescreen?” At Optimus’ nod, Ratchet vented. “I see. Optimus? You might want to cover your Sparkling’s audio receptor. I’m about to blow up and start insulting the moron behind me very loudly. You won’t understand a word, but the tone is going to rise and I wouldn’t want to scare him accidentally. You can do that for me? Good.”

Optimus shifted, sitting Smokescreen between his cross-legged legs and immediately putting his big hands around Smokescreen’s helm. The Sparkling chirped curiously then started laughing, probably thinking it was a game. Then he started pointing and laughing as Ratchet rose up, turned and threw a wrench at the grey warrior, who yelped as he moved to avoid it.

Ratched hadn’t lied; he got loud. But Megatron was just as loud and, judging by his tone and narrowed optics, he wasn’t impressed with the medic’s outburst. That’s it, until Ratchet started to point at him, and then the grey nomad’s optics widened, jaw opening slightly as he looked at Optimus in disbelief. He shook his head and actually asked him something, but Ratchet immediately snapped back at him and asking for his attention. Megatron growled, fists tightened, and for a moment Optimus thought he was going to hit the medic. Thankfully, the warrior’s shoulders dropped and, although he looked unhappy, he looked chastised and calmer as he continued to speak with Ratchet. For his part, the medic still looked peeved, but he was already moving to sit by Optimus again.

The whole event was just fascinating to witness. Ratchet barely came to Megatron’s chest, but thank to his outburst, the warrior seemed cowed, and Optimus almost smiled. Just for that, he thought he could grow to truly like the no-nonsense medic.

“Alright. Now I think he has been sufficiently chastised -- and I’ll have words with his Sire over him not waiting like the tribe healer asked him to--” he glared at Megatron with all his might “--then I think we can try to work it out. I’m going to translate for him. Megatron has a few things to tell you, things he ought to have told you already. Well, technically, he did, but the idiot forgot that due to you not speaking the nomad dialect and don’t know our customs, you had no way to give him an informed answer. Or rather, he grew too impatient to ‘fix’ things and made them worse by thinking you wanted the same thing as him.” He growled.

“‘Fix’?” Optimus asked as he lifted Smokescreen in his arms, the Sparkling giggling and waving his little arms in amusement. “And what exactly does he want to ‘fix’? Flame’s death? Unless he can bring Smokescreen’s Sire back to life, then he can’t do anything for me. You can tell him that,” he said coldly.

“Oh, I will, but first…” Megatron asked something, and Ratchet exchanged a few words which made the grey mech grimace. Apparently, Ratchet had transmitted the message. “Where was I? Ah, yes. You must understand how ‘becoming mates’ work here…”

“I think you were clear enough about the subject, Ratchet,” the red and blue mech stated with a grimace. “Though I have no desire to be this… Megatron’s ‘mate’. I have a mate already -- a mate he killed!”

“And that’s why he brought you here, Optimus,” Ratchet said carefully. “It’s the tribe’s law. Normally, when seeking a mate, you must seek an unattached mech. Those who are already mated, and those who already had offsprings especially, are supposed to be off-limits. But sometimes…” he paused. “Skirmishes over games or territories aren’t rare, and often ends up with injured. And sometimes, just sometimes, there are deaths which tend to leave in their wake widowed Carriers and orphan Sparklings. That… isn’t supposed to happen. For the tribe, a Carrier and young offsprings depend a lot from the Sire’s protection, especially since a Carrier very rarely belong to the tribe his mate is issued from. To leave them without the status of their mate and Sire to assure their protection… It’s unfathomable. It’s even unforgivable in the optics of the nomads. Do you understand what I’m trying to hint at?”

Optimus swallowed. “Basically, you’re saying that… that for the nomads, widowers have to Bond with their mate’s murderer? But that’s…”

“They doesn’t ‘have to’ exactly,” Ratchet corrected. “It’s just… a way to process should the widowed Carrier has no one willing or able to assure his protection. Usually, a tribe closes its rank and helps support the Carrier without problem. In some cases, a widower’s original tribe might very well call for the return of its lost members, should they wish to, in exchange of a suitable price. But when neither is possible, and should the one who dealt the mortal blow be unattached… then yes, the nomads tend to think the best way to repair the ‘offense’ is to take the widowed mate under their own tent and claim him for themselves -- and claim the Sparklings as his to raise and protect.”

Optimus swallowed, feeling his Spark and processor ache. Primus almighty… “And should they refuse to Bond to their mate’s murderer? What then?”

Ratchet winced. “If they do, then they walk out of the camp to lose themselves in the Badlands. It’s what happen to those who refuse the mating; they leave the camp and navigate the desert by themselves, until they manage to join an outpost, an oasis, or another tribe. But I wouldn’t recommend this solution, Optimus. Walking the Wastelands is hard enough for a nomad. For a city dweller, without any trekking experience and with a Sparkling to care for… it’s a death sentence, for you and for your son.”

Optimus let his head hang low. He had been afraid of that. “So I’m effectively a prisoner, aren’t I? I can’t escape without risking both my and Smokescreen’s life, and you already know I won’t let anything happen to him. I can only spread my legs and…”

“You,” Ratchet growled, “will do no such thing! Not without giving Megatron clear consent!” But as soon as he said it, his back stiffened as he seemed to realize something and he facepalmed. “Slag… you won’t have much of a choice indeed past a certain point, but… it’s not because Megatron claimss responsibility. Well, not fully. It has more to do with your state and we don’t have much choice here. Slag, slag, slag!”

“Ratchet? What’s wrong? What do you mean, ‘my state’?” Optimus asked, frowning and worried. “And don’t swear like that in front of Smokescreen; he may not be able to process communication glyphs yet, but I won’t have him take bad habits!”

The medic mouthed silently. “You don’t know…? Ah, well, I suppose it’s so early you haven’t noticed yet. I’m sorry, Optimus, it’s just…” he sighed. “Listen, Megatron is going to speak, and then I’ll translate for him sentence by sentence. What he’s going to say is pretty much ritual, so don’t stare at me; I’m not the one who came up with the speech. Once he’s done, we… we’ll need to talk more, I guess, about your options. And I so need to fetch up and download that dialect patch in your systems, that’d solve so many problems -- Primus, we wouldn’t be in that mess if that moron had actually waited until I had installed it before he tried anything!”

“Translation pat…?”

“Later,” Ratchet said bluntly. He looked at Megatron -- for someone the medic described as impatient, the mech now seemed very calm and restrained, not to mention patient. He barely said anything while he and the medic spoke, just watching them -- and Optimus and Smokescreen in particular. The medic whistled and said something in nomadic. Megatron nodded, walked over to them and crouched down before Optimus, putting a knee on the ground and grabbing one of the red and blue mech’s hand in his. Looking at him in the optics, he started speaking in a low, almost musical tone.

“‘I, Megatron warrior-heir to the Decepticon Tribe, in order to make amends for your loss and to uphold honor, claim you as my mate and your Sparklings as my owns. My tent is now your tent. The product of my hunts are yours to enjoy. My pelts are your pelts. I swear before The Thirteens and the Badlands’ spirits that I will honor you and protect you from danger, you and your Sparklings, both the one who toddles by your heels and the one growing in your belly. So I said, and so I will act.’”

The grey mech then let go of Optimus’ hand, rose and took a few steps back, watching him intently, as if waiting for an answer. But even if there had been one, he wouldn’t have understood it.

Optimus just stared as Ratchet finished translating, stiff and shocked while the medic eyed him warily. Absentmindedly, the red and blue mech put a hand over his abdomen, starting to check his head in disbelief. “The… ‘the one growing in my belly’? But I’m not… Does he think I bear his Sparkling? We… he took me only once, barely a few cycles ago, it’s impossible!” The grey mech raised an optic ridge and turned toward Ratchet, questioning, but the medic shushed him.

“Optimus… you are Carrying,” Ratchet murmured soothingly. “Megatron isn’t lying. He has known the moment he was close enough to pick your EM field and your scent. Eck, every nomad who took a sniff at the air around you noticed you were with Spark! I confirmed it while you were unconscious…”

“But it’s impossible!” Optimus whispered again in a more subdued tone, mind racing. “How could they know just by…?

“Easily enough. Nomads are… well, they have exceptionally tuned senses: vision, hearing and smell. It’s necessary, when you’re hunting, but it also mean they’re quick to notice the small things which take a while to register for us mechs of the cities. I had to make a manual check up in order to pick up the same thing, but I can definitely confirm you’re Sparked. It’s recent enough your systems may not have pinged your processor yet, so I’d say… one orn, one orn and half at the most. It’s still at a stage where the signs can be easily mistaken for a bug. Think; haven’t you well slightly unwell these last decacycles? And has it not felt familiar at the same time? You must have experimented the symptoms as well when you expected Smokescreen, no?”

“I… felt tired, and had trouble processing oil and energon,” Optimus confided after a moment of reflexion, images and feelings of the last few solar cycles flashing before his optics. “But I just thought it was the traveling which didn’t agree with me.” And now that he thought about it, he had felt the very same things before a medic scanned him and congratulated him for his first newspark when he had been expecting Smokey. Could it truly be?

“Hmm, I probably would have thought the same thing once upon a time, especially if my systems hadn’t pinged yet -- and they only do when the Spark is analyzed as viable.”

“So… the Sparkling I’m bearing--” and oh Primus, he couldn’t believe he was Sparked again, so soon after Smokescreen, when he was lucky if Flame graced his berth once per orn! “-- is Flame’s?”

“Unless you interfaced with anyone last orn, then he definitely was Sparked by your late Bonded,” Ratchet confirmed. And Optimus didn’t. The dates… corresponded. The last time him and Flame had been intimate had been roughly over an orn, when his flame-painted Bonded had learned his candidature for the post in Kaon had been accepted and selected. He had been in an exceptional good mood and had so decided to grace Optimus’ berth.

Ratchet wasn’t finished speaking. “But to the nomads, Megatron is or will be the Sire. He staked a claim on you and your Sparklings, in accordance to the law. No matter who the true Sire was, they’re now considered his. Yes, I know they aren’t, but now he has taken you as his mate, he has adopted your Sparklings -- both the born and unborn ones,” he added when Optimus started to open his mouth.

“... what will he do to them?”

“He will protect them and raise them as best as he can,” Ratchet said soothingly. “Do not worry about Megatron. He’s stubborn, he’s an idiot, but he’s not the kind of mech who try and skip his duties. He’ll take good care of your Sparklings -- and of you. And if he doesn’t, there’ll be people lining up to kick his aft, especially if I can borrow Soundwave’s Cryo-falcons to send out messages to our sister-tribe.” He smirked, amused by a joke he was the only one to understand, but Optimus paid it no mind. He was too busy looking down at himself and at his flat belly.

“If I’m Sparked… that means I’ll need help to build the Sparkling’s frame,” he murmured, optics dims and dread in his Spark. There was little ways about it; transfluid just had to be injected in the Carrier’s body. Transfluid, and the nanobots it was mostly composed of. He could try and bear the newspark to term without it, of course, but it was risky even in the civilized cities. He swallowed. “I… I won’t have a choice but to… with him… will I?”

Ratchet looked at him in sympathy. “If you want to keep the newspark… no. I’m afraid you won’t. And even if you didn’t… Megatron would not give you much of a choice. He engaged himself, on his honor, to keep you and both your Sparklings safe and healthy. Both your Sparklings. Especially the unborn one. If he allowed it to be miscarried… that’d be a blow to his honor, and the tribe could blame him for the deed. They’d judge it’d be his fault, in a twisted way.”

Optimus frowned. “How? Unless he actively tries to cause it, I don’t see how they’d be able to blame him.” He looked at Megatron curiously, ducking his head when the grey mech smiled at him as if nothing was wrong.

“Simply put… well, he may claim you, and the consent issue is always murky, but to the tribe, you miscarrying would be Megatron’s fault because he killed the original Sire, so he ‘traumatized you’, ‘fumbled your systems’, ‘stopped the Sparkling from getting what he needed’, ‘didn’t do his duties correctly’,...” he listed off on his fingers. “Trust me, he has every reason to make sure both you and your unborn newspark get the best care possible.”

“... the community would truly blame him?”

“They would,” Ratchet confirmed. “You must understand that it’s by being strong, bonded communities that nomads manage to survive the Badlands. They can’t afford a ‘rotten Aurum-Apple in the barrel’, who would risk to drag everyone down with him. Bad behavior is usually swiftly corrected by the Creators, the Elders, the Chieftain and, if everything fail and the culprit is unredeemable, by the Tribes Justice Division -- and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” he muttered under his breath with a shudder.

Smartly, Optimus decided not to ask. Smokescreen made a little sound, bringing the red and blue mech’s attention back to him. “Hush, little one,” he smiled down at him. Smokescreen continued to make little noises and wiggle, begging to be let go. “I think he’s bored,” he said as he looked up to Ratchet. “I… I don’t suppose you took any of his toys when you raided the caravan?”

“Wait, I’m going to ask.” The medic turned, exchanging a few words with Megatron, who frowned. “Typical. No, he didn’t think about it. The group as a whole was more interested in searching for the stolen relics and then to claim useful loot. They brought in oil skins, fabrics, tools, energy cells and spare parts for wagons, but he--” he pointed out at Megatron with a displeased expression “-- didn’t think about the Sparkling’s possessions. Sorry. I’ll see if I can borrow something from one of the other families, okay? My two little hellions could also bear to part with some of their owns for a few decacycles, now that I think about it. And I think Megs here will be happy to correct his oversight by shaping a few mismatched toys himself, like a good Sire should.” Now he was glaring daggers at the grey mech, who huffed.

“I… suppose I could appreciate that,” Optimus murmured unsure as he made Smokescreen bounce in his arms to calm him down before he became too fussy. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” the medic dismissed. “It’s perfectly normal.”

For a long moment, there was only silence as Optimus murmured and rocked and bounced Smokescreen to quiet him down, which he eventually did with a tiny huff before snuggling back in his Carrier’s arms.

“If I may ask… what now? I’m supposed to be… Megatron’s mate by law of the tribe, but…” he hesitated, searching for his words.

He didn’t want Megatron, and he didn’t want to stay with the nomads. However, what else could he do, lost as he was in the Wastelands, prisoner if not in name? His priority should have been to join civilization back, but then what? It wasn’t as if anything truly waited for him back home. With Flame’s death, his future was in jeopardy already. He didn’t think his family would try to have him remarry just yet. They weren’t Sparkless, after all, and Optimus had done his duty already by Bonding Flame and sealing their union with a Sparkling -- and a second soon, if Ratchet was to be believed.

But even if they wanted him happy, he knew how things worked in Iacon; political games, posturing and standing in society were ‘important’ matters to nobility, especially so when one was related to the Primes’ lineage. More likely than not, Optimus would be given a few vorns to mourn Flame before his hand in Bonding was once again offered to further political agendas. And since he had already Carried successfully and was ‘used’ to be a housemech, it would again be in a union where he would be expected to be the submissive, unless he was very lucky and allowed to contract a lighter alliance with a lesser noble.

He looked again at the silent Megatron, who stood at a respectable distance now and hadn’t tried to come any closer or touch him asides of his little speech. He was still watching him, calm and imperturbable looking, glancing from times to times at Ratchet and seeming ready to ask him something, but hesitating. Probably because he knew the medic would snap at him again. There didn’t seem to be much love lost between Ratchet and Megatron.

So… in the end, he was down to going back to civilization one way or another -- which seemed unlikely for now, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility -- and eventually end up in yet another loveless Bonding, unless he was very lucky, or… stay with the tribe and just accept he was now the nomad Megatron’s ‘mate’.

Neither option sounded very appealing to him. The idea of staying under the same ‘roof’ as a mech who had killed his previous Bonded and basically raped him made his tank quease. But, if he thought about it long and hard, his Bonding to Flame hadn’t been much different.

Primus knew he had tried to stall said Bonding as much as he could by prolonging the engagement for all it was worth. And when the time had come, he had been absolutely not ready to fulfill his new ‘duties’. Flame had been, though, and he had wanted it to be over fast. So they had consummated their new union the night of the ceremony, Optimus limp and unsure most of the time, feeling vaguely dirty for allowing it to happen when he had no desire to become intimate with his new Bonded. Flame had been a good mech, he reminded himself. Their relationship hadn’t been the best, but they had made it work, for what it was worth -- mostly because Optimus had wanted to try and mend the rift between them, as it had been expected of a future Carrier and housemech.

Could he attempt the same thing with Megatron? Avoid thinking too hard about the why and how, and try to make it work for the sake of Smokescreen -- and for the sake of the newspark he was Carrying? Was that even possible, when he knew nothing about the mech, about his culture, about what was expected of him? Ratchet might be helpful, but he couldn’t always be here to act as translator. He was a medic, he had other duties to attend to, of that Optimus was certain. So, what could be do?

“I wish I could speak with him directly,” he sighed as he eyed Megatron again. “I… I don’t know what I should do or think, and since we can’t communicate, it’s not helping.” He paused, remembering something. “Wait, didn’t you say something earlier about a translation patch? What was that?”

“Ah,” the medic smiled thinly. “This, young mech, is my solution to the language problems caused when a particularly stupid tribe member kidnap an outside mate without bothering first to learn his future mate’s language. Most nomads never bother learning anything but their dialect -- or that of a few allied tribes who may use a different one. Primus knows how much trouble I had making myself understand when Drift first brought me here… and he, thankfully, spoke some broken form of modern Cybertronian!” He shook wistfully.

“I went through a lot of trials and mistakes, and Drift with me. And so, when a tribe warrior brought in another outsider as a mate and the language barrier was a problem, again, I decided enough was enough and that I was better off trying to find a way to… smooth things over,” he explained. “It took me time, but I managed to find and then program a datachip with a… a nomad/modern Cybertronian dictionary, if you will. I’ll just have to hook it up into one of your dataport and it will start downloading the content.”

“That sounds very simple. How come no nomad made the effort to try and learn modern Cybertronian this way, then?” the red and blue mech asked curiously.

“Pride and laziness,” Ratchet shrugged. “Though I suppose most of them don’t see the point anyway, since few nomads deal with city dwellers. Plus, it’s not an ideal solution. Here, take a look by yourself,” he added as he withdrew a large chip and showed it to Optimus in his open palm.

Optimus looked down, puzzled. “It’s… a very old model,” he put in diplomatically, making Ratchet snort.

“It’s so outdated it could easily be put into a museum, you mean. And that’s the main problem I have; since it’s an old model, the capacity for information inside is very limited. I could fill it with words and expressions and create a basic lexicon, but I couldn’t put in proper grammar, syntax, orthograph,... Everything that allow a mech to speak coherently and smoothly,” he explained. “So while downloading the content into your databanks will allow you to know enough of the language to understand a conversation and express yourself, you won’t be able to utter a correct sentence.”

“I see,” Optimus murmured. “It’s better than nothing, though, and I’m sure I can pick up the rest by practicing.” His answer made Ratchet beam.

“You have a very refreshing attitude. Usually, the mechs I introduce the chip to don’t take it so well. Mechs these days expects thing to be handed to them right away without making any efforts. Ah, can you open a dataport, please?”

Optimus just stretched out his arm, sending a mental command for the plating near his wrist to slide aside. “If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you install it the moment you came in? Or even when I was… when I was unconscious?”

“Ah,” the medic answered calmly as he took Optimus’ wrist and inspected the port. “Honestly, I thought about it, but decided against. First off, given how many injuries I had to treat and how many idiots I had to sermon, I had to make an order of priority, and the language issue was on the lowest level. I instructed Megatron to come and seek me out the moment you woke up so I could speak with you and make the offer but,” he glowered at the grey mech, “the idiot didn’t listen to me. And that’s why I didn’t make the offer sooner as well. Given how shaken you were, and given the present circumstances, you had no reason to trust me, and you would have refused me outright, wouldn’t you?”

Optimus nodded slowly in confirmation. True enough, it was only by speaking with the medic he had warmed up to him. Had he made the proposition sooner… there was indeed a good chance he’d have declined the offer.

Ratchet hummed as he slowly inserted the chip into the dataport. The two connected with a little ‘plop’, and Optimus winced. The chip was ill-adapted to the port’s size, and it was uncomfortable. Ratchet sat back on his heels, sighing. “Sorry, I know it’s not the most comfortable, but it can’t be helped. I keep telling the warriors to bring me back datachips if they absolutely have to… to lead an attack on an outpost or a caravan, but it keeps slipping their mind. Now, you were asking why I didn’t download the language into you when you were unconscious, right?” he asked, changing subject. “The truth of the matter is that I dislike working on potential patients when they’re unconscious and can’t consent to a procedure, unless I have absolutely no choice. Downloading a program can be a long and invasive process, especially with a chip so old. I was half-afraid you’d wake up during the download and rip out the chip in fear and confusion without knowing what it was.”

“You… might have been right,” Optimus mused as he handled Smokescreen with only one arm. His Sparkling was yawing, optics half-dim. Obviously he was close to a recharge cycle. “A foreign presence in my systems, given the circumstances, would probably have send me into a panic.” Despite his temper and cursing, Ratchet truly was a considerate mech. “How long until the download is finished?”

“Given the obsolescence of the chip? I’d say, somewhere between four and ten megacycles. That’s how much he took on the few mechs I had to use it on anyway. The length varies from one mech to another and how compatible the chip and his systems are.”

“You… often had to do that?” Optimus asked faintly, wondering just how many mechs like him had gotten kidnapped by the nomads.

“Before your arrival, five times in 10,000 vorns,” Ratchet answered grimly. “And Jazz and Ricochet, that’ll bring that number to eight. It’s the first time three city dwellers get kidnapped at the same time by our tribe, and that’s mainly because those two were too good at fighting for Prowl or Barricade to pass up the opportunity. You… well, you know why, now,” he sighed.

“Do nomads take… outsiders as mates? Nomads from other tribes, I mean?” Optimus asked quietly, curious despite himself. A soft sigh from Smokescreen made him look down. The Sparkling had fallen into light recharge again.

“I… can’t honestly say,” Ratchet admitted with some discomfort. “The winterings allowed me to met with many mechs unaffiliated with our tribe, and I saw city-dwellers mates among them, but I’ve never be able to make a head count. I suppose it depends on each tribes and its standing on bringing in outsiders to the nomad culture. Some are totally against it… and some tribes are always on the look-out to bring in more new coding, no matter its origins.”

That sounded very ominous, and Optimus couldn’t suppress a shudder. “I see. Ratchet?” he asked instead of pursuing his first line of questioning. “Do you think you could break the chains? Or at least ask Megatron if he could?”

The medic nodded. “I already asked him. He will do so later on, but I think he wants to be alone with you to do that. I think he wants to say he’s sorry again -- even if you won’t understand a single word. Moron,” he sighed again, though it didn’t held any true heat anymore. “He didn’t realize you didn’t want him, you know. He… well, he thought you’d want physical comfort after the whole ordeal, and he really wanted to solidate his claim on you and your unborn Sparkling -- the Elders and his GrandSire got on his case earlier, not that it excuses anything. Widowed mates took in by another warriors usually become intimate quickly, to put themselves under their new mate’s protection, and he based himself on what he knew instead of really looking at you and reminding himself you wouldn’t have known. So when you started crying, Megatron panicked because he thought he had hurt you, or that you were weeping because you had finally acknowledged your previous mate’s passing. He never imagined you thought he’d hurt your Sparkling if you refused him. I think it threw him off,” Ratchet confided.

Optimus nodded slowly. “I… see.” That was both so stupid and so dramatic he thought he could laugh… or cry. Or even both at the same time. He refrained himself to.

“He won’t do anything again without your express permission, don’t worry,” Ratchet reassured him. “If anything, the ‘incident’ seems to have knocked some sense into him. I’ll leave you to hammer out the details once the download is complete and you can actually start properly communicating with him.”

Optimus shuttered his optics. “Thank you. For taking the time to speak with him and for trying to sooth the blow.”

“Didn’t work so well, eh?” the red and white mech murmured with a self-depreciating smile. “I can’t do much more for you at the moment, sadly, but if you need for anything, just ask Megatron to seek me out, okay?”

“How? Since the download won’t be complete for megacycles?” Optimus worried.

“Repeat after me: //Ratchet//,” the medic ordered. Obediently, Optimus did so, again and again, until he had the inflexions right and the red and white mech nodded in satisfaction. “Good, that’s good. That’s how they pronounce my designation in their dialect. Just say it to Megatron, he’ll know where to get me.”

“Won’t that bother you, though?” Optimus asked. “You’re a medic, you must have injured or sick mechs to attend to, not to mention you said you had a Bonded and… ‘two hellions’?” he repeated the exact words the medic had employed earlier. It made Ratchet’s lips quirk upward.

“So I said. Twins sons who are almost 200 vorns now. They’re a very… energetic pair. But don’t worry. You’re one my patients from now on, and I always have time for the mechs under my care.”

They exchanged a few more sentences before Ratchet rose up. He talked some more with Megatron in low tones before nodding, saluting Optimus again and leaving, closing the round opening of the tent behind him.

Optimus eyed Megatron warily, wondering what he could say or do now. Talking was out of the question -- well, not exactly, he could talk to him, but the mech wouldn’t understand, so it’d serve no purpose. And what could he say, anyway? Caught in his musings, he didn’t see the grey mech crouch down and gently nudge the basket where Smokescreen had rested before toward him. He startled when it brushed against his leg, making Megatron laugh aloud.

“You… want me to put Smokescreen back in?” he asked aloud before chastising himself and pointing first at Smokescreen, then at the basket. Megatron nodded, looking actually happy Optimus had caught on. The red and blue mech hesitated briefly, but since Smokescreen was asleep… Gently, he set the Sparkling down before bringing the square of fabric the grey mech handed over the tiny frame.

In his sleep, Smokescreen started to suck on his thumb, and Optimus couldn’t help but coo at him, head tilted to the side as he started humming one of Smokescreen’s favorite lullabies. His Sparkling’s well-being and future were the only things that mattered now. Both Sparklings, he amended as he rubbed a hand over his flat belly, reminding himself Smokescreen would have a sibling sooner rather than later. He still couldn’t get used to the idea…

He startled yet again when he heard Megatron speak to him, breaking off the lullaby. He had totally forgotten about the nomad! Quickly, he turned toward him, only to blink. Megatron was standing crouched down behind him, next to a pile of carefully arranged covers and pelts. The shape they formed vaguely reminded Optimus of a nest. Megatron made a little gesture.

“You… want me to come in the ‘nest’?” he asked, pointing at himself then at the pelts. Megatron grinned, patting the pelts before he moved back until his back was to the wall of the tent. Optimus blinked, mouth forming a ‘o’ in understanding before he gingerly moved, dragging Smokescreen’s basket behind him.

Megatron… had made him a corner to recharge. And judging by the way he was moving around the tent, almost hugging the walls, he didn’t intend to come near it. Ratchet might have been right about him, then, Optimus mused. He might actually have been sorry. He wasn’t about to trust the grey nomad, not yet, but the gesture was… somewhat nice?

Carefully, he settled himself among the covers and pelts, rolling one to place under his head like a makeshift pillow, putting other by his sides and over him to cocoon himself as comfortably as he could. He was, admittedly, tired. The conversation with Ratchet and the earlier events, when he had laid flat on the ground with the grey mech straddling his frame, had been exhausting. But could he truly recharge just yet? He didn’t think so.

So he stayed there, in his nest of comfort, Smokescreen’s basket by his head, where he could easily see him and reach for him should the Sparkling wake up, watching Megatron from the corner of his optics as the mech foraged through a weaved chest, picking out a large block of soft-looking metal, a small hammer and a chisel. Sitting cross-legged on the ground and humming himself a low, catchy tune, he started carving it.

What was he doing? It was too early to guess yet, but it certainly took all the mech’s concentration. Good. While he was working, then Optimus could be certain he wouldn’t try anything, despite Ratchet’s reassurance.

Perhaps it was the heat and comfort, perhaps it was the tune, perhaps it was just his processor shutting down after taking in the latest events and the shocks he had received, but eventually, Optimus started to doze off, Megatron’s humming gently lulling him toward recharge.

Chapter Text

“... good Sparkling!”

The soft, low chuckle made Optimus wake up from the half-recharge he had been laying in for a while now. He couldn’t help him; for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he had felt comfortable, so much he hadn’t made a move even when his systems had started to reboot. Instead, he had just listened to the noises of the camps around him. Laughing voices, but also mechanimals’ cries, the crackling of a bondfire, metal hitting metal -- but not the sound of mechs fighting, no, it was more like furnitures were being hit against each others.

And then, as he focused more, he had understood some of the noises he was hearing were happening right next to him. Indeed, the happy giggle he was hearing was Smokescreen, and the adult’s voice…

Was that… Megatron?

He jerked upward, disengaging himself from the covers he had cocooned himself with, frantically looking right and left for Smokescreen. But when he noticed him, he stilled.

Here was his son, sitting on his little aft, tiny doorwings fluttering and clapping his hands together as the tall, heavily-armored grey mech… played with him? He was certainly sitting crosslegged in front of Smokescreen, a pile of metal blocks between them. Megatron was piling them atop each other before winking and destroying the awkward ‘tower’, making Smokescreen giggle as the Sparkling started piling them back up.

He stared. That… wasn’t what he had expected to see. He hadn’t expected the nomad warrior to just… play with his Sparkling. Flame had never done that with Smokescreen, he thought distantly as he watched his son pile another block atop the rest gingerly. The block was threatening to fall, until Megatron gently pushed it in a better angle so it didn’t rest half in the air. Smiling, he looked up and met Optimus’ optics. His smile faded.

“You be awake?” he asked in a gruff voice, and Optimus startled as he realized he had actually understood what the nomad had said.

Quickly, he checked the state of the download and was unsurprised to find it over. Swallowing, he disconnected the chip from his wrist, letting the plating slide back in place, and pocketed it -- he’d have to give it back to Ratchet when he could see him again. Even as he did, he started accessing the new linguistic database, quickly scanning the content to make sure there was no bug. To his relief, there wasn’t any, meaning he could safely link up the new database and lexicon for comparison and complement with his main language files.

“Yes, me be,” he finally said awkwardly after he checked he had the right words. He couldn’t help but wince at the bad grammar. Ratchet had been right; he could now understand and speak back, but it was going to be riddled with mistakes. He hoped the nomad wouldn’t mind.

Judging by his smile, Megatron didn’t. “Me Megatron be glad,” the mech rumbled. “You be feel rested?” Optimus nodded, making Megatron smile wider. Smokescreen chirruped, turning, and beamed as he noticed his Carrier, reaching out for him with his little hands, making happy little sounds. Optimus tried to rise up to go pick him, only to grimace as the chain around his ankles clicked

“Ah… You be… cutting bonds?” he asked awkwardly, Spark beating fast as he waited for an answer. Megatron nodded, but he didn’t look in a hurry.

“Soon. We be moving soon. Me be free you when move,” he said with finality.

“We be moving?” Optimus asked, puzzled, before it dawned on him. “We be moving… camp?” Megatron nodded back. “Oh... “ That… wasn’t unexpected. The nomads hadn’t gotten their name by staying at the same place forever. They moved around the Wastelands… the Badlands to hunt, didn’t they?

“We be get relics back. We be punish thieves. We be avenging Elder and injured Youngling. We have get mates and prizes. We no reason stay here longer. We be moving. Storms be come soon. We be moving New Kolkular to see sister-tribe and clan and allies,” the grey mech declared as he bend down to pick Smokescreen and put him in his expectant Carrier’s arms.

Optimus swallowed again as he bounced Smokescreen in his arms, the Sparkling nuzzling his face against his chest. The nomads moving was definitely sealing his fate. He didn’t know where he was already, but if they moved, he’d be further lost. Still, it didn’t matter, not so long Smokescreen was safe and protected -- and apparently, Megatron was sworn to do so.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “When we be moving?”

“One megacycle,” Megatron said, raising a digit to make himself better understood. “Camp already be half take down. Me Megatron be wait you wake up to take down tent,” he explained. “You be sit and take care of son. Me go dismantle. You be watch me to learn. You be help next time we put tent back. Alright?”

It wasn’t a true question, more like an order to follow. At least that’s how Optimus understood it. So he just nodded and settled back on the ground as Megatron started picking up and rolling the pelts and carpets before storing them in some of the woven trunks. It allowed Optimus to catch a glimpse of the content, which seemed comprised of various pots, bowls, simple cutlery and… weapons. He didn’t see them for long, but he was able to make out several knives before the lid was closed.

“You… be have many weapons?” he asked softly, wondering if he had the right to ask. Megatron looked at him over his shoulder as he started to take out sheets off of the metal walls.

“Good warriors have many. Knives, lances, bows, arrows, swords, axes,” he listed off on his digits. “Me Megatron have put them storage already. Me Megatron not wanting weapons near Sparkling. Him may try pick one.” His face expressed distaste at the idea.

“Oh. Thank you,” Optimus said after a while. “You be… look for Smokescreen?” he said after he found the proper glyphs to say his son’s name in nomadic, making the grey mech perk up.

“Him Smokescreen?” he asked, rumbling at Optimus affirmative nod. “Smokescreen good name. Me Megatron have give Smokescreen toys. See?” he waved at the blocks on the floor. Now that Optimus really looked at them, he noticed they seemed roughly cut. Very roughly so. It suddenly dawned on him.

“You… be make them toys yourself? For Sparkling?” Megatron nodded again, not pausing in his work. Obviously, he was in a hurry to take down his tent, making Optimus wonder just how much of the camp outside had already been dismantled and just how ready everyone was to move out.

“Yes. Me Megatron being good Sire,” he said, making Optimus wince. Thankfully, the grey mech didn’t notice as he startled dismantling the roof. He was working much faster than Optimus would have thought given the size of the structure. Then again, the nomad must have been used to move his shelter since Sparklinghood, so it stood to reason he was diligent about it. He looked away, thinking. Having the nomad… Megatron refer himself as Smokescreen’s Sire was unsettling. His culture said he was, since he had ‘adopted’ Smokescreen the moment he had taken Optimus as ‘mate’, but in the red and blue mech’s mind, whenever the word ‘Sire’ was pronounced, Flame’s face flashed before his optics.

In his arms, Smokescreen started fussing and sobbing. “Smokey? What’s wrong baby?” he asked softly, rocking him to try and calm him down, to no avail. “Are you hungry little one?” he cooed. That must be it. According to his chronometer, he had recharged for megacycles and so skipped the time he usually fed him. By reflex, he looked around for a bottle of diluted oil before remembering what Ratchet had told him.

Of course. Nomads didn’t use bottles. Which meant… he blushed slightly, looking down at his chest. That… was embarrassing. His pouches were in perfect working order, or at least they were supposed to be, but he had been repeatedly told so often he shouldn’t use them past the first orn of life of any Sparklings he bore that he couldn’t fully reconcile the two ideas. His Creators would have been scandalized… but they weren’t here, and Smokescreen was hungry, and he didn’t actually care what anyone might think so long his son was well-fed. With a simple mental command, he let his chestplates part and started to fill his flat pouches, making them swell with fluid.

Smokescreen gave a happy cry as he buried his face against the rubbery device, little mouth already searching to take a nub and suckle. His greediness made Optimus chuckle as he shifted his hold to make the task easier for Smokescreen. In a matter of kliks, his son was happily suckling, Optimus looking down at him with amusement and relief.

“You good Carrier,” Megatron rumbled as he looked at them briefly before taking out one of the roof panels, letting bright light fall on Optimus and Smokescreen. Optimus flinched, took off guard by the light, and raised a hand to shelter his optics. “You have big pouches; you be feed lots of Sparklings.”

“Excuse me?!” Optimus sputtered indignantly, switching to modern Cybertronian. Megatron looked at him with his head tilted, obviously confused.

“You be have big pouches,” he repeated. “Big pouches good. Be feed Sparklings a lot, yes? Them never hungry. Is good.”

“Huh… thank?” Optimus muttered, cheeks red as he understood the meaning this time. Still… to notice and comment on the size of his energon pouches? That was so… so crude! Nobody in civilized society would dare to! But, Optimus reminded himself, nomads weren’t civilized, or at least not like Iaconians. Perhaps it was actually meant to be a compliment, as weird as it was. Actually, he mused as he shifted Smokescreen so he could suckle from the second pouch, it probably was. If breastfeeding was the only way to truly feed young Sparklings for the nomads, then perhaps having… large pouches was something to brag about. Being able to feed one’s Creation by himself and without needing the help of a wetnurse must have been a source of pride for nomads. He… may have to ask Ratchet later on.

“Him Smokescreen alright?” the nomad grunted as he undid the rest of the roof’s panels and started to… fold them? Curious; Optimus hadn’t noticed they could bend in such little shapes. For mechs often depicted as stupid and barbaric, they certainly had a great ingenuity when it came to making items as weightless as possible -- such as the woven trunks and baskets -- or with items able to be stored quickly and easily. Though Optimus guessed it was a necessary requirement for their life of errance; in order to cover great distances, they had to travel ‘light’. Which brought forward the question of how they travelled, and how it was organized… But he would soon learn by himself, as it was.

Shifting Smokescreen again, he continued to watch as Megatron continued to meticulously dismantle and fold down the whole structure. Part of the walls were now down, allowing Optimus to take his first look at the tribe. He had seen a few warriors during the attacks on the caravan, but here was the whole tribe… or was it? Ratchet had kept mentioning a sister-tribe, after all… He shook his head, trying to focus.

Given how many mechs and femmes were walking around, it was hard to count them, though Optimus estimated there had to be at least sixty or seventy adult mechs, plus two dozens of Sparklings and Younglings. And all of them were busy packing.

Sparklings and Younglings were running around to go help or play, while adult folded down sheets and covers, packed belonging in woven trunks or took down masts and folding metal panel before putting them in carts. Other were busy putting Robo-Chicken in small cages, which were then tied to the back of powerful Robodromedries. Optimus eyed them with big optics; it was the first time he saw such creatures for real. He knew some caravaners used them to transport goods, but their own caravans had only been composed of Zap-Horses.

Speaking of Zap-Horses, he saw one pass by, held by its bridle, but it looked little like the Zap-Horses he had seen before. This one, like its brethren he could make out not too far away, seemed bulkier, more armored. Probably a breed the nomads had developed to better live in the desert, he decided, though he promised himself to ask Ratchet at the first chance he’d get.

He hadn’t expected to see a herd of Gallium-Goats either, but he could hear them -- and he could also see a few Younglings watching over them with rods, as well as some guard Hellhound running after and bringing back any who tried to wander away from the group.

“You have… mechanimals?” he asked Megatron as he passed him by, making the grey mech pause and look at him in wonder. Optimus made a gesture toward a Youngling passing with a Robo-Chicken held by his legs. “You be keeping mechanimals for… company?”

Megatron chuckled. “No keeping for company. Them food, or them… helpful?” he tried. “Them guard, them transport, them hunt. Them be helpful. We be help them, them be help us.” He turned and went back to what he had been doing -- loading trunks in the back of a cart another nomad had dragged over for him. Optimus just watched him, troubled. Of course he knew nomads eat mechanimals, but after seeing just how cute a Robo-Chicken was -- kinda -- he didn’t think he could kill one, let alone consume it. The mere idea made his fuel tank queasy.

He tensed when one Hellhound wandered his way, watching him with his head cocked to the side. Unconsciously, he moved Smokescreen to put him out of reach out of the animal should he leap, forcing his Sparkling to let go of the nub he had been eagerly suckling from and making him protest loudly. Megatron turned, gave the situation a look and bend down to pat the Hellhound’s head before shushing him away.

“No be afraid,” Megatron said soothingly. “Them tame. Them like Sparklings. Them won’t hurt little one. You be keep feed Smokescreen, yes?”

“Ah, yes,” Optimus murmured before shifting Smokescreen back so he could return back to suckle. His son gave him a very unimpressed look before he latched on his source of fuel again. Optimus smiled a little before shaking his head, vision slightly blurry. He glanced up at the unforgiving sun. Its rays seemed more powerful than in his memories -- but then again, he hadn’t left the wagon much while they traveled toward Kaon, so he had never felt their full effect. And nomads lived under it all the time? They had more courage than he could have imagined, then.

His vents started to work harder to cool his frame, which didn’t escape Megatron as he came near to pick up two large baskets. “You no be feeling well, my mate?” he asked, frowning.

Optimus tried not to fidget at being called ‘my mate’, allowing himself just a tiny nod. “Is heat,” he tried to explain.

“Hmm. Him Ratchet be say you might be feel unwell with sun. Wait,” he said as he opened one of the baskets he had intended to take and, after a klik of foraging, brought out a sand-colored poncho similar to the one Ratchet had worn. “You be wear it. Protect from sun and heat,” he explained as he handed it to Optimus, who gingerly took it. The grey nomad went back to forage in the basket, making a small sound of triumph as he dragged out linen bands and a tiny hood. “For Smokescreen,” he explained. “You be bond him and put hood. Him well be protect from heat and sun while we be move.”

“Thank you,” he nodded toward Megatron as he accepted the clothes and put them down next to him. “Me carry him in my arms while we be move?” Megatron shook his head.

“Carriers be use slings so have free arms,” he explained. “You be travel in cart perhaps if be tired too, with Carriers and Sparklings, but you be walk with me too -- show tribe you can move. You be dress,” he ordered. “Sun bad for new Carrier.” He looked pointedly at Optimus’ flat abdomen, standing over the red and blue mech with his arms over his chest, waiting.

“You be hold Smokescreen, please?” he asked handing the mechling to the grey nomad after he managed to nudge him away from his pouch, starting to deflate them. Smokescreen didn’t look particularly happy, but he also looked sated enough not to fuss anymore as he was put in Megatron’s hands. Optimus slide the poncho over his head, bringing up the hood to better cover himself and looked up at the approving nomad, who handed him back Smokescreen without a comment.

“You be dress him up now,” he said gently before going back to finish the preparations for their departure. Optimus blinked, looking down at his son then at the bands of linen, unsure of how to process. He knew how swaddling worked, theoretically at least, but he never had to do it to Smokescreen before.

“Need a hand here, Optimus?”

He looked up quickly, sighing in relief as he saw the familiar silhouette of Ratchet, his hood down, make his way toward him and Megatron. The grey nomad paused, nodding at the medic. “Ratchet. You be need something? Drift ask help?”

“Drift be okay. Me Ratchet just have look at mate and Smokescreen. You not mind?” He was sitting down already without waiting for an answer, making Megatron smirk briefly.

“You be stubborn mech, Ratchet.”

“Hmmph. You be free mate now? Me want see ankle -- see if he be able walk right,” he explained.

Megatron frowned. “Me not be tighten chains. Him fine.”

“Me medic. Me see and say if him mate fine,” Ratchet said with finality, arms crossed over his chest and optics narrowed. “You be want me go seek Drift so he be say I be right -- with sword of his? Or you be want me go see Megazarack?” he added with a smirk, and Megatron positively glowered.

“Fine,” he said briskly before walking to Optimus and crouching down, yanking at the chain and fiddling with the lock of the cuffs. After a moment, there was a soft ‘click’ and the cuffs opened, freeing Optimus’ ankles. The red and blue mech moved his legs slightly in wonder, surprised at finally being free. He reached for one of his ankles with his free hand, gently massaging the plating. “You be glad, healer?”

“Yes,” Ratchet nodded. “You be finish packing. Megazarak have say leaving soon.” Megatron just grunted, starting to work on the central mast now Optimus wasn’t bound to it anymore. The medic glared at him before turning his head to look at Optimus with a gentler expression. “Well, how are you and Smokescreen feeling today?”

“We’re fine,” Optimus assured him, continuing to massage his ankle until Ratchet swatted his hand away. “Ah… what are you doing?”

“Part of my job,” the medic said simply as he took Optimus’ pedes in his laps and started to look at them before gently massaging them. The red and blue mech gasped before sighing in relief as the medic rubbed and pinched a few cables, dipping in the seams. “There, relax. The cables are a little tense due to inactivity. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have the hydraulic fluids’ circulation properly reestablished. Thankfully, he didn’t tighten the cuffs too much -- the paint is barely chipped, your color nanites should be able to handle it without me needing to apply a touch-up.”

“That’s… good, I suppose,” the red and blue mech almost moaned as Ratchet continued to work his magic on his ankles. He hadn’t noticed how stiff and painful they had become, trapped under the cuffs -- nor how heavy said cuffs had been.

“How is the language database going? No problem, I hope?”

“None. Though I feel completely awkward when I speak,” he confessed. “Even to my own audio, it sounds like I’m butchering the language.”

“It’s normal, but don’t you worry. Once the camp is settled back and I can get some free time, I’ll give you lessons in grammar. That should help. The most important for the moment is that you can communicate, as clumsy as it is.”

“Should I try downloading the chip’s content into Smokescreen’s systems?” Optimus asked curiously.

“No,” the medic shook his head. “He’s still so young he can pick the language easily by himself when he reaches the age for his vocalizer to start running properly. Besides, downloading foreign content in a Sparkling’s systems can be dangerous. I won’t advise it.”

Optimus nodded in acceptance before he took the chip from his subspace pocket. “I think I need to give it back to you then.” The medic nodded and pocketed the chip back before continuing his massage. Optimus sighed, leaning back and trying to enjoy the feeling. His mind, however, was full of questions. “I didn’t know the nomads kept mechanimals as pets,” he offered after a moment. “Megatron said something about them being ‘help’ and… ‘food’,” he added queasily.

Ratchet nodded, snorting. “You didn’t think nomads just hunted, did you? Some days, when the game is scarce and there is no crystal berries to pick, it’s better to have another source of fuel to fall back on. They milk the Gallium-Goats and eat the MetalEggs the Robo-Chickens lay and, occasionally, they kill one for their metal and the energon in their lines. They try not to use their own mechanimals too often, though, for their need them for other things. See the ponchos we’re wearing? Their fibers come from shearing the Gallium-Goats or the Robodromederies,” he explained as Optimus looked down curiously at his own poncho, taking a corner in his hand. “I know the idea of eating mechanimals is unappealing -- Primus knows how much trouble I had with the idea myself when Drift offered me fresh strips out of his kills…”

Optimus’ plating took a shade of green. “I could never do that.”

“You’ll learn,” Ratchet dismissed the comment. “You already started anyway. Remember the //stew// you eat yesterday? What do you think it was made of?”

Optimus stalled. He remembered the bowl full of a fuel with a texture he had never experienced before: gooey with solid bits, the taste so strong in his mouth. He swallowed. “That was…?”

“A mechanimal meat stew,” Ratchet nodded. “Mechanimals can be roasted or skinned, quartered and used in stews. Stews take longer to prepare, of course, but they’re easier to swallow and get used to by outsiders to the tribe. I know it must be a shock,” he added at Optimus’ uneasy, shocked look, “but it’s one of the only fuel sources we have, and if we want to stay alive…” he trailed off.

Optimus was quick to latch on it. “‘One of the only’; that means you have others, right?”

Ratchet nodded. “We have, but not always in great quantities, and we prefer to put them in storage to bring them back for the wintering. The secondary fuel sources vary depending on the regions of the Badlands and the time period. Generally, it’s edible wild crystal berries and metalloplants, and sometimes springs and oases. Those ones, however, are reserved for the herds first.”

“Why?”

“Because unlike us, the Zap-Horses, the Robodromedries, the Gallium-Goats,... they all survive first and foremost on liquid energon and oil,” Ratchet explained. “We can find other things for ourselves to safely consume, but for them, it’s harder. The nomads bred them to run the least amount possible and to make large reserve, so they can handle the long treks from one natural source of oil to another, but even so, we have to be careful. Animals get first right to a spring or a well, then the Sparklings, Carriers and elderly. Warriors come last in the priority order, since they can hunt to find their own meal. And by the way, you never, ever put our camp right next to an oil spring; in the Badlands, the wells belong to everyone, because everyone need it. To construct an outpost or mount your camp right next to the only steady fuel source in the area, that’s akin to a war declaration.”

“... is that why they attack the outposts, then?”

“In part,” Ratchet nodded. “Outposts are encroaching on their territory, but they also upset the game’s migration roads. Nothing is more enraging than coming to your usual hunt area and discover the game deserted it due to ‘civilization’ settling here. Not to mention, outposts also destroy some of the local flora -- and so destroy yet another necessary fuel source for the nomads. Is it any wonder they take it out on the outposts then?” he sighed. “Though, truth to be told, some tribes do attack outposts without particular reason other than ‘test their might’ or doing a supplies raid. And yes, that’s barbaric and pointless and stupid, but I never said all nomads were smart,” he added before Optimus could open his mouth to protest.

“... I don’t like it,” Optimus finally said as he rocked Smokescreen.

“Neither do I, but I can’t change the old habits and traditions. I just count myself lucky Drift belonged to this particular tribe and that Megazarak isn’t as pig-headed as his own Sire was.”

“Who is he, by the way? Megatron… he seemed to be angry when you threatened to report him to that ‘Megazarak’ character.” Optimus’ genuine curiosity was met with a smirk

“That’s Megatron’s Grandsire, and the current leader of the whole tribe. You’ll meet him soon enough -- he’ll want to see his GrandSparkling’s new mate for himself after all.”

“Joy,” Optimus deadpanned. “Ah, Ratchet, I was wondering, how do I use that?” he asked as he showed the swaddling clothes to the medic. “Megatron seemed quite insistent I use them for Smokey.”

The medic let go of his pedes. “Sure, let me show you.” And he processed to show Optimus how to best use the swaddling bands and how to properly tighten them so they would restrain the Sparkling’s moves. Smokescreen wasn’t impressed and tried to wiggled out of the bindings all the while, but with the help of Ratchet, Optimus soon had him ready, smiling as he equipped his Sparkling with the small hood.

“That was both harder and easier than I thought,” he confessed to the white and red mech as they both sat back. Smokescreen was making small sounds of distress which his Carrier was trying to calm with coos and kisses.

“Yeah, the system isn’t hard once you know the right way to tighten it. The fussiness of the Sparkling you’re binding is the main problem; thankfully, little ones used to being swaddled know they have to lie still. Unless they’re hellions like my own,” he grunted as an afterthought.

“Your twin sons?” Optimus asked with a little smile.

“Oh yeah. I remember when they were still the age to be swaddled; when I was trying to bind one, the other was busy trying to crawl away as fast as his little limbs would allow him to. Mind you, Slipstream is actually very obedient, but Jetstorm…” he shook his head. “It’s simple, when I don’t hear him, my systems go haywire because I keep wondering what trouble he’s up to.”

“Surely, it can’t be that bad…”

Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look. “Keep telling yourself that. We’ll have that conversation again once your own son is big enough to start wanting to ride a Zap-Horse all by himself without any training.”

“Ah. That bad,” Optimus mouthed slowly, looking down at his own Sparkling. Smokescreen looked up at him innocently and for a moment, the red and blue mech wondered…

“You be over, healer?” Megatron cut in, startling both mechs. Looking right and left, Optimus finally noticed the grey mech had finished dismantling the tent and that everything was neatly folded, bundled and packed in the cart. The nomad was definitely ready to leave… and he was armed too, Optimus realized. A huge sword was strapped to his back, and he held a lance. Where the Pit had they come from? He hadn’t seen them in the tent before!

“Yes, me be do. Him mate good to go. Oh, and by the way, Optimus,” he added, switching back to modern Cybertronian, “you’ll need this as well.” He handed him a loop of cloth. “I don’t have much use for sling those vorns, but you definitely something for Smokescreen. You can’t carry him in your arm all day.”

“Megatron had told me as much,” Optimus nodded as he gratefully accepted the gift and passed it around his neck. Gently, he slid the Sparkling in, Smokescreen’s puzzled face looking up at him as he chirruped questioningly. “Well settled, little one?” he joked. His son frowned and pouted, looking so utterly adorable Optimus couldn’t stop himself from giggling. Even Ratchet seemed amused.

“This one is going a Spark-Breaker when he grows up. Anyway, I need to rejoin my mate for the departure -- and make sure my two troublemakers aren’t up to no good. The last thing we need is them freeing a Robo-Chicken in the middle of the migration,” he grunted, waving goodbye at Optimus and walking away with long steps.

“You be ready move?” Megatron asked Optimus, offering him a hand to help him rise up. After a moment of hesitation, the red and blue mech accepted. It was the first time the nomad touched him since… since what had happened the previous solar cycle. His hand shook slightly when he put it in Megatron’s own, but the grey nomad didn’t comment. His face was perhaps slightly more blank than before, but he never said one word. Instead, once Optimus was up, he gently grabbed the edge of the hood to adjust it, bringing him lower to better cover Optimus’ forehead. “There. You be careful. You thirsty or you be tired, you be tell me right away, yes?”

“I be telling you, I promise,” Optimus nodded, adjusting Smokescreen’s in the sling to he could better support him.

Megatron nodded curtly. “Good. We be move ‘til night.” He turned, making a gesture for Optimus to follow him as he grabbed the bridle of the Zap-Horse another nomad had just finished to attach to the arms of the cart. The powerful black animal took a few steps, while two Hellhounds which had been hiding in the shade of the cart got up and started running around it, barking.

Optimus looked a last time around, taking in the ready carts other nomads were starting to pull, the Younglings and Hellhounds guiding the Gallium-Goats, the Sparklings installed in slings at their Carriers’ neck or in baskets on their back, the bigger nomads, all armed, striding along, the big wagons pulled by a whole team of Zap-Horses. The sight was almost mesmerizing.

Then Megatron called him again, and he walked forward obediently.

Chapter Text

Optimus let himself gratefully sank down on the ground besides the fire, carefully balancing Smokescreen in his arms to avoid dropping him. His legs hurt, but it wasn’t unusual by now. All around him, the nomads were busy mounting their tents or starting on the evening’s meal. He knew he should have helped -- it was even expected of him at some point, as Ratchet had quietly pointed out to him during the trek -- but each time they settled down for the night, he remained too dazed to do anything but sit in a daze and feed Smokescreen.

“You be stir the stew, yes?” one of the other tribe members assigned to the meal’s preparation asked as he handed him a ladle. He was another Carrier, with a son who didn’t look much older than Smokescreen. He too was handling him with one arm, using the other to add bits and pieces of metalloplants in the gigantic cauldron others mechs had put on the open fire. “You can be feed Sparkling while you do, yes?” Optimus nodded slowly, accepting the ladle and gingerly stirring the content. The other nomad nodded. “Not too fast,” he cautioned. “Stew be good tonight.”

“Yes,” Optimus nodded simply, trying not to divert too much of his attention away from Smokescreen. Half-hidden under his poncho, still swaddled and installed in the sling with Optimus’ free hand to support him, the Sparkling was gently suckling one of his nubs. The red and blue mech fought down the impulse to tug the poncho lower to hide them better, blushing slightly when some of the other mechs gathered around the fire to cook chuckled at his skittishness. They themselves didn’t bother; if they had a Sparkling to feed, they fed them openly, not caring anyone could see their full pouches. The only moment they covered them was when they let Sparklings suckle during the trek; in those moments, they let them swell under their ponchos to keep the rubbery material protected from the sun and they guided their Sparklings’ head to the nubs without stopping walking.

Optimus had attempted to twice, but his success was mitigated. Thankfully, he had always been a fast learner and he felt he was starting to get the hang of it. Smokescreen certainly wasn’t complaining in any case. These days, he spent his time feeding and recharging, literally knocked out by the heat. Truthfully, there were moments Optimus wished he could have imitated him and just sleep through the travel.

They had been walking for five solar cycles now, settling the camp every night as the sun sank toward the horizon, and the trek was just exhausting. The nomads took it well, used to it by years of wandering through the Wastelands… the Badlands, but Optimus felt like he was going to fall down face first in the ground long before they even settled for the night. Still, he continued to stubbornly walk, unwilling to show weakness… unless Megatron grabbed him by the waist with a grunt to make him sit on the edge of a cart.

The first time he had done so, Optimus had yelped in surprise and kicked uselessly, blushing madly as Megatron sat him down. The grey nomad’s smug look and his condescending tone hadn’t helped his embarrassment. “Mate be tired, mate do rest.” Optimus had started to protest, but Megatron’s next comment had cut him off. “You be think Sparkling in your belly first.”

And just like that, a very chastised Optimus had accepted the ride, although he remained quite ashamed of his lack of physical resistance to the heat and to the tiredness. Ratchet had come over at some point to reassure him, that there was nothing to be ashamed of, that him too had had trouble getting used to the trek at first, but still Optimus wondered. He had often been told he was a strong, enduring mech -- and he certainly was, by the cities-states standards, but next to a nomad? He felt like an helpless Sparkling himself. Never before had he walked so much and so far, always having the option to use his altmode before. Here in the Badlands, it was impossible though, and so his forces were tested further than ever before.

Sighing and never stopping from stirring the stew simmering in the cauldron, he glanced around to see how much of the camp had been set up already. After five solar cycles, he was still amazed as how fast and efficient the nomads were when it came to put things apart and back together.

Setting up the camp always went the same way, from what he had been able to notice. First the nomads arranged their carts and wagons in a circle, shoving the Sparklings in the center to keep an optic on them while the adults members of the tribes started to discharge the carts. The priority was usually given to the one containing sturdy stakes and long, enormous rolls of spiky wire they used to mount a fence around the circle formed by the other carts. A smaller circle, attached to the first one, was then dressed to lock the herd of Gallium-Goats together. Hellhounds and guards then started to prowl around the enclosure in order to keep an optic on the precious animals. Optimus had been puzzled until Megatron helped him understand there sometimes were predators in the area who would try and prey on the herd -- thus the reason they raised a fence for themselves and gave guard shifts.

Once the fence was finished, the tribe’s main priorities were to dig a pit in order to prepare a fire to cook their meal and to set up their tents, which never seemed to take them much time. Dead mechanimals were then drug out of the refrigerated wagons -- the big ones pulled by a whole team -- to be prepared for the tribe’s meal while the Gallium-Goats were milked and the MetalEggs picked up and occasionally added to the meal.

Nobody stayed idle for long. There always was something to do for everyone, be it keeping an optic on the Sparkling, helping raise one neighbor’s tent, helping skin and quarter the mechanimals, repairing a chipped mast or stake, or fix up holes in the tents linen. A few mechs kept sharpening their blades, while other checked their bows or made new arrows. Even Optimus got swept up in the activity for once, helping stir the cauldron like he was doing now -- an unimportant but still somewhat helpful task.

Yes, nobody stayed idle… Except the other two captives taken during the raid on the caravan.

Speaking of said captives… one of the nomads passed by the fire, his newly acquired ‘mate’ slung over his shoulder, a mech of black and white plating with a flame painted on his chest, bound and gagged, glaring daggers at everyone and kicking his captor as well as he could given his restrained state. His yellow optics narrowed as they noticed the smirks headed his way. The nomad carrying him, a black mech with purple highlights and the tell-tales doorwings of someone having Praxian ancestry, grunted and chuckled at the other mech’s attempts at fighting, a hilarity shared by many mechs already gathered around the fire or any who was witnessing the event.

It didn’t make Optimus laugh. If anything, his Spark squeezed painfully in its chamber as he watched the mech he had learned was named Barricade stop to exchange words with another doowinged mech, this one black and white with a red chevron and a yellow visor, the struggling Ricochet still trying to kick him.

Instinctively, Optimus looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of another familiar black and white mech, but his hopes were quickly disappointed as he saw nowhere the well-known silhouette of Jazz. His shoulders sagged a little. He would have liked to see the other mech, if only briefly, to make sure he was alright.

What a surprise it had been, to see Jazz on the caravan, albeit briefly! While never close friends, the two of them had been long-time acquaintances who used to meet at a small bar near the Archives, where Optimus would often stop before heading back to his Creators’ home. Jazz had often been found on stage, an amateur musician playing one instrument or the other or dancing with some of the patrons. Chatty and cheerful, he had always brought a smile to Optimus’ face when he struggled with the knowledge he would soon have to drop his job at the Archives to focus on his upcoming Bonding. Talking with Jazz had always been interesting and refreshing, their discussions brushing across many subjects -- music, both old and new, had been the main one, Jazz being very enthusiastic about the subject.

Then the Bonding had happened, and the trips to the bar had stopped as much as his former job -- it wouldn’t have been proper for a newly Bonded young noble like Optimus to continue frequenting a bar when he had his house to take care of. The last he had seen or heard of Jazz, on the edge of his Bonding to Flame, the other mech had mentioned going to visit his younger brother for a while.

A brother, Optimus had learned later on, who happened to be Ricochet. Jazz had told him himself on the day the caravan left Iacon.

Seeing Jazz as a caravaner had been a shock -- after all, he didn’t have a guard’s standard profile. Still, it had been a most welcome surprise, even if his job and Optimus’ current status didn’t allow them to spend much time together. Jazz had made a point to try and walk or ride his mount next to the window of Optimus’ wagon at least once a day to exchange a few words before he was called to open or close the march, or when he had to go check on the other travelers he was accompanying through the desert. As briefs as those moments were, they had helped soothe the loneliness he had felt when Flame had refused again and again to do the same and ride with him and Smokescreen.

Smokescreen had certainly been a true hit with Jazz; the mech had cooed and grinned like a Cybercat at his bitlet, congratulating Optimus for the birth -- and throwing very unimpressed looks at Flame when he had guessed by himself the mech didn’t exactly fit the mold of ‘Sire of the Vorn’. He had said nothing though, for which Optimus was grateful. Chatty, cheerful and witty he might be, but Jazz also thought before speaking or acting.

But as nice as he still was with Optimus, the black and white mech had closed off any time the young noble had tried to ask him how an aspiring musician and member of the Entertainment Guild had ended up as simple ‘hired muscle’ on caravans doing the road between Iacon and Kaon. Jazz had always quickly diverted the subject, and Optimus, after a second, subtly refuted attempts, had decided to let sleeping matter lay.

It didn’t stop the red and blue mech to have the sneaky feeling Ricochet, Jazz’ younger brother, had something to do with this sudden career change. The same Ricochet who, still slung over his ‘mate’s’ shoulder, was cursing through his gag and glaring at anyone coming too close. As if feeling they were watched, the nomad, Barricade, suddenly turned and looked at him in the optics and, cheeks flushing, Optimus quickly turned his optics away.

He really looked a lot like Jazz, Optimus couldn’t help but muse as he returned his attention to the stew. Both siblings had the same build, with Ricochet being perhaps slightly smaller than his elder brother. They had the same head design, and both used a visor to protect their optics -- which were of different colors; Jazz were an intense blue, as luminous as the Cobalt Sea under the midday sun, while Ricochet were golden with a slight orange undertone.

Both shared the same colors as well, but their paint schemes were inversed: if Jazz had a black helm, white chest, black arms, white forearms black pelvic plating and black hands, Ricochet had a white helm, black chest, black forearms, white pelvic plating and white hands. Not to mention they had radically differents tastes in highlights; Jazz had given his chest a blue and red design to complement the white while Ricochet, more flamboyant in his tastes, had painted a custom-designed flame on himself.

Still, it was impossible to mistake them as anything but related. They shared so many features only a blind mech would have missed the resemblance.

The same way it was obvious Barricade was related to the other Praxian-typed mech, the one he was still speaking to right now. Prowl, if Optimus remembered right. He didn’t dare looking at them again -- he didn’t want to raise attention to himself and Smokescreen, not when he was still so unsure of his place in the tribe and what was expected of him.

“You stop stir now,” the nomad at his right suddenly said, startling him a little. The mech chuckled at him, shaking his head. “You be daydream? Is okay,” he added when Optimus shuffled uneasily. “Daydream fine. But you be careful not let dinner burn, yes? Or tribe members be upset.”

And upsetting the assembly of heavy set, powerful warriors was the very last thing Optimus wanted. He swallowed nervously, letting the ladle drop back in the cauldron after a last stir and grabbing Smokescreen with his two hands to nudge him away from his pouches. The Sparkling wasn’t truly suckling anymore, more like sucking on the nub for comfort. He made a little displeased sound at being moved away and started to fuss, cranky. Shaking his head and smiling despite himself, Optimus started to undo the swaddling clothes, knowing being unrestrained and allowed to crawl and try to toddle around could immediately lift his young son’s mood.

He was right; the moment Smokescreen was free, he was wiggling to get out of his arms, eager to go and get some exercise by crawling toward a couple of Sparklings playing with fabric dolls at a small distance from their spot. Optimus let him, glad to see him get away from the fire -- he had briefly feared the Sparkling’s natural curiosity would push him toward the source of light and heat but thankfully, the little one was more interested in seeking out ‘friends’.

It was perfectly natural, of course. Smokescreen hadn’t had much chances to see other Sparklings before, let alone truly play with them. Nobles offsprings stayed safely home with their Carrier until they were old enough to start making public appearance and start their education -- in private schools of high-standing, of course, unless their Creators prefered to hire a tutor. Flame had briefly mused about having Smokey get an education at the Temple, where his Great-Aunt, the Mistress of the Flame, could mentor him, but those had been plans for the far future. Plans which would never see the light of the day again now.

With a tiny smile, he followed Smokey’s progression, noting how fast his son had become. His legs circuits were growing stronger and stronger with every passing solar cycle and soon, he’d be able to take his first true steps by himself. The legs weren’t the only things growing stronger; his arms, his hands… Smokescreen was growing, his body subtly changing from the almost bare protoform he had been when he had unfurled. The tiny nubs which had always been present on his back were growing as well, and unless he was wrong, his son would get…

“Praxian?” a voice asked next to him, making Optimus jump in fright. Looking up, his optics crossed the yellow visor of the white and black Praxian -- Prowl.

“What?” he asked, blinking and looking quickly at the crawling and giggling Smokescreen -- the other Sparklings had noticed him going their way and were making small gestures of encouragement to make him go faster. “What you be ask?” he repeated, trying to calm himself.

“The right way to phrase it would be ‘What did you ask?' though I suppose you were actually trying to say 'Why are you asking?’. And, to repeat my question in understandable terms, is the Sparkling Praxian in origin?” the black and white mech repeated calmly himself, doorwings twitching, and it took a few moments of puzzlement for Optimus to realize two things. One, he had perfectly understood Prowl. And the second, if he had understood him so well, it was because…

“You speak modern Cybertronian?” he asked in amazement and hope.

The black and white mech nodded swiftly as he continued to watch Smokescreen’s crawling form with intent optics. “Indeed, though it’s not my first language. I’m a proud warrior of the tribe, not an outsider as you are.” Optimus’ hopes deflated a little at the admission and, now that he heard the mech spoke longer, he could actually make out a slight accent. “And I think I asked you a question, did I not?” His tone was amiable, but the way he watched Smokescreen made Optimus frown.

“Why do you ask?”

The mech looked down at him. “I don’t intend to harm him, quite the contrary, though I admire your protectiveness. This is the mark of a good Carrier,” he said with a short nod. “You can call my question mere curiosity. There aren’t many in our tribes who have doorwings and those who do, like my brother and I, inherited it from a Praxian ancestor. In our case, it was our Carrier. I don’t suppose the Sparkling’s original Sire was Praxian himself? I won’t ask about yourself; your build alone indicate bigger frame models in your ancestry, so it stands to reason your son inherited his features from his Sire’s side of his base coding.”

“Not his Sire, no,” Optimus answered after a moment of consideration. “Flame’s Carrier, though, was Praxian. None of her Creations had doorwings though -- at most they got spoilers but Flame took quite after his own Sire in frame. I suppose he carried the coding for doorwings, though.”

“Most likely, though the probabilities for it to express itself and one a first Creation at that were less than 15.845%,” the black and white mech murmured. He wasn’t quite smiling at Smokescreen hugged a doll one of the other Sparklings had handed him, but it was near. Optimus himself didn’t bother hiding his amusement at the display. “It’ll be interesting to see if the same thing happens with your second Creation.”

Instinctively, Optimus’ hand went to his abdomen. It was still flat, and his systems had yet to ping him, meaning the Sparklet wasn’t viable yet, but sometimes he could swear he felt something under his hand. “Perhaps,” he said carefully. “You… why do you care, though?”

Prowl gave him a glance again, though it was clear most of his attention was focused on Smokescreen and his developing winglets. “My Carrier was a Praxian,” he said simply. Optimus looked at him blankly; was that supposed to be an explanation? “We of Praxus ancestry take matching very seriously in order for our offspring to inherit our doorwings and their useful sensors array.”

Optimus stared. Was he to understand that…? “Are you sizing my son up for Bonding?” he asked in a growl, ready to attack the black and white mech at the slightest gesture. The Pit he was going to let that… that slagger anywhere near Smokescreen!

“Do not be ridiculous,” the Praxian dismissed. “I already found a mate thank to our latest raid--” Jazz, Optimus remembered in a flash. Of course; Prowl had taken Jazz as his ‘mate’. “--and I have every reason to believe he will bear me doorwinged mechlings. No, I’m just interested in sizing up potential matches for our future Sparklings.”

If Optimus had stared at him before, he was now utterly speechless. “... you can kidnap someone from your own tribe?” was the first thing out of his mouth and he almost hit himself for that. There were far more pressing matters he should have asked him!

The black and white mech’s doorwings twitched in amusement. “Of course. In those cases, two mechs just have to let the Elders and the Chieftain know of their intentions. They will be escorted out in the plains to a different location, equipped with anything and everything they could have requested before, and they will hunt and fight each other until one manage to defeat and capture the other, then bring him back to the camp and under his tent.”

“... you people are very weird,” Optimus muttered, shaking his head as he watched Smokescreen happily play with the other Sparklings. It made the other mech bristle.

“We are not ‘weird’,” he informed the red and blue mech in a clipped tone, his doorwings raised high. “From our point of views, you outsiders are the ones who are weird!”

Optimus quickly raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, my words have exceeded my thoughts.” He didn’t want to get on the nomad’s bad side, not when he was one of the only ones here who could speak modern Cybertronian and so have a clear conversation with. Not to mention, he had Jazz in custody, and Optimus wished to have news of the other mech very badly. “Just… try to understand me. I’ve lost everything… Everything but Smokescreen, and the Sparkling in my gestation chamber,” he whispered softly, and the tremor in his voice wasn’t faked.

It seemed to mollify the Praxian. His rigid posture smoothed into a more relaxed one. “Of course. My condolence for the loss of your previous mate. However, I think you’ll find out Megatron is a more than adequate replacement as a Sire and mate. His spike is known to be thick and he’s a generous lover. He’ll give you strong offsprings…” He paused when Optimus started to stutter, shocked. “Is something wrong?” he asked not unkindly.

Optimus took a few breaths, vents working hard. He wasn’t going to start insulting the other mech for being so callous; he wasn’t! “Everything… is fine,” he mumbled.

Prowl didn’t sound very convinced, but he nodded along. “If you say so.” He looked at Smokescreen again, visor shining brightly. “It’ll be good to have more doorwinged bitlets around,” he murmured to himself.

“Ah… Prowl, is it?” Optimus asked weakly before the mech could turn and leave. “I hope it’s not too presumptuous of me, but… how is Jazz?” he asked. The mech raised an optic ridge at him, and Optimus flushed. “He… he’s a friend. I’m worried for him…”

“Are you doubting my capacities to provide for my mate?” the mech asked with a bland voice. Optimus blanched; he didn’t know much yet about nomads, but he had gathered, through the few talks he had had with Ratchet as they walked, that nomads didn’t take a mate lightly. Kidnapping their chosen one was a statement of ‘love’ as much as a statement of strength; it was understood as a proof you were competent enough to hunt for more than yourself, and that you knew how to support or raise someone who would be dependant on you. To even imply one wasn’t ready was a grave offense.

Optimus started to flail, panicked, when the black and white mech’s lips quirked up. “I was joking.” Optimus stilled and watched him, stunned. A joke? With a face and a voice so blank? “You should not fear,” the Praxian continued calmly. “I’m more than able to take care of my new mate’s needs.”

“That… is not my main worry,” Optimus tried to say softly, wondering how to phrase things so he wouldn’t accidentally set the nomad off -- or fall victim to one of his ‘jests’. “Jazz is… a very social individual?” he tried to explain.

“I had gathered as much,” the doorwinged mech nodded. “But he will not remain isolated for long. Already, I feel our courtship is progressing well, no thanks to the fact I can actually properly communicate with my mate -- which, sadly, isn’t the case of my elder brother. Barricade always thought it was a loss of time. It seems his laziness is now deserving him. Not to mention, his newly acquired mate is quite stubborn.” He was smirking, and Optimus wondered if he was actually happy to see his own sibling running into trouble. The mech wasn’t easy to read. “By contrast, my own choice of mech proved to be lucky. Jazz…” he paused, glancing at Optimus “has proved himself very adaptable thus far, and I have every hope he’ll be ready to leave the tent and join the tribe in the open soon.”

Optimus’ shoulders sagged in relief. “This is good to hear,” he said truthfully. Though he wondered if the nomad wasn’t too optimist; Jazz was adaptable, true, but he was also tricky. He could very well be fainting cooperation in order for the black and white nomad to lower his guard and then escape. Then again, for reasons he couldn’t explain, Optimus had the feeling Prowl was quite aware of the fact and that whatever plan Jazz had would be hard to pull. Especially if he didn’t want to leave without his brother, at the very least.

“While I’m thinking about it, though,” the Praxian rumbled. “Do not call either my mate or his brother by their names for now.”

Optimus had to blink at that. “Why? Those are their names…”

The doorwings twitched. “Yes, I do not contest this fact. However, a name’s reveal plays an important part in our mating process. I mustn’t call him by his given designation until he allows me to do so, thus definitely sealing our courtship and allowing me to give him the necklace which will identify him as my Bonded. To accidentally slip and calls him by his name when he hasn’t ‘officially’ given it to me would be a breach of tradition I’m not willing to partake in.”

Optimus stared, processor racing. “Ratchet never told me anything about it. He mentioned the necklace, but… he didn’t say anything about the name thing?”

“An oversight on his part, I’m sure,” Prowl dismissed with a gesture. “I do respect Ratchet’s willingness to help you adapt, but the fact remain that our healer has many matters to attend to, between the injured, his apprentice and the weary Carrier ready to give birth, not to mention his own mate to please and his sons to raise. What has he told you exactly?”

The red and blue mech frowned, looking away from the Praxian to glance at the happily chattering Smokescreen, still hugging his new ragdoll. An older Sparkling was keeping a close optic on the small group, to his relief. His mind wandered back to the conversation under the tent as he summoned his memories files. “Let’s see… he said the, the abduction was mariage already in the optics of the tribe? He did say there was a follow-up ceremony where the warrior gives his new mate a necklace to symbolize their union and the fact the mech now belonged to the tribe.” He paused, frowning. “Megatron never handed me one,” he murmured. “And now that I think about it, he never called me by my name either.”

“Unsurprising,” the Praxian noted, visor flashing. “If you haven’t told him your name yourself, then he cannot give you the Bonding necklace. Once and only when you do so will he be able to gift you with it. And knowing Megatron, he must be impatient to bind it around your neck. I know he spent vorns mentally coming up with a design and gathering the elements he would need to perfect it.”

“Vorns? But… we just met recently.”

“We start working on an eventual Bonding necklace long before we actually meet the mech we wish to have in our tent,” Prowl shrugged. “A necklace is supposed to be a show of prowess to display how strong one’s mate is. The claws, fangs, metal feathers, crystals and beads we use all have an history and are a way to show off a skill to the onlookers -- and mostly for the wearer, to reassure him his new mate is indeed as skilled as pretend to be for the courting. It’s not something you improvise at the last moment.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” Optimus murmured, shuttering his optics briefly. “But why didn’t Megatron tell me then?”

“Given how bad his and your communications skills are at the moment?” the Praxian asked dryly, and this time Optimus could truly say he was joking -- even if it was more deadpan than anything else. “Plus, it’s not supposed to be mentioned by the warrior, and newly acquired mechs usually know it already.”

“Usually,” Optimus repeated with a raised optic ridge and a grimace, making the black and white mech chuckle. “Does it change anything for me?” he asked after a moment of contemplation.

“For you? Not really. You aren’t a standard case, after all. If you were, you wouldn’t be allowed to walk with us; instead, you would probably still be chained and kept under Megatron’s tent until you were ready for him to give you your necklace before the whole tribe gathered.” Wasn’t that sobering, Optimus thought sarcastically? To know he was only free to go because he was a ‘special case’ as a widower? “Megatron took you in with a son already. By law, you’re part of the tribe even though he hasn’t given you a necklace yet. Though I must warn you; some tribe members are watching you closely and grow agitated by your bare neck.”

“But you just said it didn’t matter!” Optimus exclaimed.

“Not the way you think,” Prowl pacified. “Some of our numbers understand you need to grieve and so you aren’t ready to let yourself be properly claimed by your new mate. They watch you with reserved approval or outright sympathy. Others, though, think mourning has to be short and to the point and that you can’t be truly accepted so long you aren’t wearing Megatron’s mark. Especially since you bear his heir in your belly.”

Optimus raised a hand to his abdomen. “He’s not the true Sire,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“He is now,” Prowl said with finality, doorwings twitching, “and the Chieftain is watching you with keen interest.”

Megazarak, Megatron’s GrandSire, Optimus mentally reminded himself. He hadn’t even caught a single glimpse of the mech yet, and he couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing.

“What should I do?” he asked softly, looking into the other mech’s visor, temporarily dismissing Smokescreen’s giggle as he played with the other Sparklings. Prowl seemed taken aback.

“It is not my role to give you a conduct to follow,” he stated. “However, should I have any advice, I suppose it would be to talk with your mate.”

Optimus laughed without joy. “It isn’t easy at this point, as you know it.”

“True. Though it’s not insoluble. A word of advice; do declinate the secondary glyph of the verb you use in order to obtain conjugaisons. You don’t need to use the ‘be’ glyph to every sentence -- instead, use its simplified, adaptable form. You also need to add a suffix or prefix base glyph to your pronouns in order to better convey your meaning,” the Praxian indicated. “It will make the exchange much clearer.”

The red and blue mech nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

“Do not mention it,” the doorwinged mech dismissed. His face seemed to become softer suddenly. “I see the way you take care of your son. It is admirable. But you should take better care of you. Of you, and of your unborn Sparkling as well.” He turned and, after a last glance at Smokescreen, he left.

Raising his knees to his chest and temporarily losing his gaze into the flames as more and more mechs came to sit by the fire, Optimus thought long and hard about the last sentence. His belly was still flat, his systems still hadn’t send him a ping, and it worried him. Oh, he knew the most likely reason already; the frame of the Sparkling was developing too slowly due to a lack of proper trace elements and building nanites. For all it was weird and still made his tank queasy when he thought about some of the elements composing it, the nomads’ stew was nutritive, and he knew it was helping.

He barely reacted when Megatron sunk down and sat crosslegged next to him, bearing Smokescreen in his arms -- the little one cheerful as he reached out for his Carrier, amusing the grey nomad holding him.

If the Sparkling wasn’t yet registered by his systems, then it could only meant one thing: the frame -- or what had been constructed yet -- didn’t have enough building nanites to continue expand. Should he do nothing, then it would start breaking down, unable to support the growth of the Sparklet, and said Sparklet would then dissipate entirely. He would miscarry.

And that was an idea Optimus couldn’t bear.

Carefully, he looked at Megatron in the optics as he took Smokescreen from his arms. The grey mech nodded at him, optics calm and warm as they gazed at him. Optimus tried to smile back, but it didn’t reach his audio receptors. Megatron didn’t seem to mind, though. He was already busy grabbing bowls and handing them over so they could be generously filled by the mechs charged with the service. Optimus watched him with a bland face, still thinking even as he shushed at Smokescreen to calm him.

He needed to take an important decision in order to save this budding new life inside him. And he needed to take it tonight.

Chapter Text

In the end, the decision was surprisingly easier to take than he had expected.

By the time the communal meal was over and they had rejoined Megatron’s tent, Smokescreen was fast asleep, face hidden against his Carrier’s chest. Optimus put him down in his basket after putting the swaddling clothes back on, gently kissing his forehelm to wish him a good night. Smokescreen made a little sound of pleasure before turning and, chuckling, Optimus brought down his ‘cover’ to better protect him from the cold of the night. If during the day the heat was almost unbearable, at night the temperature dropped so low they made the adults shiver, and Optimus had come to appreciate the comfort and warmth provided by the covers in Megatron’s tent.

Speaking off… After a last kiss on his Sparkling’s forehelm, Optimus slowly turned to face the nomad, Spark beating fast due to his nervousness -- he knew what he needed to do, but that didn’t meant he was ready for it or truly wanted it, and he couldn’t even start to fathom what Megatron would think…

The grey nomad wasn’t looking at him. He was too busy selecting covers and organizing them into a proper ‘nest’ for Optimus to rest in. If anything, he could appreciate that about Megatron. Ever since this… disastrous ‘first time’, the mech hadn’t attempted to touch him in an intimate way; the most he did was grab Optimus to carry him over when the red and blue mech stumbled, or hand-feed him when it was time to refuel. And of course, he prepared the ‘nest’ every night before nudging Optimus toward it and retreating on the other side of the tent, back to him.

It always made Optimus feel both relieved and nervous at the same time, for if he appreciated the space Megatron gave him, he could never be certain the nomad wouldn’t just get fed up with their current arrangement and try to molest him in his sleep. Mind you, Optimus was usually so tired he didn’t have time to dwell on the subject, just happy to lay down and power down his systems.

And tonight… tonight, he didn’t fear Megatron would touch him. Well, he did. But he feared a refusal even more.

Megatron sat on his heels with a grunt of approval, glancing at Optimus. “Nest is ready,” he said simply. Optimus noted that, thank to Prowl’s advice, he was starting to get a better grasp on the language -- or at least one good enough to start understanding correct grammar, even if it was still rough, the glyphs rolling unfamiliarly along his systems.

Hesitantly, Optimus took Smokescreen’s basket in his arms and, with quiet dignity, carried it over to put it besides the mast -- not too far from him should his son wake up in the middle of the night, as rare as it was those days, but far enough he (they) wouldn’t risk pushing it asides or knock it over should they be… active.

Megatron watched the process with a raised optic ridge, obviously surprised by this change in Optimus’ routine -- usually, the red and blue mech wouldn’t have allowed Smokescreen at least than an arm away from him. “What you be doing, my mate?”

Optimus didn’t answer, setting the basket down and turning back on his heels with the same quiet dignity vorns of education had instilled in his processor. Standing silent, he watched Megatron, taking in the spiky-looking shoulders, the silvery-grey plating, the red optics burning like embers, the sharp dentas revealed by a slightly open mouth. He was slightly taller and more massive than Optimus, who wasn’t exactly small himself, and he was dangerous. It felt through every aspect of his frame and in his own silence.

Dangerous, strong, and sworn to protect Optimus and Smokescreen and the unborn bitlet.

With that in mind, he carefully approached Megatron, kneeling down besides him. He felt both rigid and awkward as he leaned forward and, shuttering his optics, brushed his lips components against the grey nomad’s. When nothing happened, Optimus lighted his optics again to the sight of a surprised looking warrior, who was watching him with a strange light in his optics.

Gently, a clawed hand grabbed his chin, a thumb gently stroking his cheek. “You want?” Megatron asked him in a hushed tone.

“Sparkling needs it,” Optimus answered, turning his gaze away. What else could he say or do? He didn’t love Megatron, even if he was willing to give him a chance to show him he wasn’t as bad as Optimus feared. The mech took great care of Smokescreen the rare times Optimus allowed him to; surely, he could be trusted… right?

And whatever his personal feelings were, Optimus couldn’t allow himself to forget there were higher interests at stake; those of the unborn Sparkling on the verge of fading in his gestation chamber. What kind of Carrier would he be, if he let his Creation die by refusing to do what was needed?

He wanted to say that aloud, to try and convince Megatron, but the words stayed locked in his vocalizer, and he could only stay silent and trembling under the intense red gaze. The soft caresses of the thumb on his cheek didn’t stop, and a slight pressure encouraged him to turn his head back to look at Megatron. He looked grave, but not disappointed or overly surprised.

“I be sorry,” Optimus whispered.

“What for? You be doing nothing wrong,” the nomad hushed him. “I be Sire; I have responsibilities. Give the Sparkling nanites.” He looked at Optimus up and down. “Relax,” he ordered.

Easier said than done, Optimus thought wistfully, but he didn’t fight as Megatron’s powerful hands were put on his shoulders. Lips components brushed against his slowly, barely touching, before the grey nomad grew bolder and started truly kissing him. It was chaste, though; never did Megatron try to deepen the kiss, or to slide his glossa in Optimus’ mouth, for which the red and blue mech felt a twinge of relief and appreciation. The hands on his shoulders started to massage them in slow circles. The fingers, as Optimus soon found out, were as powerful individually as the whole hand felt. But Megatron never tried to apply more force than he already was, just stimulating the plating and occasionally dipping into a seam to reach the cable and massage them too. Slowly, oh so slowly, as the chaste kisses on his lips, cheeks, olfactive sensor and forehead increased and the massage spread from his shoulders to his neck and then to his arms, Optimus felt his shoulders sag.

A soft mewling sound escaped him after a moment as Megatron pressed just right over a knot of cables which had been bothering him. Ooooh, but it felt so good! His back arched by reflex, and he felt himself blush as Megatron gave a low, throaty laugh.

“You feel good, my mate? I give you more, soon… if you want?” he added after a beat of silence, leaning back slightly. Optimus flustered, but nodded. He didn’t say a word, not trusting his voice, but he leaned forward and kissed Megatron as softly as the nomad had kissed him, letting his hands lay flat on the bigger mech’s chest. It did the trick; Megatron returned the kiss, sharp dentas nibbling at Optimus’ lips while his hands continued to rub slow circle over the red and blue mech’s upper body and limb. Awkwardly, Optimus caressed the broad grey chest of Megatron, but it lacked any true passion or desire.

The nomad didn’t comment on it, though, preferring to focus on his task. His glossa slide over Optimus’ mouth, though he didn’t try to slide it inside. Optics half-shuttered, he seemed happy to just… touch and revere, and Optimus was happy to let him, for he felt relaxed.

That is, until Megatron started to nudge him so he would lay down on the pelts and covers. Optimus’ frame tensed, but he let himself be guided down, let his legs being arranged, let Megatron climb over him, his chassis weighing against his own, knees on either side of his thighs.

“Do not tense,” the nomad rumbled as Optimus fought back a whimper of unease. “I make feel good, yes?” he asked in a low tone, a small smile on his hips as his hands started to roam over Optimus’ chest in the same way they had his shoulders and arms. Optimus tried to focus his gaze on the tent’s ‘roof’ as he vented slowly to cool his frame and calm his frazzled processor. He needed it, he reminded himself. The Sparkling needed it. The transfluid, the precious nanites. Now wasn’t the time to flinch and try to throw the nomad off.

Did Megatron felt it, his reluctance? Optimus didn’t doubt it for one moment, which was probably why the nomad wasn’t trying to be bolder. The last time, the grey mech had been gentle as well, littering kisses and caresses over Optimus’ frame before reaching out for its ultimate goal rather quickly. This time, it was clear Megatron was taking all his time and despite himself, Optimus couldn’t help but feel reassured, cables loosening, vents working hard to cool a frame which was starting to shudder not from fear, but from excitation, as dim as it was.

Sharp dentas nibbled his lower lip with insistence, red optics catching his own blue ones. “You handsome,” Megatron whispered, cupping the back of Optimus’ head so he could kiss him better. “Handsome,” he repeated after he broke the kiss and let his head slide lower, nuzzling his face into Optimus’ neck. Was he… purring? That was new, Optimus thought dimly as Megatron nibbled his neck. Flame had never purred like that when they had been intimate, and Optimus didn’t know what to think of the sound. On one hand, it seemed a little vulgar… but on the other, it sent a shiver down his spinal strut, a shiver he couldn’t properly classify.

The one he felt when Megatron moved and started to nudge his knee between his thighs, wordlessly demanding he part them, was however perfectly identifiable as wariness and fright, the caresses and kisses barely making it bearable. Thankfully, the grey nomad didn’t seem in any hurry to shift his attention down there, instead continuing his methodical massage and kissing, to Optimus’ immense relief. Optimus’ thighs parted just enough to let Megatron put his knee down, and that was it. If anything, the grey mech was more interested in lavishing attention on Optimus’ grill and on the various seams he discovered as he explored the red and blue mech’s frame.

Optimus couldn’t help but moan as Megatron teased a bundle of cables just right, shifting to allow the other mech better access -- and the grey mech took full advantage of it, optics flashing as he grinned. Optimus’ head lolled to the side as his chest was meticulously kissed and licked inch by inch as Megatron progressed lower and lower, until his hands were rubbing little circles over the red and blue mech’s belly. He pressed his cheek against it, and Optimus’ vents hitched.

The gesture felt so familiar and so alien at the same time; Flame had used to do that too, when they had been expecting Smokescreen. Unable to fully believe they were going to become Creators, he had kept doing that, as if he could pick up noise or movement from the inside of the gestation chamber, despite knowing full-well the Sparkling wasn’t developed enough to produce any. Megatron’s gesture was innocent enough -- or could have been, if not for the context -- but it brought bittersweet memories to Optimus’ processor.

He almost startled when the clawed hands moved to grab his hips and he rose a little to stare down at him. “Megatron?” he asked softly, feeling wary.

“Shh,” the other mech whispered, starting his massage again, this time concentrating on Optimus’ hips and thighs, though he didn’t try to reach for their inner part. Optimus tried not to fidget or tense too much under Megatron’s watchful gaze as he observed his reactions. The close proximity of those hands near his interface array, even if they weren’t headed there… He moaned again, softly, as he felt himself start to lubricate. A blush came to his cheeks; he shouldn’t get this turned on by mere massage! He never had before! But Megatron just seemed to know where to press and rub, with how much strength, and he was patient and careful, and despite him knowing better, Optimus’ felt his control slowly slipping.

His panel slide aside with a little ‘clang’ which made him look elsewhere -- at anything but Megatron. Optics shuttered, he automatically spread his thighs wider and he waited for the hands of the nomad to start wandering over his exposed valve and finger him like he did last time but, to his surprise, nothing happened. Megatron’s hands continued to gently massage his thighs and hips as if he hadn’t even noticed Optimus’ valve was now free to access. Curious despite himself, Optimus turned his head to look at him, catching the nomad’s knowing smirk. He blushed harder and looked away again, hands burrowing in the pelt under him.

He shifted awkwardly as he felt a drop of lubricant fight its way down and past the folds of his valve while his core temperature rose with every small attention Megatron lavished on his frame. “You ready to let me do more?” the nomad asked in a husky, low voice.

Optimus stared at him before nodding briefly. Megatron frowned. “You do not really,” he murmured, shaking his head. Optimus reached out, covering one of the nomad’s hands with his.

“Sparkling needs it,” he reminded the other mech -- and reminded to himself. He felt confused. He didn’t really want to spend time in Megatron’s arms or under his ministrations, but his body was starting to truly crave the contact. Flame had never been so tender, even at his best, he thought dimly as Megatron’s burning optics seemed to evaluate him.

Suddenly and without a word, the nomad buried his head between his legs, making Optimus gasp. “Megatron?! What…? Ooooooh!” he groaned as he felt the grey mech’s glossa slide over the folds of his valve in small, teasing contacts. By reflex, he placed his hands over the nomad’s shoulders while Megatron grabbed the red and blue mech’s thighs and held them apart. “Me… Megatron, what…?”

The nomad grunted and glanced up briefly before returning to his task. Optimus wiggled, trying to stifle his moans before he gasped, loudly, as he felt something other than a glossa tease him. Had Megatron bitten him?! No, not bitten, it wasn’t painful, he realized, but he had definitely used his sharp dentas to nibble on one fold… and he was doing it again! Optimus’ back arched as he opened his mouth in a wordless cry, legs automatically kicking. Megatron chuckled, the reverberation of the sound against his array sending pleasant sensation through Optimus’ body. He shuddered, losing the battle to keep quiet.

“Ohhh, Me… Megatron,” he panted, looking down at the nomad who winked at him before he continued his self-appointed ‘task’. “Hmm, Megatron!” Optimus whined, holding tight to the grey mech’s shoulders. The angle wasn’t comfortable and put a strain on his arms, but it was definitely more stable than grasping helplessly at the ground and pelts. Quickly, he glanced at Smokescreen, afraid he may have woke him up with his last cry, but the Sparkling was still sound asleep. For a moment, he felt ashamed to be interfacing in the same room his son recharged in, but the thought was quickly forgotten as Megatron’s glossa slide between the folds of his valve and started to lap insistently at the rim, then started to earnestly dig in the tight, wet passage, spreading the walls. That did the trick. “Aahhh!”

His back arched again as he felt energy rise and crash in his body, dispersing the charge Megatron had been slowly building in his body. Oh slag, he thought desperately as he felt lubricant rush out of him. He couldn’t believe he had overloaded already! Letting go of Megatron’s shoulder, Optimus threw an arm over his optics to hide his face, cheeks burning. Slag. Slag. Slag. What had happened?

He had never… not so quickly! And not from oral! Flame had done his best the rare times he had been interested in providing, and Optimus had certainly enjoyed the attentions, but never before had he overloaded so fast before. Granted, neither Flame nor himself had been very knowledgeable about interfacing, having both come to the marital berth as virgin -- which was expected from most nobles, especially when in political alliances -- so they had fumbled around more than anything else. Still, what had just happened here… It was embarrassing, mortifying, and Optimus couldn’t help but bury his face in his hands, ashamed.

Clawed hands grabbed his owns and gently parted them as red optics gazed into his. Megatron looked smug and amused as he leaned forward to claim Optimus’ lips in a kiss, letting the red and blue mech taste the lubricant spread over his lips. It made Optimus blush and try to turn himself away, unused and ashamed at ‘tasting’ himself like that, but Megatron didn’t allow him to.

“Not be ashamed,” the nomad rumbled. “Pleasure is pleasure. Meant to be shared, yes? You enjoy?”

“It’s… not so easy,” Optimus whispered. Though it was easy to let himself go through the motion, Flame kept haunting his processor. He felt like he was betraying his Bonded… but to save said Bonded’s last ‘gift’ to him, he couldn’t do anything else, and it tore at his Spark, because the carefulness and tenderness the nomad was showing him, despite the first ‘mishap’ they shared, touched something deep inside him. He wasn’t happy, yet he was, and the confusion gnawed at him.

Megatron leaned back, looking grave as he nodded.

“Yes. I understand.” Optimus looked up at him in surprise. “You be good mate, but you first be good Carrier. Not easy choosing, yes?” He shifted, letting one of his hands cup Optimus’ cheek.

“... No, no it’s not,” Optimus nodded slightly. “... I do not be loving you,” he added after a moment of silence, feeling himself compelled to be honest with the nomad.

“I know,” Megatron nodded in an understanding voice, surprised Optimus yet again. His obvious surprise seemed to be a source of amusement for the nomad. “Me not that dense, my mate. Circumstances… not ideal. But me be thinking you can learn love with me, given time.”

“I…” Optimus started to say, wanting to claim he would never love the nomad, but he paused despite himself, thinking. Once upon a time, he thought he would never had loved Flame, his intended since he was a Youngling. And truth to be told, he hadn’t been deeply in love, but there had been something here, between them. There had been care, and some genuine affection, reinforced by Smokescreen’s arrival in the world. They had made it work, despite being so different they hadn’t had much in common to build their couple on. He considered Megatron for a moment. Were the circumstances so different in the end? “I do not know if I be able,” he finally let out. “I… be trying though?”

“Is okay,” Megatron whispered back. “I be trying too. I promise.” He leaned forward to kiss Optimus, and the red and blue mech let him, slightly parting his lips to let the nomad deepen the kiss if he wished to, but Megatron didn’t, instead withdrawing.

“We be giving Sparkling nanites, yes?”

Oh, right. Optimus almost kicked himself. The quick, almost mind-blowing overload had derailed his earlier thoughts, and he had forgotten that it wasn’t over. He nodded sharply, burying in hands back in the pelt to prepare himself as Megatron returned his attention on his interface array, gently rubbing his digits over the drenched, dripping folds, spreading the lubricant further on the array and on his fingers.

Optimus was half-expecting him to lick them up to clean them, but he was surprised when Megatron did nothing of the sort. Instead, he heard the tell-tale click of a panel sliding aside and even in the darkness, he could make out the form of Megatron’s spike rising up and out of its housing. It was largely helped by the biolights spread on each side of the whole length, glowing a dim red in the dark.

The last time they… laid together, Optimus had felt rather than saw that Megatron was larger and thicker than Flame had been, and the dim visual just confirmed the impression. He had really taken that much? He felt his cheeks color again at the realization. The redness deepened as Megatron sat on his heels and, looking down at his mate’s still form, started to stroke himself with his lubricant covered digits, spreading Optimus’ fluids all over his spike. Well… that was a way to make sure he would be effortlessly moving in, Optimus tried to reason, unable to turn his optics away from the spectacle, mesmerized. The smug look on Megatron’s face didn’t help his embarrassment the slightest.

And when Megatron went back to settle between his legs, the embarrassment went down to total fidgeting as he waited nervously for the mech to… just do what they were supposed to do. And it wasn’t over, because the next words out of Megatron’s mouth startled him even more.

“You not get spike out?” the nomad rumbled, interrogative. “First time either, you did not. You do not like?”

“Uh… what…? I… I not think of it,” Optimus confessed after a moment of confused stuttering. “Use spike… not expected for Carrier?” he offered. Which was perfectly true; the moment it had been understood Optimus would Bond as a Carrier, he had been strongly discouraged to use his spike and seek relief from it. The offer to have a medic erase a few stray lines of codes to render it useless had been put on the table, but Optimus had always declined, stating he had enough self-control not to release his cord during interfacing. Which he had had… until now. And until this unexpected question.

Megatron frowned at his answer. “What not expected? Interfacing is interfacing. You take my spike, but would be wrong for me not return favor and make yours feel good as well.”

“That is not way that is followed in cities,” Optimus tried to explain awkwardly, wondering exactly what were the nomads’ thoughts about the matter. Apparently, they saw nothing wrong with indulging in spiking each other… but Megatron’s sentence wasn’t perfectly clear, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue the matter.

“We not city dwellers,” Megatron grunted, but let the matter slide as well. The light in his optics informed Optimus it wasn’t over yet, though. “Spread legs wider, yes?” He was still holding his spike with one hand and seemed eager to reach the next step of their ‘interfacing session’. Truth to be told, so was Optimus, but for different reasons altogether. The Sparkling, he mentally repeated. Think of the Sparkling. And slowly, he spread his legs, giving Megatron easier access to what he wished.

The nomad settled comfortably between the spread legs, gently taking one to put it to rest over his shoulder. The tip of his spike came to nudge the wet folds of Optimus’ valve and the red and blue mech shuttered his optics. Here it came. He started to vent slowly to calm himself as he felt the tip breach past the tight rim of his valve, stretching the wall in its wake. He groaned and whimpered as he felt it progress deeper into him, stroking nodes which were already sensitised by his earlier overload and sending his body blazing with sensations. His body jerked, and only Megatron’s firm grasp on his leg as he continued to guide his spike in with the other stopped Optimus from falling.

“Relax,” the nomad rumbled. “I make you feel good.”

And he was, Optimus thought dimly, his body shaking under the onslaught of pleasurable stimuli as Megatron continued to sit deeper into him, until his member was fully encased in the wet, tight heat of the red and blue mech’s valve. Optimus whimpered and moaned while Megatron utterly stilled, his own vents kicking in noisily to cool his own frame. “You feel good,” he rumbled again, looking at Optimus’ face with a look of contentment. “Very, very good,” he repeated as he started to roll his hips, initiating a sharp cry out of his mate.

Optimus’ body shook as Megatron started to move more earnestly, hands burrowing deeper in the pelts and making little gaps with each roll of the grey mech’s hips. Resting on his elbows, optics half-shuttered, he looked at Megatron’s face all the while as he was thoroughly fragged, the spike inside him stretching him far and wide. “Me… Megatron,” he whimpered again and again, making the grey mech grunt in satisfaction as he quickened his pace gradually, going from carefully and torturously slow to quick and not-quite-brutal-but-definitely-rougher-than-Flame-ever-was. It felt good, so good, Optimus thought as he felt lubricant slide out of his valve with each powerful thrust, with each long stroke against his sensitive valve nodes. His valve tightened and loosened in quick pattern, squeezing Megatron’s spike in a vice-like grip.

He overloaded with a cry, offering his throat up as his body arched, calling out Megatron’s name again with more fervor than before. His valve rippled against the length still pounding into him, making Megatron moan himself.

“My mate,” he grunted hoarsely, giving a few more rolls of his hips. “My handsome mate…” He muttered something else, but in such a low tone the dazed Optimus didn’t catch what it was. The nomad stilled utterly for a moment, and Optimus felt the rush and splatter of transfluid deep inside his frame, drops sliding out of his stuffed valve around Megatron’s length. The grey mech then dropped over him, spike still buried in his valve, hugging Optimus frame close to his as he started to nuzzle the red and blue mech.

As he let himself be cuddled in the post-overload haze, Optimus felt an intense moment of relief -- not because it was over, though he was indeed glad it was, but because now, his unborn Sparkling would beneficiate from fresh material to build its frame. He or she had a fighting chance -- a better one anyway. But worry immediately started to squeeze his Spark again; would that one ‘donation’ be enough for the Sparkling? Should he ask for more? His frame was tender and tired after two overloads already, but…

“Megatron?” he asked softly as the grey mech continued to nuzzle his neck, surprisingly still sweet and tender. “You be heavy…” And he was; the mech wasn’t just more massive than Optimus, he was also weighing more, something the red and blue mech was becoming acutely aware of. Megatron blinked but obligingly rolled over, withdrawing from Optimus’ valve as he did so.

“I be sorry, my mate,” he rumbled, catching one of Optimus’ hands and kissing it softly on the back before his lips started to trail over each fingers, then the palm, while the other hand snaked to rest over Optimus’ waist, making the red and blue mech turn to lie on his side to face Megatron.

“... Optimus,” the red and blue mech said softly after a long moment of hesitation. Megatron stilled, laying so quiet Optimus wondered for a few kliks if the other mech was alright.

“What did say you, my mate?”

“Optimus,” he repeated obligingly. “My name is Optimus.” It wasn’t easy to admit, because revealing his name finished to cement the nomad’s idea they were Bonded, but after weighing the pros and the cons, Optimus had come to the conclusion that telling Megatron his name was probably safer. Prowl’s earlier comments about the tribe watching him and Megatron had made him, once more, very aware of his precarious status among the nomads. And hadn’t he promised to himself he’d try to make this… ‘union’ to Megatron work? What was a name and a necklace, really, so long he could be certain Smokescreen could and would be cared for?

“‘Optimus’,” Megatron repeated slowly, several times, looking as if he was tasting the word, and the taste was as sweet as an energon goodies. “Optimus, my mate,” he repeated one more time, leaning forward to kiss his lover and mate with passion. Optimus let him, obediently parting his lips to let the grey mech deepen the kiss at his leisure.

“Optimus,” Megatron repeated as he broke the kiss, looking genuinely happy and making Optimus feel self-conscious. “What you want from me, my mate?”

It startled the red and blue mech and increased his discomfort. “Want? But I do not…” Megatron pushed a finger against his lips, shushing him.

“You do not loving me, you say it. But you still give me name -- you know what give name means?” At Optimus’ nod, he continued. “You truly mine, now. My mate. My Optimus. No go back now. So I am wonder… why? You be wanting something, I can tell. What you want, my mate? I will give, if I can. Just tell.”

Optimus hesitated, feeling ashamed. True enough, he wanted something from Megatron, and he had started to feel some inner loathing at the thought he might use an unaware mech. But the nomad was smarter than he had been willing to give him credits for, and though he felt somewhat relieved, he was also feeling more burdened. Had he truly the right to ask?

“You be thinking too much,” Megatron mumbled, as if reading in Optimus’ mind. “Do tell me, my mate… Optimus.”

The red and blue mech swallowed, letting a hand rest over his abdomen. “The Sparkling,” he muttered. “I… be thinking I need more, to be sure it is well?”

Megatron blinked, then chuckled. “Is all? Is not a chore at all, my mate,” he purred. “I be more than happy showing you how much I be able to give the little one.” His spike rubbed against Optimus’ thigh insistently, already pressurizing.

Optimus vented. “Show me?” he asked in a small voice, feeling unsure. Still, his Spark gave a short surge of something that was not wariness; something that was almost… happiness?

“Of course,” Megatron nodded, shifting so he could straddle the red and blue mech’s waist, hands already roaming over the broad chest of his mate.

And he proceeded to do just that.

Chapter Text

When Optimus came to the next morning, it was to the warm frame of Megatron pressing against his back, an arm laced around his waist, and Smokescreen rolled into a ball and snuggling against his belly as he giggled. Optimus didn’t remember getting him out of his basket and swaddling clothes, so he half-guessed Megatron had done so.

His interface array tingled from the previous night’s activities, a pleasant warmth and soreness still pooled between his thighs. They had interfaced at least three times before Megatron had cleaned their frames and rolled them together in the covers for recharge. By the time it had been over, Optimus had been so exhausted he had sunk into recharge the moment he had shuttered his optics. Megatron had been very… intense, far more than Optimus had been prepared to.

But, he mused as he smiled softly at the cuddling Smokescreen and as he let a hand rest on his abdomen, it had been worth it. His HUD was full of scrolling data, all confirming his gestation chamber was full and that he was officially Sparked, the newspark recognized as viable by his body. His future daughter or son would now live, and it had no price to his optics.

He felt Megatron’s lips brush against his neck and he turned his head slightly, giving the nomad a small smile -- he couldn’t do less, not after last night. He briefly pondered about kissing him, but… It wouldn’t have felt right. Besides, Megatron didn’t let him time; he leaned back, arm still laced tightly around his waist, laying on his elbow as he watched Optimus with a knowing look.

“Do my mate have slept well?”

“Very well,” Optimus agreed, trying to find the right words to say; he couldn’t stay silent, could he? “I… The Sparkling is well.” That was lame, and he could have said much more, but the grey mech seemed content with the simple sentence.

“This good,” he murmured, caressing Optimus’ flat belly with his clawed hand. “You be having a strong little one, and I will be teaching him to hunt. I will be teach Smokescreen as well.” Optimus frowned a bit; he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of his Creations, no matter which one, learning how to hunt and kill mechanimals. Of course, he understood the nomads had no choice in order to live, but… “I will teach you as well, my mate,” the grey nomad added, and Optimus had to blink.

“You… teach me to hunt? But I thought…” he trailed off, unsure. Megatron frowned, looking at him curiously. “Mates… In cities, one mate stays under the tent? Raise the Sparklings, prepare the fuel?” he tried, uncertain. Megatron’s optics brightened in understanding before he snorted.

“That stupid,” he declared, not raising his voice in order not to startle Smokescreen, who was now trying to climb over his Carrier’s frame, making Optimus stay extra-still as he did. Megatron smirked down at the stubborn expression on the little doorwinged mechling as he kept sliding back on his aft, looking affronted he couldn’t climb. “Everyone in the tribe is hunting, my mate. Nobody always stay under tent -- except elderly, young Sparklings and Carriers.”

“Same thing as cities, then,” Optimus tried to point, manoeuvring his arm just so to give Smokescreen a helpful push up. His son cooed and chirped with pride and happiness as he managed to rise over his Carrier’s side.

“Not same thing,” Megatron rumbled. “Carriers stay under when their belly full, to protect the new life growing inside. When there isn’t any, then they come and hunt. You will too, when little one is born.” He gently stroked Optimus’ belly in soothing circles, mindful not to move his arm as Smokescreen crawled to grab his elbow and chirped curiously at the heavily armored plating.

“I… never did kill before,” Optimus whispered uneasily.

“You’ll learn,” the grey mech said simply. “But later: we plenty of time to see and teach you.” He kissed Optimus again in the neck before lying silent, huddled against the red and blue mech’s back while Smokescreen carefully crawled over both of their forms.

Optimus giggled as the Sparkling unvoluntarity tickled sensitive pieces of plating, the little one giggling in turn at his Carrier’s laugh. After a moment of careful crawling, Optimus felt his son’s face nuzzle his neck as tiny hands grabbed his shoulder. Optimus carefully shrugged, making Smokescreen slide off his frame and fall on his aft with a shriek of laughter. Optimus grabbed him and hugged him close to his frame with a smile, babbling little nonsense at the wriggling mechling until he felt Megatron stir and rise up behind him.

Optimus’s smile fell as he sighed and started to rise up as well. The fun and cuddling was over, and it was time to take the road again… or was it? Come to think, shouldn’t they have packed already? According to his chronometer, by this time, they usually were walking already. And Megatron, who was stretching his limbs elegantly, made no motion to start rolling the pelts and covers.

“Ah, Megatron? We not packing?” he asked warily, sitting up with Smokescreen in his lap.

The grey mech glanced at him, shaking his head with a small smile. “Not today, my mate… Optimus. Tribe settle for the next solar cycles.”

“Why?” The red and blue mech asked curiously. He had been left with the impression the tribe wanted to travel further into the Wastelands -- the Badlands, rather, he should remember to call them by their nomadic name -- in order to rally a meeting point with another tribe. At least, that was what Megatron had explained to him brokenly earlier.

“Sandstone felt the pangs during night,” Megatron rumbled, optics shining with pride. “Tribe will have new member before the sun is down.”

Optimus blinked, trying to make sense of the words, before it dawned on him. He hadn’t spent much time with the various tribe members yet, too busy trying to walk in their steps without faltering, but he had noticed there were a couple of expecting Carriers among them. One of them had obviously reached the term of its gestation period and the Sparkling was about to emerge.

“Oh… congratulation?” he offered meekly, wondering what he could or should say. Megatron shrugged.

“Is always good when Sparkling is born,” he rumbled. “New life for the tribe, new warrior to protect the tribe, to hunt among us. We… have loss warriors this Season. Getting new one, even infant, is good.” That was a very pragmatic look on an emergence, one Optimus felt startled by. Probably noticing the look on his face, Megatron’s face softened and he walked to Optimus, putting his hands on his shoulder. “Sparklings are blessing for us. But perhaps I think too much like old warrior, not as Sire. Perhaps him and second Creation teach me how to think like true Sire.” He tickled Smokescreen under the chin, smiling.

Well… what could Optimus say to that? He nodded simply. “Won’t we miss the sister-tribe?” he asked, wondering what was going to happen now the tribe was stopping for more than one night -- because it was obvious they weren’t going to move any time soon, not with a Carrier giving birth.

He remembered too well what the emergence of Smokescreen had been like; he had spent several megacycles with his pedes in stirrups, panting despite the fact his pain receptors below the waist had been turned off to facilitate the birthing. Then he had spent several solar cycles unable to walk as his body readjusted itself and healed from the otherwise painless ordeal.

Given how… technologically impaired they were, Optimus very much doubted the nomads had it as easy. An emergence was probably harder to pull off in the middle of nowhere, even with a trained medic like Ratchet. So it stood to reason they were going to mount the camp for at least four or five solar cycles, if not more. Given how important doing the junction with the splinter tribe seemed to be, it was a legitimate question to ask.

“No,” Megatron reassured him. “Soundwave sent a Cryo-Falcon to warn them. They’ll know to wait for our arrival. While we wait, we continue gathering resources.”

That was new. “What resources?”

Megatron chuckled. “‘Which resources’,” he corrected the red and blue mech, making Optimus flush. “Simple; I will go hunting with other warriors. You stay at camp and help other tribe members, yes?”

“How I help? I do not have many skills,” Optimus said slowly, being careful to make a well-worded sentence as he caught the right grammatical glyphes to add.

“Tribe members and I teach you,” Megatron assured him. He tilted his head, looking at his mate seriously. “We are near oasis, almost half a cycle away. We have skins to fill and animals to lead to drink. Hunters will bring preys to cook, that you can help with too. And there plenty of metalloplants around to pick, when you know where to look. Tribe will find a way to keep you busy.”

“And… Smokescreen?” He hugged the mechling close. “Can I be keeping him with me? Or must he stay within camp?” The timid question made Megatron laugh.

“You keep if you like, or you put in care of tribe mates who stay at camp: family, friends…” He paused, frowning. “But I think you prefer keep him, yes?” Obviously, he was intelligent enough to realize Optimus wouldn’t put his son in the care of anyone he didn’t trust with his life. Ratchet would be a possibility, but since the medic was busy with an emergence, it was out of the question. Perhaps, as he grew to know the nomads, he’d gain enough trust toward them to let his Sparkling out of his sight, but today wasn’t the day.

The grey mech sighed and patted Smokescreen’s helm, making the Sparkling blink as he looked up at the now familiar stranger, frowning in a most adorable way. “You put your poncho on, and you keep little one out of the heat as much as you can,” the grey mech advised Optimus, handing him the garnement.

“I will,” Optimus promised as he juggled to put the poncho on while still wearing the wiggling Smokescreen. In a fit of something Optimus hesitated to call gallantry, Megatron helped him dress, his hands lingering just a little longer than what was appropriate over his arms and shoulders before he withdrew them.

Soon enough, they were venturing outside, Smokescreen draped in a miniature version of the poncho, for Optimus didn’t feel like swaddling his son if they weren’t travelling all day. The Sparkling fussed and pulled in wonder at the fabric covering him, chirring softly and making his Carrier chuckle. Megatron smiled briefly before his face steeled in a serious expression. Without a word to Optimus, he strolled forward to meet with a small group of armed mechs. One of them, a winged green mech, bowed his head in greeting and handed him a long, heavy-looking two-handed sword in its scabbard that Megatron immediately swung and bound over his back. He was also handed a belt with two smaller scabbards holding long daggers by a blue winged mech, so similar in appearance to the green one they had to be related.

Optimus couldn’t help but stare as the grey mech armed himself. So, that was where his stock of weapons had been: in the hands of another tribe mech. He stiffened when several of the armed mechs glanced at him while Megatron seemingly ignored him. This suddenly cold attitude was very odd, considering how caring he had showed himself until now. Why had it changed so suddenly?

His neck prickled and, by instinct, he turned his head to the left, looking straight in the optics of another mech who was watching him with intense optics. The red and blue mech tensed and fought his first instinct, which was to take a step back.

The mech watching him looked old… but incredibly dangerous as well. A red and purple paintjob flashed from under a grey poncho, and the end barrel of a cannon peeked from under the folds. Long, sharp looking prongs crowned a darkly painted helm, above red optics as deep as rubies.

Optimus swallowed nervously without being able to stop himself. For some reason, this mech reminded him of Megatron -- not physically, for they looked nothing alike, but his gaze, his presence felt very similar.

Was it perhaps… Megazarak?

“Optimus?” a low voice called out to him, startling him. He looked quickly to the mech who had gruntly asked for his attention, the blue winged mech from earlier. “Peace,” the blue mech rumbled as he raised a hand. To Optimus’ relief, he spoke modern Cybertronian, albeit with a slight accent Prowl didn’t have. “Lord Megatron asked me to keep an optic on you during his absence.”

The red and blue mech’s optics narrowed as he bounced Smokescreen in his arms. “‘Asked’? I suppose it’s very kind of him.”

“Do not believe he doesn’t trust you,” the winged mech rumbled. “He does. But as you’re unused to our ways and the daily tasks of the camp, he saw fit to provide you with an escort and helper in order to show you the ropes and answer your questions.”

That mollified Optimus’ rising ire, albeit slightly. “Oh. Couldn’t he tell me so himself?”

“Lord Megazarak is watching,” the blue mech murmured discreetly, not quite glancing toward the large, old mech with the prongs. “He’s eyeing you closely, you the newcomer and mate to his GrandCreation. He’d judging you, evaluating you and your worth. Lord Megatron doesn’t wish to hover and make Lord Megazarak think you’re weak, helpless or unable to fill the tasks which will be yours.”

“And your presence by my side won’t give the same impression?” Optimus asked, raising an optic ridge. It reminded him of some of the political games back home, in Iacon, and the reminder did nothing for his peace of mind.

The winged mech smirked. “Ah, but I am a mere friend of our Lord Megatron, assigned to guard duty in the camp and on the trail to the oasis. The fact I’ll be walking besides his mate and talk with him or help him around doesn’t have the same implications. I’m allowed to be friendly, and being helpful for the chores is part of my duties.”

Yes, it really looked like one of the political games he had been witness and pawn to in Iacon, and the thought was sobering. Here he had thought the nomads were above such things. “Why such a kin interest in me?” he asked softly, stubbornly not looking in the direction Megazarak stood.

“Because you’re not a nomad,” the other mech stated. “Not only that, but Lord Megatron is Lord Megazarak’s sole GrandCreation so far, the sole heir to his lineage and to the tribe’s continued leadership. Not to mention, you come with a tag attached -- or should I say, two.” He eyed Smokescreen for a moment, the Sparkling watching him back curiously before waving timidly at the stranger.

“I take he does not approve, then?” Optimus’s voice was cold, and he felt cold himself. “Would he try to have Smokescreen hurt? Or get rid of him and… and the bornling?”

That seemed to startle the winged nomad, who took a step back, optics widening. “Pit, no!” he exclaimed loudly, lips thinning as he realized they were gathering stares from various other tribe members. “You’re lucky nobody can understand us right now,” he mumbled. “Now, why would you think our Chief would…?” he paused, bit his lips and cursed lowly in nomadic. “I suppose my choice of words was poor, to give you such dread. Rest assured, Lord Megazarak won’t see any harm done to the Sparkling you bore… or are currently bearing.”

“So you say, but how I am supposed to trust you on your word alone, when I don’t even know your name? Or when our conversation is shrouded in secrecy due to the use of modern Cybertronian? Unless Ratchet lied and every member of the tribe is fluent in it?” Optimus replied easily as he shifted his hold on Smokescreen to make him bounce in his arms.

A small smile flashed briefly over the serious yellow face. “Well fended off, outsider. I am Dreadwing,” he stated with a little bow of his head. “And no, only a few members of the tribe are fluents in the language you use in the city. I have the honor of being one of them, along with my brother Skyquake, which is why our Lord chose me as your helpful, ‘secret’ chaperon.”

“‘Dreadwing’,” Optimus mouthed several times to commit the designation to memory in modern Cybertronian and in nomadic both. “I suppose I must command you for your excellent use of the language.”

“An empty compliment, outsider,” the blue winged mech waved. “Picking up the city dwellers’ strange dialect is something I was forced to do in order to trade goods with the less rock-headed members of your brethren, those who respect our hunting grounds and are sensitive enough to follow our customs.”

Which implied this tribe sometimes traded with the outside. The revelation made a small part of Optimus’ processor perk up in interest and hope, before he squashed it. He had taken his decision already not to try and run, and he couldn’t go back on it. Besides, he had the feeling if he tried, then Megatron would pursue him relentlessly until he had him back, for some reason.

“Nonetheless, I’m being sincere.” And he was. Mostly. “It doesn’t make me any susceptible to trust you, though. And you didn’t deny Lord Megazarak doesn’t approve of me.”

“Hmm, I’ll give Lord Megatron that, he didn’t chose an idiot,” Dreadwing murmured, wings twitching.

Optimus gave him a look. “I dare to think he didn’t, even if ‘chose’ is perhaps too strong a word.”

Dreadwing hummed. “Once again, a good remark. You might indeed be more worthy than first expected… Come with me,” he gestured before he turned and started to walk away. After a moment of hesitation, Optimus started to follow, acutely aware of the optics drilling a hole in his back. “We’ll talk more freely away from some prying optics… and audios.”

Optimus swallowed. “Can Lord Megazarak understand us?”

Dreadwing shook his head. “Do not worry. Come.”

Optimus grimaced. It didn’t stop him from acting as naturally as possible, holding Smokescreen close as he followed the blue winged mech through the camp. Optimus looked around curiously, as it was the first time he was truly seeing the tribe and their camp when they weren’t about to go on the move.

In the light of the day, without the various metal and fabric edifices being already half-dismantled, Optimus was surprised by the actual sheer size of the tents and by their numbers -- not to mention the numbers of nomads out. Perhaps it had been due to the constant moving, or perhaps because he had always been so tired, but he had never noticed just how many Sparklings, Younglings and elderlies there were.

But here they were, the Sparklings playing around in the dirt with bits of strings, twigs, marbles and rudimentary tops, the Younglings gathered in a circle around an elderly looking mech who seemed to tell them a story -- unless it was a lesson? -- and the elderlies sitting under their tents or at the edge of it, stitching pieces of fabric together, talking, playing checkers, or working on a device Optimus, after a moment of wonder, finally identified as a primitive model of loom.

He had visited a modern weaving factory once with Alpha Trion, when he had still been apprenticed under the venerable mech; the old archivist had gone to pick up a new cape for himself, and Optimus had been free to wander and see the engines from close up. They had been all metal and automatized, producing fine quality products. The nomads, for their part, used sticks to stretch the warps, thus making a light, easily foldable and packable frame they had no problem transporting. Evidently, the process had to be longer than with an automated loom, but Optimus eyed the process with interest.

“Interested?” the winged mech rumbled as he noticed Optimus’ gaze, startling him out of his contemplation. Dreadwing smirked. “You’re scaredy, aren’t you? Anyway, you’ll be learning to weave soon enough.”

“Will I?” Optimus asked curiously, raising an optic ridge.

“We all do,” the other mech shrugged. “Even Lord Megatron knows how to. It helps pass the time when we’re huddled for the wintering or when bad storms hit the land.”

“In the cities,” Optimus started carefully, thoughtful, “one wouldn’t expect the, the dominant mate? to be staying at home and weave. Especially if he’s a ‘Lord’, like you keep calling my… my mate.” He had hesitated to call the grey nomad such, but in the optics of the tribe, he was, so he supposed he should get used referring to Megatron that way. “I admit, you’re the first nom… tribe member I met who referred to him as such. Is it a simple mark or respect, or…?”

Dreadwing’s wings twitched. “Partly. We don’t call someone a Lord lightly, unlike you city dwellers. A Lord is a respectful form of address for one who managed to prove himself the best hunter, the strongest warrior, the most cunning strategist,... Lords lead the tribes because they’re the best. Should the Heir of a Lord fail to meet up the standards the tribe expect of him, then he will not be called so, and our optics will turn toward a more talented member of our community to lead us.”

It took a moment for Optimus to correctly process what the winged mech had just admitted to. “You mean… the tribe’s leadership isn’t hereditary?” he asked in stupefaction, his CPU trying to catch up with the almost foreign concept. Positions were inherited, everyone knew that. A Prime succeeded his or her Sire, eventually his or her Carrier. A merchant’s Creation was expected to success its Creator. A Noble inherited its position and titles as well -- none of them ever had to prove they were worthy of them, the fact they were born was enough.

A meritocracy -- or something akin to? It would have been unthinkable in Iacon, let alone in any other city!

Dreadwing raised an optic ridge, clearly bemused by Optimus’ surprise. “Why would it be? Just because one is a good leader doesn’t mean your Creation will be. The tribe lives through its leader’s decisions and by its actions: where we go hunting, where we stop to camp, how much game we should bring in, how much we trade with other tribes,...” he listed off. “We can’t afford to follow someone who is weak or mentally impaired, someone who make poor choices, someone who wouldn’t be able to provide for himself or someone who would risk the whole tribe’s well-being for nothing but delusions of grandeur.” His lips curled. “Most of all, we wouldn’t follow someone who wasn’t honorable, or willing to uphold the honor of the tribe.”

Optimus frowned, glancing down at Smokescreen who was starting to get fussy and was pawing at his chest. By habit, he let his chestplate slide asides and his pouches fill as he let the Sparkling dive under the poncho, where Smokescreen immediately latched on a nub and started to suckle. “Slowly, little one,” he couldn’t help smiling at his son’s eagerness, shifting his hold so the Sparkling could feed more easily. The contact of his small, warm cheek nuzzling against the rubbery material of his pouch was becoming something familiar and comforting.

“He has a good appetite,” Dreadwing noted, wings twitching. “I trust he will grow to be big and strong, like his Sire. Perhaps he will even become worthy of being his successor.” His optics were focused on the little bulge under the poncho, following each move under the fabric. “This would certainly sooth Lord Megazarak’s worries, and those of a number of our brothers.” He beckoned Optimus to continue follow him toward a tent in front of which empty skins and baskets had been piled. Several mechs and Younglings were already there, picking some and strapping them to their back or with belts at their waists.

“How so?” the red and blue mech asked, tensing. “Why would Smokescreen be of any concern to… Wait,” he murmured, gathering his thoughts and a few tidbits of information he had gathered from his conversations with Ratchet and from what Dreadwing was and wasn’t telling him. “Ratchet said Megatron was being groomed to success his GrandSire… but you also told me a chieftain -- a ‘Lord’ -- didn’t always descend from the previous Lord. Ratchet did mention Megatron’s Sire… but you don’t even acknowledge he exists, because you don’t refer to him as your ‘Lord’...”

He was starting to get the picture and, judging by the approving look of Dreadwing, the flier loved the way he was thinking.

“Very good, outsider. Lord Megazarak’s Creation Galvatron, Lord Megatron’s Sire, is the source of much conflicts inside the tribe. Some do think he could make a worthy leader to follow, but I’m not one of them.” The way he pronounced the other mech’s name showed how much disdain he actually held for Megatron’s Sire, something Optimus took careful note of as they reached the tent. Dreadwing grabbed a belt loaded with a dozen of empty skins he tied around his waist, before handing another to Optimus.

“Uh, I can’t tie it with Smokescreen in my arms…” he started to say, only for Dreadwing to tie it up for him. “Thank you. Dreadwing, is this Galvatron such a bad choice of leader? I mean,” he said quickly, “I’m trying to understand. In the cities, a son is first in the order of succession, before the GrandCreation. But you said, you worked leadership on merit alone, so why would Megatron be Megazarak’s successor? Is he the default choice, or is there someone else to challenge him for the title?”

“Hmph. It’s a long story, outsider,” Dreadwing grunted as he took a poncho out of subspace and draped it over his body, his wings peeking through holes in the back. “We believe in merits, intelligence and strength, and we only follow the best, but the truth of the matter is, in the last seven generations, four of our Lords came from Megazarak’s lineage. As you can guess, as a result, the leadership went… over Lord Megazarak’s helm, though he got better. Eventually.” The flier grunted. “He had several sons and daughters, but two were ravished by other tribes, and the other didn’t survive to adulthood. Galvatron, the only one left, failed to uphold honor and to meet the tribe’s standards. He was found lacking in many areas even if he stayed a mighty warrior in his own right, which is why several of his age-mates and several Younglings easily swayed think he could be someone to follow.”

“And Megatron did? Meet the tribe’s standards for leadership, I mean?” Optimus asked as Dreadwing grabbed a basket with straps he helped the red and blue mech put over his back.

“Oh, he did, though it was long and hard,” the winged mech nodded. “One can’t claim the title of Heir and challenge the Lord and the tribe’s best warriors for approval on a whim. It requires first to be an acknowledged adult, and to have proven yourself exceptionally good in several areas, something which can take time. Or it’s supposed to, anyway. Lord Megatron proved himself and took the title of Heir after a trial by combat only a vorn after becoming a true adult.”

“‘Took the title’,” Optimus repeated. “Does that mean someone else was the Heir before?”

Dreadwing nodded. “A warrior by the name of Deathsaurus, one of Galvatron’s age-mates. There must always be a Heir, even when the leader is still young, for one can’t say if sickness will not strike, if a predator won’t get a lucky hit, or if a skirmish or an honorable challenge won’t lead to a lethal outcome. When one leader falls, another automatically assumes command.”

Optimus nodded. It was logical and the concept wasn’t foreign to him. It was like the designation of a regent when a Prime died with a too young offspring to succeed him or her; thus things were determined early on to avoid possible, unwelcome power plays. “I take it nobody expected Megatron to win?”

“None of the hardened warriors, anyway. Ritual challenges for the title of Heir can only be held once every ten stellar cycles, and nobody had expected a bunch of barely out of Younglinghood hunters to formally challenge for the title. Their faces, when they won the first challenges…” He snorted, smirking briefly with mirth. “Galvatron’s generation didn’t produce any truly outstanding warrior, but ours…” He sounded boastful now.

“Strika, who travels with our sister-tribe, is a skillful warrior I wouldn’t mind following on a long hunting trip. She’s also fiercely loyal to Lord Megatron, with whom she took her first steps. They were born on the same solar cycle, a most favorable sign,” he precised. “Prowl was a serious contender to the title of Heir to Lord Megazarak, for he is a good tactician and a good negotiator whose plans allowed us to trap wild Gallium-Goats to increase the size of our flocks, allowed us to double the benefits of our trading, and helped to pacify our relationship with two other tribes we were on edge with. Their duel for the title of Heir, when all other challengers bowed down or were vanquished, was something to behold!”

His optics shone and he gestured wildly, making Optimus take a wary step back. The flier seemed to calm down as quickly as he had gotten agitated, coughing to clear his vocalizer.

“You place a lot of faith in him,” Optimus said gently.

“I do,” the winged warrior nodded gravely. “I saw him do incredible things, and I trust his judgement. He gained my admiration and my loyalty, something Deathsaurus or Galvatron were never able to. He deserves his title of Lord, and I will continue to call him so.”

“Ratchet doesn’t,” Optimus noted. “And I can’t remember Prowl calling him Lord either.”

“Tss. They should, but it’s true no one is forced to. Chalk it up on me being respectful and devoted to my future leader. Assuming, of course, that Prowl or some other warrior don’t try to challenge him again on the pretense he wasn’t honorable.” The way he eyed Optimus was quite telling and made the red and blue mech bite his lips.

“Because he killed my former Bonded, you mean?”

“Yes.” The flier looked somber. “He did the right thing, claiming you and your offsprings for the tribe. Still, the act of leaving a Carrier alone to provide for a Sparkling still suckling and another in development…” he shook his head. “Lord Megazarak watches you for more than one reason. You have given his GrandSire two heirs -- or you will soon -- and perhaps you’ll give him more if Primus and the Spirits allow it.” It made Optimus’ cheeks flush red.

“Your Sparklings will assure the normal continuation of his lineage. However, as I told you, Lord Megazarak is keen on seeing his lineage keep the leadership of the tribe. Megatron getting the title of Heir made him proud, but it also made him obsessed with seeing his GrandSire continue the line -- and more specifically, to continue it with a mate able to bear strong offsprings. He tried to present him with potential mates several times, warriors from allies clans, strong, clever hunters from our own tribe -- he even tried to have him bring Prowl under his tent,” he snorted. “Lord Megatron, however, never took interest in anyone… until you came along by accident. An accident which could have seriously threatened Lord Megatron’s standing.”

“So sorry I was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Optimus said with sarcasm.

Dreadwing’s lips quirked up. “True enough. Nobody can hold you responsible for what happened, Lord Megazarak less than anyone. It doesn’t stop him from worrying and be wary, for you’re an absolute unknown, outsider. He doesn’t know what kind of warrior you are, what kind of talents you possess. The only good thing he noticed so far is your belly, and how easily it seems to be to Spark you up.“

The young noble bristled, plating clenching hard over his protoform. “You tread a thin and dangerous line, nomad,” he said coldly.

“I meant no offense,” Dreadwing replied, raising his hands. “Actually, I intended for it to be a compliment. Sparklings are precious to us, but they’re rarer than we would like.”

Optimus glanced around in answer, raising an optic ridge as he took sight of the little ones running around and the lanky Younglings who were coming their way, chatting happily. Obviously, whatever lesson they had been listening to was over, and they were ready to do the chores assigned to them. “You could have fooled me.”

Dreadwing’s lips components quirked again as several Younglings grabbed baskets and belts and empty skins. Some of the older looking ones, Optimus noted with a twinge of alarm, were armed; some had daggers in scabbards, other had small energy bows with a bandolier of tiny, extra power cells to activate the cord and projectiles.

“Rarer in the sense where most of us are lucky to have one Sparkling born alive every twenty to thirty vorns,” the flier corrected himself, wings twitching. “Miscarriages aren’t uncommon, outsider, and neither are accidents. Granted, ever since Ratchet became one of our healers, the number of fatalities dropped by half, and I can only praise Drift for his choice in mate.”

It only made Optimus hug Smokescreen harder. “I… I hadn’t realized,” he murmured, looking at the Sparklings and Younglings with a new optic.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have; city dwellers never do. But let the matter rest for now, shall we? It’s high time we head for the oasis,” the flier rumbled, barking out a short order which made the equipped mechs start to walk toward an opening in the camp’s fence. Optimus followed docilely, gently tugging Smokescreen in the sling he had taken out of subspace. The Sparkling let himself manhandled passively, continuing to suckle happily.

Some of the Younglings started to run forth, pursuing each other in a makeshift game of tags, while a couple of adults led a small group of Zap-Horses by their bridles. Other adults, armed with lances, bows and the occasional swords, lingered on the fringes of the group, watching out for possible danger. Optimus walked slowly, optics going from a mech to the next as Dreadwing slowed down as well to walk by his side.

“You seem thoughtful. A problem?” he rumbled.

Optimus shook his head. “No, nothing of the like. I’m just… I can’t let the matter we talked about rest so easily. Your leader doesn’t approve of me, does he?”

Dreadwing flashed him a look. “It’s not for me to say. Though I think he’ll find little to dislike once he manages to get in an actual conversation with you. Of course, your grasp on our language will need to improve in order to do so.”

“Hard for me to when we keep speaking my own mother tongue,” Optimus pointed out with practicality.

“Hmph. For a city dweller, you’re certainly interesting,” the flier smirked briefly before frowning as someone called out his name. “Stay near the center of the group and mingle with them, it’ll give you an occasion to practice. Duty is calling.” He sheathed his sword back in its scabbard and went to talk with the armed mech who had called his name. The two engaged in a short conversation Optimus was too far to hear, but which resolved itself with Dreadwing walking away from the group and initiating his transformation sequence.

Optimus started as the jet hovered inches from the ground for a moment before shooting upward in the sky.

“Dreadwing gone to patrol,” one of the Younglings chirped next to him as an explanation, and Optimus nodded.

“Yes, I see.” It made sense, really; sending a flier forward to make sure the way was secure was perfectly logical. “Do he get back?” he asked the Youngling.

“No, he waits at oasis,” the Youngling shook his head. “Cryo-Falcons of Soundwave go back and forth,” he pointed out overhead at a small flying shape. Optimus was forced to protect his optics with his hand in order to make out the tiny -- by comparison -- volatile circling their group.

“Soundwave?”

For all answer, the Youngling pointed at a tall and lanky mech with long arms who walked silently at the edge of the group. Without knowing why, Optimus felt a chill as he watched him. He didn’t look overly dangerous or threatening, but there was something unsettling about him. The mech turned suddenly and looked at him straight in the optics and Optimus swallowed. The other mech had no face, everything covered by a reflective screen. That type of modification was very rare, and he hadn’t expected to find one among the nomads.

“Soundwave is tribe’s falconer,” the Youngling boasted proudly.

“And what is ‘falconer’?” Optimus asked gently, breaking his gaze at the unsettling mech.

The Youngling launched in an enthusiastic description, where Optimus understood more or less that nomads used tamed Cryo-Falcons in order to send messages to other tribes or to hunting groups, since their comms were mostly short range. Not only that, but the Cryo-Falcons also helped to hunt some small, quick prey.

Optimus was able to see a live demonstration when the Cryo-Falcon suddenly lunged toward the ground with a sharp cry, disappearing briefly behind a hill before he came back flying low with a squirming Petro-Rabbit caught between his talons. Optimus grimaced and turned his head away when Soundwave gave the Petro-Rabbit a sharp hit behind the head and the mechanimal went limp. It was normal for the nomads, but still…

When he looked again, Soundwave had hooked the dead mechanimal at his belt and was busy lightly stroking the wings of his Cryo-Falcon, which had found a perch over his shoulder. It was a surprisingly tender gesture which almost made him stare.

“Buzzsaw best hunter,” the Youngling commented. “But Lazerbeak better scout and messenger.”

Optimus just nodded, gathering those were the names of the Cryo-Falcon. “And your name be?” he finally asked the Youngling, who giggled.

“I am Runamuck!” he stated proudly, chest puffing.

Optimus smiled and nodded at the boastful Youngling, murmuring a ‘nice to meet you’ the Youngling paid little attention to, said attention being diverted by the call of a smaller Youngling with whom he shared some physical similarities, enough to make Optimus suspect they must have been brothers. As it was, Runamuck was soon running toward the other Youngling, Optimus quickly forgotten.

Shaking his head at the antic as the two mechlings started to pursue each other around the group, dodging between mechs and fellow Younglings and mechanimals, Optimus decided to get closer to the mechs leading the Zap-Horses. Some were vaguely familiar to him, as he had briefly met them around the campfire during the meals. They nodded at him, but didn’t seem in a talkative mood, so Optimus just nodded back and walked by their side, shifting his hold on Smokescreen as the Sparkling finished suckling.

“Hush, little one,” the red and blue mech murmured as his son started to fuss, wanting out of the sling. It made Optimus briefly regret he hadn’t swaddled him before leaving the camp, now understanding fully how practical it was. Still, after a few moments of fumbling around, he managed to put the Sparkling in a comfortable position, Smokescreen’s little helm peeking from under his Carrier’s poncho as he looked around with big, curious optics.

Chapter Text

Optimus couldn’t help but chuckled as Smokescreen chirped, optics focusing on a Zap-Horse one moment or on a Youngling next, tiny fingers peeking out of the folds of ponchos to point at them even as he tugged on his Carrier’s own to get his attention. “Yes, little one, I see the Zap-Horse; he’s beautiful isn’t he?” Optimus rumbled as he shifted Smokescreen in his arms again as the Sparkling desperately tried to wriggle out.

With a sigh, he came closer to the mechanimal, but not too near. He understood Smokescreen wanted to touch and pet it, probably associating the large mechanimal with the toy versions that had filled his toy chest back in Iacon, but he feared the Zap-Horse wouldn’t react well to the innocent ministrations of a Sparkling. Especially since, from up close, Optimus could see that despite its size, the Zap-Horse which had captivated his Creation’s attention was actually a young specimen. He was no expert, of course, but he could still recognize the signs a mech -- or a mechanimal in that case -- wasn’t fully grown.

He was rather optic-catching, Optimus had to admit. Black as charcoal with a midnight blue mane and hooves, bright red flame-shaped spots were stretching along its limbs. The powerful mechanimal had an almost regal look, and he acted as such, barely paying attention to the waving Smokescreen, not even twitching an ear at the Sparkling’s babbling. It only made Smokescreen pout and chirp louder.

Optimus shook his head, exchanging a look with the mech or rather, the Youngling leading the mechanimal by the bridle. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed as he tried to calm Smokescreen down. “He’s very excitable.”

The Youngling, a rather petite yellow and black mech with doorwings -- which briefly reminded Optimus of Prowl and the Praxian brethren, although there was no other resemblance -- beeped back, making the descendant of the Prime blink in surprise. “Sorry?” he asked, not sure he had clearly understood and wondering why the beeping and not proper speech, be it nomadic or modern Cybertronian.

The Youngling beeped again, his blue optics brightening before he smiled mirthlessly and tugged down the collar of his own poncho down as Optimus blinked again, unsure. When he saw the state of the Youngling’s neck, the red and blue mech winced and instinctively turned Smokescreen’s face away so he wouldn’t see, paying no heed to the fussy cry of the mechling. Primus, it was ugly! Thankfully, the yellow Youngling put it back in place quickly.

It was as if someone or rather, something, had taken a chunk out of the young mech’s throat and partly missed. Well-formed but ugly-looking weld scars stretched over his throat and neck, crisscrossing several time. Neck cablings had suffered, some of them rerooted and neatly arranged into something functional and neat, but other cables were clearly missing. More horrifying was the fact the damage was centered around the area a mech’s voice box was supposed to be. Optimus didn’t know wherever it had been removed or was just badly damaged to not be usable, but suddenly, the Youngling’s beeping as a way to communicate made a lot more sense.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, trying not to sound as if he was pitying the Youngling. He was, of course, but he had the feeling pity was the last thing the young mech wanted. “What happened?” he asked before he realized how stupid it was to ask; how was he going to get an answer? Had he even the right to ask?

The Youngling certainly didn’t seem to mind, though, because started to beep at regular interval, the signal varying in volume and length, almost like… “Morse?” Optimus realized with surprise, his processor scrambling to remember the codes he had learned a long time ago as a Youngling himself, back when he had picked a passing interest in language -- which hadn’t lasted long, but enough for him to have downloaded a basic morse database he had never deleted from his CPU. He opened it mentally, bracing himself for yet another failure at understanding what he was being said but amazingly, the morse code used by the nomad Youngling was actually the standard code.

Which… made sense, if he thought about it. Almost nobody communicated through morse anymore, and nobody had saw fit to update and change the systems in thousands of vorns. All things considered, he shouldn’t have been surprised. It didn’t made the attempt at understanding the Youngling’s ‘speech’ any easier, though, and Optimus had to concentrate extra hard while making Smokescreen bounce in his arms to calm him down.

“A… hyenabot… got to you… during a walk? No, not a walk,” Optimus corrected himself as the Youngling shook his head and repeated the last part of his sentence, detaching the beeps carefully. “You were scout… scouting with the adults,” he corrected himself, and the Youngling nodded. “Is Ratchet handiwork?” the red and blue mech asked softly, making a vague gesture toward his throat while Smokescreen, finally calmed, was staring at the unknown Youngling.

The young mech nodded, rubbing the back of his helm before he pulled hard on the bridle of the Zap-Horse with a yelp as the mechanimal shook his mane and tried to get out of the hold. The nomad beeped soothingly until the Zap-Horse calmed down, then looked at Optimus again and going through another sentence. Optimus nodded slowly as he got the gist of the story, thanking the providence for his database to be as complete as it was.

The Youngling, whose name he soon learned was Bumblebee, had had a stroke of bad luck, on which Ratchet’s quick intervention had been the only silver lining. All Younglings took turn accompanying the warriors of the clan on their hunting trips to learn the practical side of what the elders taught them.

The first day Bumblebee had come along, he had been too excited to pay proper attention to his surrounding, and a particularly vicious Hyenabot which had managed to camouflage himself had took advantage of it. Just had he had knelt to watch a series of footprints closer, the predator had jumped at him and managed to sunk its fangs in his throat cabling. The hunters had made quick work of the savage mechanimal, but the damage had been done, and they had only be able to drag him back to the campment and let Ratchet work its magic. It had been touch and go for a while, and if the medic had ultimately managed to save the Youngling’s life, his voice box had been utterly ruined.

“I’m sorry,” Optimus said again, but Bumblebee just shrugged. Wherever it was because losing his voice didn’t bother him or if he had made his peace with the loss, the red and blue mech couldn’t say. Smokescreen’s insistent chirping soon got all his attention and he went back to care for the fussy Sparkling, continuing to walk next to Bumblebee and the Zap-Horse in a comfortable silence. They made small talks at times, mostly initiated by Bumblebee, the Youngling politely enquiring about Smokescreen’s health or Optimus’ well-being as the red and blue mech was forced to pull his hood down when the heat started to become too much for him.

He was only too happy when they finally reached the oasis. The signs they had been coming closer had abounded. It had started with a few animal tracks on the ground, swiftly observed by the mechs scouting ahead of the group, and a small party of four mechs had left them to disappear between the dunes. In turn, several of the Younglings had taken up to prepare their weapons, which made Optimus worried, especially as he truly took notice of the bow and bandolier on Bumblebee. Nothing happened, though, and nobody seemed worried, and the red and blue mech ultimately gathered that the young ones were ready to take down small game should it present itself.

Scattered, half-dried metalloplants started to appear here and there, easily caught and devoured by the Zap-Horses as they briefly paused before the mechs leading them pulled on their bridles. The sparse vegetation started to get denser and bigger, metallic leaves and crystal sprouts reflecting the light and slowly stretching toward the sky until they were moving under a thick foliage.

Optimus took down his hood with relief as his vents eased, the air now damper and slightly cooler as they progressed toward the center of the oasis and the spring of energon in its midst. He couldn’t help but mimic Smokescreen and look around in amazement. He knew none of the plants surrounding him, so different as they were from the potted ones that had sometimes decorated the houses of the nobles or the carefully groomed public gardens in Iacon. He could make out clusters of colorful crystalline berries underneath thick, large leaves, and he was almost certain he saw Vaporator-Mushrooms half-hidden between the roots of a tree.

Lilleths were chirping in the foliage overhead, and he could also make out the cries of bigger volants, such as the Cryo-Condors of Soundwave. There was also noise in the bushes, foliage moving under the quick passages of small creatures -- perhaps glitch mice or ground crawlers. But the most amazing was probably the large pond they came across after a last turn. The very Spark of the oasis, granting it life; the pinkish fluid was almost still, vague ripples emanating from the edges where wild mechanimals had gathered to drink. A pair of Dioptsade-Does with their fawns, a male with large horns standing watch, staring at their group, tense. Nobody made a gesture in his direction, though, the nomads just bringing the Zap-Horse to the closest edge of the pond, where they immediately started to drink under the careful watch of their masters.

He had not expected such life, especially not in the midst of nowhere.

“It’s beautiful,” he couldn’t help but say in one breath as he stilled entirely, mesmerized by the sight of one particularly thick crystal trunk.

“And that, outsider, is why we don’t camp too near oases and are prompt to take down any who threaten our wells,” the dry voice of Dreadwing commented. Turning, Optimus saw his coming his way, exchanging nods and quick words with various nomads as the group scattered, each one obviously assigned to a task.

The youngest Sparklings were filling skins under the supervision of an adult, while older ones, giggling, dug under the foliage of some bushes and started to gather crystal berries in their baskets. A few Younglings started to climb the trees and disappeared in the foliage, perhaps to pick other edible berries and crystal fruits hanging in the branches, though Optimus had the sneaky suspicion some of them were actually going to raid the Lilleths’ nests, most likely to kill a few birds but also to forage for eggs.

His Spark squeezed briefly in sadness, for he had always been fond of the brightly colored glass-birds; indeed, he had owned several as a Youngling before he had set them free, growing upset by their prolonged captivity and the sadness of their tune when they sung. He wasn’t sure he could swallow their eggs, even to survive the harsh conditions of the Badlands.

“You seem distressed; is something giving you grief?” Dreadwing rumbled as he hovered next to him, eyeing Optimus speculatively.

“It’s this place,” the red and blue mech murmured as he gently bounced Smokescreen in his arms. His son was wriggling, obviously wanting to be let go off so he could go crawl under the shade, but Optimus wasn’t keen on the idea, not knowing if there wasn’t Razor-Snakes or other dangerous mechanimals near. “I’m trying not to imagine what it will look like once you have finished plundering its resources.”

“‘Plundering’?” Dreadwing repeated, raising an optic ridge before he snorted. “Please; we hardly take that much, outsider. Look closer, if you don’t believe me.” He gestured wildly, beaconing Optimus to truly look around.

On closer inspection, the young noble noticed a trend. The skins were filled without a care and the mechanimals drunk as much as they wanted, but when it came to metalloplants, the Younglings were actually very picky. Only the biggest berries were taken, the smaller ones inspected and disregarded. Adults went from one mechling to another and sometimes gave sharp warnings over not picking a grape, or a scowl over picking too much, leading to a chastised Youngling moving to another bush with a dejected look.

Vaporator mushroom were treated the same way, Sparklings not hesitating to call for help or attention when they seemed unsure wherever they were edibles or not. Nobody made a move to try and shoot down the Dioptase-Does or the majestuous stag watching over them, not to attack the various small-sized mechanimals who came to drink as far as possible away from the nomads. And when the first Younglings started to come down from the trees, their baskets didn’t contain that many eggs, to Optimus’ surprise. Actually, more than one basket was full of feathers.

More surprising still was the way the nomads attached ribbons or planted small engraved picked next to the sites they had finished foraging. Now that he knew what to look for, Optimus could make out the shape of carefully disguised other, older looking pickets from different colors and with different markings among the foliage.

“Clans marking and dates,” Dreadwing explained before the red and blue mech could even ask. “So we know what was taken before we arrived and to let the ones who will follow us know what they can safely take. Metalloplants grow slow or fast depending on the season, and when the game is scarce due to migrations, they become our main source of fuel. As such, we must always maintain an equilibrium in the oases, never taking too much so other nomad groups can find something to eat as well -- and the herbivorous mechanimals as well. Without them, the bigger preys would eventually move out or eat each others until none was left, and where would we be then?” he asked rhetorically.

“I see,” Optimus murmured, impressed despite himself. He hadn’t thought the nomads had put so much thought into foraging. “And the feathers?”

“They’ll serve to make trinkets and charms, or to garnish pillows or to decorate tents and cloaks, unless the Younglings trade them for something else on New Kolkular’s market when we reach the city for the wintering,” the flier shrugged. “We always find a use for what we pick, do not worry about it.”

“I’m not worried, just curious,” Optimus defended himself, looking away.

All in one, the nomads moved like the cogs of a well-oiled machinery, and in a matter of kliks full skins and filled baskets started to be piled up under a tree while a two mechs watched over them.

“What are they doing?” he couldn’t help but ask as he noticed they were pulling strings out of subspace and making knots on them. How strange; he would have expected Sparklings and Younglings to play with string, but not adult.

“Counting, of course,” Dreadwing replied matter-of factly. Optimus blinked and frowned, put out by the answer.

“Counting… using knots?” It was so weird and unexpected he almost laughed. “Why don’t they just commit the numbers to their databanks? It’d be much easier, no?”

“Easier for whom?” Dreadwing asked, raising an optic ridge, clearly unimpressed with Optimus’ question. “Storing fuel items, be it full skins, metalloplants or mechanimal meat is something all the clan partakes in, and the content and number of our storage wagons keep changing from one solar cycle to the next, especially when we start stockpiling in prevision for the wintering or when we need rationing due to a bad period. Many among us can’t keep the count straight without a visual help -- which is exactly what the khipu knots provide us with. See,” he added as he grabbed Optimus’ hand and brought him closer to the two other nomads. “You see the color of the string? The knots types? The space between each one? They’re codified, so anyone who glance at it know exactly what it stands for.”

“So I see,” Optimus murmured as one of the nomads, smirking, handed him a fistful of knotted string. In a way, it was almost ingenious, but so primitive next to the technology he was used to. “And what will you do with the, the khipus? Because I don’t suppose you just use them for your personal information.”

Dreadwing rumbled. “Of course not. When we’ll reach New Kolkular, our khipus will be given to the Lore Masters for verification and study. Khipus are multi-purpose; they allow us to keep track of everything, from the number of mouths to feed in our clan and the number of dead we registered this stellar cycle to how much provisions we brought back to be stockpiled for the communal wintering. Studies of the khipus by the Masters and the Elders allow us to check on games migrations and metalloplants growth by comparing the numbers from one stellar cycle to the other, thus making the Elders readjust the hunting grounds accordingly so whoever will be allotted them won’t go hungry.”

“So… you store them for data comparison?” He had to admit, Optimus was impressed. Once more, the supposed ‘barbarians’ were showing a kind of rough sophistication he would have never guessed at. The simple fact they thought about checking out a population growth or decline spoke highly of their intelligence; it explained so much about their continued existence in the Wastelands.

“Indeed. Do this surprise you, outsider?”

“A little,” Optimus admitted, “but many things tend to surprise me these solar cycles, so what is one more?”

The answer seemed satisfying for the flier, whose wings twitched in amusement. “At least you are truthful and have the good sense of admitting your mistakes; this is good. Lord Megatron should have someone quick-minded to share his tent, after all.”

Optimus just turned his head away, unsure if he should add anything more. Dreadwing eyed him thoughtfully for a moment before snorting. “Whatever. You should fill your own skins, outsider; playing idle will not bring you positive attention.”

“My name is Optimus,” the red and blue mech frowned, but did as he was told and walked to the pond. Smokescreen chirped curiously as he gazed at the area of energon, making his Carrier smile. “Pretty, isn’t it, Smokey?”

He paused, unsure, wondering if it was safe to deposit the Sparkling while he knelt. Once more, he regretted not having properly swaddled Smokescreen before he left. If they hadn’t been so close to the pond, perhaps he could have… but Smokescreen was obviously so taken aback and so curious everything around him Optimus feared he would put inedible berries to his mouth or wander into the energon and sink at the bottom of the pond. Slag, what would be the safest way to keep him occupied while he participated to the nomads activities…?

Perhaps he could temporarily place him in someone else care. He didn’t know the tribe members names or what they were like but surely, given how much they were about honor, they’d see nothing bad could happen to Smokescreen? He looked around hopefully, only to grimace as he realized everyone was too busy to pay him any attention. Even Dreadwing had disappeared, probably patrolling between the trees and the bushes.

There was no choice. With a sigh, he put Smokescreen down, installing him on his little aft on the bank as he himself knelt, ready to fill the first skin he had been handed. They were easy to fill, thankfully, and he could steal glances at Smokey every few kliks to make sure the Sparkling was alright and not up to anything dangerous.

“Ah, ah, no Smokey,” he chided his son as he grabbed him by the scruff bar and gently tugged him back when the red and blue mechling started to crawl toward the ponds, optics focused on the ripples in the energon and licking his lips. “You’re too little for that.”

Smokescreen’s optics widened and he bit his lips, little doorwings fluttering erratically. He started to whine and sob, but Optimus stayed firm and tugged further away from the pond, not hesitating to do it again and again each time the Sparkling tried to crawl back to the liquid surface. “It’s not good for bitlets,” Optimus chided again and again, tried to remain firm against Smokescreen’s growing distress at being kept from such a curious, tasty-looking thing. “No need to make a scene, Smokey; ‘no’ means ‘no’,” he insisted as he finished filling the last of the skins and tied it back to his belt.

He calmly bounced Smokescreen in his arms as he walked away and rejoined the main group to see if there was something else he could do to help, while Smokescreen continued to whimper and stretched a tiny hand out toward the gleaming energon pond, a dejected look on his face as he saw his shiny new toy slip out of his grasp.

Chapter Text

The campsite was busy tonight, as the nomads were throwing a party. Sitting near the firepit with a sleepy Smokescreen in his lap, Optimus smiled and raised a cup of oil around in salutation. Next to him, Megatron rumbled pleasantly as he bite into a roasted… something, hot fluids dripping down his chin. Several more mechanimals had been skewered and put on large spits to cook, a few tribe members regularly turning them over the high flames to avoid burning everything. Little drops of energon sometimes fell out of the husks and provocated explosions and sparkles which made the Sparklings clap and laugh.

Various mechs sung out loud, cheery songs to the sound of exotic music instruments Optimus had never heard before, flutes and lyras and drums mixing together in unison to accompany them. A few mechs were even dancing around the firepit, clearly intoxicated after drinking a brightly blue energon mix Megatron had pushed away from Optimus with an air of finality. It didn’t take a genius to recognize the nomadic version of high grade, and Optimus certainly wasn’t about to partake in it even if he hadn’t been Carrying, not after seeing how a few cups had rendered the hulking warriors. Megatron pushing it away had only cemented his resolution, and deep down, he found himself flustered by what was obviously a show of protection and care.

On his other side, Bumblebee beeped and handed him a heavy, roughly carved tray charged with treats the red and blue mech gratefully accepted, grabbing one for himself before he handed it to Megatron, making it circulates round the firepit. He nibbled happily on the treat he had selectionend, a rolled, thin, flat cake covered with a gooey, sweet crystal berries jam. It was apparently a very popular dessert for Sparklings and Younglings alike, because it was already the fifth trays Optimus was passing along, and they had all quickly came up empty. Thankfully, there were still plenty to give the gluttonous mechlings. Optimus was well-placed to know it, as he had helped prepare them upon coming back from the oasis.

Which, he had to admit, had been an adventure in itself. Carrying fuel back to the camp hadn’t dampened the Sparklings and Younglings’ enthusiasm the slightest, and the now well-rested and tanks-filled Zap-Horses had been nervous and full of energy, pulling on their bridles and wanting to run. Their owners had barely been able to keep them in check, but it was apparently nothing unusual. The trip back had even provided Smokescreen with an occasion to have fun when, to console the still distressed Sparkling, Bumblebee had offered to make Smokescreen ride in an empty basket strapped to his Zap-Horse’s flank. Though Optimus had been unsure about the ordeal, Bumblebee had proved himself convincing and assured him it was without danger. Many Sparklings actually travelled this ways, especially when their Creators had to scout the edges of the caravan. Smokescreen certainly had great fun, waving at his Carrier from his ‘seat’ and patting the Zap-Horse’s flank to his Spark’s content with his tiny hand, his earlier surliness easily forgotten.

“Feel good, my mate?” Megatron rumbled next to him, startling him out of his reminiscence, and Optimus looked up and gave the grey mech a nod and a brief smile before Megatron passed an arm around his shoulders and brought him closer to him, ostensibly to ‘protect him from the cold’. So near the firepit, they barely felt the cold, but the day’s heat had let its place to the cold of the stars-filled night, and it felt. All the Sparklings still up and quite a few of the younger Younglings had thick covers wrapped over their frame. Smokescreen himself was comfortably curled into a layer of fur, sucking on his thumb as he nodded his head, trying and failing to stay awake.

The heavy clawed hand brushed against Optimus’ flat belly a couple of time before it settled back over the red and blue mech’s shoulder. Optimus swallowed. “Yes,” he murmured. “I feel good.” Good and if he was honest, a little apprehensive about the coming night. Would Megatron want to repeat the activities of yesterday? The growing Sparkling would need all the nanites it could absorb, after all, and the nomad had made it clear he’d be more than happy to provide them. The overloads were pleasant, of course, but the contradictory feelings he was still having over Flame’s death, Megatron himself and the whole situation made his processor roll with turmoil.

He tried to chase the thought away, instead lifting his cup again as an elderly mech barked out a cheer that every tribe members repeated altogether. The old mech’s hand was lying on the shoulder of a darkly colored mech with grey highlight, himself having his arms wrapped around a bright green and blue mech with a black face who was almost disappearing under multiple layers of fabric to keep him and the precious bundle in his arms warm and safe. Optimus hadn’t been formally introduced to Sandstone and his mate yet, nor to the elderly mech who was apparently said mate’s Sire, but he genuinely wished the new family unit all the joy and luck he could.

The Sparkling, whose name they had yet to reveal due to a custom wanting the Creators to wait until the seventh solar cycle after the emergence to officially ‘present’ the new tribe member to the spirits and the clan, had emerged shortly before twilight set. Ratchet had seemed very satisfied upon leaving the tent, a sure sign the birth had gone well and that both the Carrier and the infant were in good health. That didn’t stop the medic to watch over Sandstone like a Cyber-Hawk, sitting right next to him; clearly, if he was happy with the general health of the new Carrier, he was unhappy about having him walking and partaking in the celebrations so soon.

The look of wonder and utter adoration on Sandstone’s face resonated deeply in Optimus’ own Spark. He had looked just the same, when Smokescreen had unfurled for the first time and their optics had met -- there had been enough videos and holographic captures taken from them at the time for Optimus to know. Such a little thing, coming out of him… it had been breathtaking. Provided everything went well, he would have that same look again soon enough, he thought as he looked down at himself with a small, almost invisible smile.

“This is beautiful night,” Megatron rumbled and Optimus looked up to him, startled.

“Yes, beautiful,” he found himself agreeing as he looked to the star-filled sky. So far from the cities, the sky was black as ink and the dots of light overhead were only more visible, barely tarnished by the haze of the fire. Back in Iacon, it would have been impossible to see them, the artificial light of the street lamps and signs and the pollution from the industrial district masking everything.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

The red and blue mech blinked. “Ah… thank you?” he answered uncertainly, feeling his cheeks heat up. He wasn’t used to be paid compliments -- Flame had hardly ever commented on his looks, and his Creators’ praise had felt emptier and emptier as he grew up. He almost jumped out of his armor when Megatron’s lips components brushed against his audio receptor in a soft kiss.

“Beautiful mech should have beautiful things to wear,” the grey mech whispered. Despite himself, Optimus tensed. He wasn’t an idiot, and he had a strong suspicion he knew what Megatron was trying to hint at. The Bonding necklace Prowl had talked to him about, the one all Bonded mechs wore around their neck to show they were ‘spoken for’. Now he had given Megatron his name, then the grey mech was free to offer him his, and it would finalize their ‘union’ in accordance to the nomads’ law.

Primus… he knew it was coming, but he still felt apprehensive -- and who could have blamed him, really? If he accepted to wear it, then it would be the proof he had truly had renounced to leave. Which he had, officially, but deep down in his Spark, wasn’t there a part still wanting to fight, to escape?

Smokescreen made a soft noise and he looked down at his son. The Sparkling was now fully asleep, thumb still nestled in his mouth, a doorwing peeking out of the fur coat he was wrapped in. Optimus absentmindedly tugged it back inside, thinking hard.

“Show me?” he finally whispered softly, so softly it was almost a wonder Megatron heard him over the noise of the party.

The grey mech nodded sharply and reached for his subspace pocket. “Shutter your optics?” he rumbled, and Optimus obeyed. Long kliks went before Megatron finally allowed him to light them up again, and the noble came face to face with the ‘proof’ of Megatron’s claim and ‘love’.

He couldn’t help but stare at the necklace in amazement as Megatron held it out for him, ready to clasp it around his neck. Dark grey metal beads slung in two ranks over brazen metal wire caught the light of the fire, framing four sharp, silvery-white fangs the size of one of Optimus’ digits at regular interval. Probably those of a pneuma-lion, the red and blue mech thought briefly; it would certainly explain the centerpiece of the necklace, for between the two largest claws hung a meticulously carved, miniature golden pneuma-lion’s head.

The level of detailing which had gone into the carving was almost astounding. Optimus could make out the details of the wavy mane, the tip of a minuscule ear peeking through it. Tiny blue crystal shards had been encrusted in the optics, thus giving the head even more realism. The miniature head’s jaws were parted as if roaring. And, struck between those jaws, the tiny fangs of the lion acting as blockers, stood a white pearl of an impressive size.

A true pearl, Optimus realized with awe, wondering where Megatron had even found one. Pearls were a rarity, and the only ones Optimus had ever seen on display had been imported from the coastal villages near the Cobalt Sea, on the other side of Cybertron. From what he had gathered, pearls formed when the sand of the shores got into the shells of a local species of shellfish, whatever it was. As such, it couldn’t have come out of the desert, making its presence all the more jarring.

Then again… the nomads made part of their living out of trading, didn’t they? Ratchet had said as much, and even Dreadwing had spoken of trading feathers on the market at New Kolkular. Still, from what Optimus knew, pearls were expensive, making him wonder what Megatron could have traded for it. Unless he had found it himself? He wanted to ask him so badly, but he had the feeling such details weren’t to be discussed in public.

“You like, Optimus?” Megatron asked, and the red and blue mech nodded shortly.

“It’s… perfect.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should add or do something more. Their neighbors were staring at them, some of them elbowing each other and having hushed conversations between them. They had obviously noticed the necklace and were now watching avidly the happening.

Smokescreen whimpered in his lap, and Optimus caressed his cheek soothingly before looking back at Megatron and the necklace, swallowing dryly. Megatron was staring at him so intensely… Without a word, he lowered his head, showing he was ready for Megatron to tie it around his neck. The grey mech did so without a word. Optimus tried not to flinch as he heard the clasps close and felt the unfamiliar weight hang around his neck. One of Megatron’s clawed digit slide under his chin and made him look up. His optics met the red gaze of Megatron before the grey mech deposited a kiss on his forehelm.

“Welcome to the tribe, Optimus, my mate.”

A few mechs who had seen the exchange cheered and raised their cups toward them. Next to them, Bumblebee beeped cheerfully. Optimus smiled nervously and started to toy with the beads, blinking as he felt carving under his fingers.

“What is that?” he asked as he pulled on the collar, trying to see. Megatron lightly slapped his fingers away.

“Don’t pull, might break. Is protection runes,” the grey mech admitted, looking away. “I carved them, to have the Spirits show you favor.”

“That’s… really sweet of you,” Optimus said awkwardly, though he felt like smiling. It was indeed very sweet and unexpected from the gruff nomad. “Thank you,” he added after a moment of silence, hesitantly slipping his hand over Megatron’s own only to yelp as the grey mech lifted him up and installed him in his lap. Smokescreen whimpered in his sleep, almost rolling off Optimus’ own lap before his Carrier managed to steady him. “Megatron! Why…?!”

Two large arms tied themselves around his chest and he was gently but firmly pressed against a broad chest. “Hush, Optimus. I help you stay warm,” he rumbled, nuzzling his face in the smaller mech’s neck. Optimus blushed.

“Oh… in front of everyone?” That was rather embarrassing, though he supposed the ‘display’ obeyed to a certain form of logic. It wasn’t very different from the kiss two Bonded nobles exchanged before the altar, or the reception following the ceremony, where it was customary to show off the Bonding gifts and the wealth of the family. Optimus had spent his own reception standing awkwardly by Flame’s side and dispensing greetings and thanks, covered in expensive jewelry.

“You are my Bonded. You wear my necklace. Let the others see,” the hunter stated simply. His voice was neutral, but Optimus would have been a fool if he had missed the buzz of self-satisfaction and pride in the other mech’s EM field. He fought down a wave of annoyance, as it reminded far too much of being treated like a trophy, and forced himself to smile. Megatron had no idea how much turmoil he was putting him through here, and he didn’t want to bring it up and spoil the party for the new Creators.

So he endured and smiled until one by one, the tribe members started to leave and rejoin their tents, first the ones with young, sleepy or already in recharge Sparklings, then the Younglings and the mechs who had had their fair share of the homemade high-grade they had gorged themselves on. Optimus noted many of them couldn’t walk straight anymore and in one case, a passed out mech had to be dragged by the arms by two heavy-looking mechs who cursed all the way to its own lodging. It made him doubly glad neither Megatron nor him had consumed any; this stuff was potent.

As Megatron helped him rise and frog-marched him toward the nomad’s own tent, Optimus caught the narrowed, red optics of Megazarak. The tribe’s leader, still sitting cross-legged by the fire amidst a group of elderly mechs, was watching Optimus up and down yet again, though his expression seemed gentler than it had been earlier in the day. Perhaps it was because Optimus finally wore a Bonding necklace -- not that the red and blue mech planned to ask him. Right now, all he wanted was to put Smokescreen back in his basket/craddle and snuggle in his nest of covers… possibly with Megatron. The Sparkling growing in his gestation chamber would need more than what it had received the previous night.

Megatron certainly was in the right mood, if the way he was hovering over Optimus was any indication. He wasn’t groping him yet, but it was hard to miss the glint in his optics as Optimus knelt next to Smokescreen and checked he was properly swaddled for the night, or when the red and blue mech hesitantly approached the nest of covers. The hesitance seemed to dim Megatron’s enthusiasm, though, for he backed off, frowning.

“What is wrong, Optimus?” he asked, circling the smaller mech.

“Nothing is wrong,” the noble tried. Megatron rumbled and snorted, raising an optic ridge to show he wasn’t dupe and that, if anything, he was less than impressed with the pathetic lie. Optimus’ shoulders sagged. “I just… think too much.” He nervously toyed with his new necklace. It seemed to be sufficient for Megatron to get what was bothering him.

“You regret?” the grey mech murmured in a low tone. “I told you yesterday… name giving, means you are mine. My mate. Necklace finalizes claim. You regret?”

“I don’t know,” Optimus answered honestly, softly, optics half-shuttered in shame and tiredness. “I do not know what I think, what I feel.” Megatron shook his head and strode toward him, hugging him close to his frame. Optimus tensed, before gradually relaxing as Megatron did nothing more than just hold him, letting him bask in the heat of his frame and the low rumble of his engines. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“‘s okay,” the nomad grunted. “I understand. You want recharge?”

“Yes,” Optimus agreed. Megatron released him and pulled asides the covers, gesturing to Optimus to install himself. It didn’t escape the red and blue mech that Megatron took several for himself, and he realized with a pang the grey mech had every intention to go recharge further away. Instinctively, he grabbed Megatron’s wrist; the nomad paused and looked down at him, curious. “... Stay with me?” Optimus asked in a small voice, unsure if he should even ask.

Megatron eyed him for a moment before nodding. “I stay,” he whispered, and before Optimus had the time to react, he leaned down and kissed him on the lips chastely. “Skittish mate,” he added with a smirk after he broke the kiss and tugged on Optimus’ arm so they could go lie down.

‘Skittish’... yes, perhaps he was, Optimus thought dimly as he curled under several layers of fabric, Megatron at his back, one arm around his waist. But given the circumstances, who could have reproached him? His fingers toyed again with the metal beads of the necklace. When recharge finally claimed him, they were still entangled with Megatron’s present, the proof he was now part of the tribe.

For better and worse.

Chapter Text

“Beep! Beeeeep!”

Optimus didn’t even bat an optic latch as Bumblebee beeped and Smokescreen shrieked with laughter next to him. Critically, he eyed his work before sighing and leaning back, dissatisfied. Who would have though weaving could be so hard?

Despite the pointers he had been given by the various nomads sharing the shade of the canopy he found himself under, he kept making mistakes. The knots he made to hold the warp together on the frame kept getting undone, and so it was with painstaking difficulties he was managing to pass the woof in between each thread. In half a solar cycle, whereas most of the nomads surrounding him were almost finished with whatever piece they were working on, Optimus had barely filled half the frame, and the result was rather loose. His shoulders sagged in frustration and he decided now was the right time for a break.

Pushing the frame away, he started to stretch his arms as high as he could, moaning in satisfaction as he felt his back strut stretch as well. He wasn’t getting enough physical activity since the tribe had settled until Sandstone and his Sparkling were deemed fit to travel by Ratchet -- and the medic was apparently taking his sweet time, according to a bunch of grumbling nomads who wanted to move already. It hadn’t escaped the noble that the ones who grumbled were usually the ones who didn’t have a mate of their own; the Bonded nomads were generally more sensitive about the matter.

One or two had been extremely aggressive about the ‘lack of sensitivity’ of their brethren when it came to the health of the new Carrier and its offspring, and a fight had actually burst out earlier today, quickly stopped by a roaring, wrench-armed Ratchet. For a mech whose primary duty was the care and health of others, the white and red mech was scarily efficient at beating down hapless mechs with precise hits to sensible but ultimately easily repaired systems. Scarier still was his accuracy when he was throwing that wrench around, and Optimus made a mental note never to get on the medic’s bad side.

Things had quieted down after that, thankfully, Ratchet having clearly made his point -- and Megazarak having backed him up in short but explicit words. And so the encampment had fallen back to its normal activities. Which, for Optimus, resumed to try and learn how to weave a cover for Smokescreen before he moved to bigger projects.

To be honest, he missed the trip to the oasis, but now they had picked up a share of edible metalloplants, there was little reason for a group of foragers to go back. The only ones who went back were the hunters and warriors leading the flocks of Gallium-Goats and the herd of Zap-Horses and Robodromedries. A few Younglings accompanied them sometimes, but the rest of the young tribe members were free to stay at the camp to play -- or to help cook and sew. Same thing for the Carriers and those who weren’t on ‘active duty’, as Optimus mentally referred to them. And sadly, he belonged to that group.

It didn’t meant he was staying idle; there were plenty of tasks to fill around the camp, and now he was officially presented as Megatron’s mate, he was enjoying a greater freedom -- but also higher expectations as well, as he was finding out. It wasn’t obvious at first, but from the moment he had emerged from the tent the morning after after Megatron gifted him with the Bonding necklace, mechs had started to nudge him toward such or such task, from helping shear off a layer of thick fibers off a Robodromadery’s coat or herd a stray Gallium-Goat or two who had managed to leave the pen, to pick up Robo-Chicken eggs or skin a dead mechanimal. The last part had left him feel queasy and he had been grateful when it had been over. Next to it, despite the difficulties he was having with tensing the yarn correctly, weaving was restful, and deep down, he found himself enjoying the task. Especially since he was doing it for Smokescreen.

Speaking of his son… At first, he had been very apprehensive about all the tasks he was being handed, as it had left him with little time to keep an optic on Smokey. Thankfully, he has found a very willing Sparkling-sitter in the person of Bumblebee. The ‘mute’ Youngling had taken to Spark the opportunity to play with Smokescreen, and if the bitlet had been unsure at first, he seemed to have quickly adopted this new ‘big brother’.

He didn’t know what drew the nomad Youngling to his son, but Optimus certainly wasn’t going to complain, and Smokescreen even less. Turning, he looked at them with a fond smile.

Bumblebee as lying on his front, chin in one hand and doorwings fluttering as he shook a makeshift rattle made of dried, folded, resistant twigs and feathers forming a cage in which small polished stones knocked together in front of Smokescreen. Sitting on his little aft, tiny doorwing nubs fluttering in answer to Bumblebee’s own, the red and blue mechling was clapping in happiness and laughing, sometimes trying to catch the rattle only for Bumblebee to put it out of his reach, resulting either in a laugh or in a pout depending on Smokey’s mood. Other toys were littered around them, from the blocks Megatron had carved for his -- their? -- son the previous decacycles to tops the grey mechs had also carved himself the day before and which Bumblebee regularly sent spinning, to Smokescreen’s delight.

Optimus had to acknowledge Megatron was truly spoiling Smokey; almost every solar cycle, he had something to give the Sparkling, be it a new toy or a story around recharge time. Optimus was still a little wary when the grey mech took Smokescreen in his arms, but the taller mech was always excessively careful with the Sparkling, easing most of his fears. Well, the obvious care and also the fact Megatron still hadn’t took his weapons back under the tent to limit the risks Smokescreen would hurt himself while they weren’t paying attention. It did a lot to tranquilize Optimus about the ability of his new ‘mate’ to make sure Smokescreen was safe.

Still, it was easier to trust Bumblebee with Smokescreen, if only because the Youngling didn’t look like he could easily crush the small Sparkling between his hands effortlessly. And Bumblebee was good with Smokey, never minding if the mechling tried to climb and crawl all over him and stopping him from venturing too far in the sun. In a general way, all nomads seemed to know their way around small lifeform, and Optimus wondered why and how. It certainly couldn’t be due to caring for Sparklings alone, surely? On the other hand, there were few small-sized mechs in the tribe…

Shaking his head, he waved at Smokescreen who, all at his game, didn’t pay him attention. It felt a little bittersweet, but perhaps it was for the best. Sighing, he went back to the loom, picking up the shuttle and starting to pass it between the warp. He had been at it for half a cycle when someone’s shadow fell over him.

“Hey, my mech, is that place taken?”

Optimus startled and dropped the shuttle. Raising his head quickly, he came face to face with a familiar smirk over which floated a blue visor.

“Jazz!” he exclaimed, going on his knees only for the black and white mech to stop him and drop to the ground himself. Optimus put his hands over the other mech’s shoulders and hugged him briefly. “You’re alright! Thank Primus! I thought…” he paused, unsure. He had known Jazz was alive, of course, and so was Ricochet, but he hadn’t seen a glimpse of them since solar cycles and, to his shame, they had entirely slipped his mind. “It’s good to see you, my friend,” he finally settled for, clasping Jazz’s shoulder before letting go of the other mech.

Jazz chuckled lowly as he sat down cross-legged next to the noble. A few of the nomads were looking at them with a raised optic ridge, but most continued to work on their weaving or sewing without a care. “And it’s good to see you as well, my mech. Didn’t know if you had managed to make it in one piece when those fraggers attacked the caravan, and it worried me sick until I received news you were here. So I thought I’d drop by when I was allowed out. Frag, I’m happy to see you!”

“Jazz! Language!” It was a pure reflex, something Optimus had always said around swearing mechs since the birth of Smokescreen, for he’d be damned if the first word his Sparkling uttered was a curse. He quickly looked toward Smokey and Bumblebee, but they were too far to hear. That didn’t stop Bumblebee to look curiously at the newcomer. Apparently, he wasn’t familiar with Jazz yet.

The black and white mech laughed. “Sorry, sorry, I won’t say it again where the bitlet might hear.” He looked in the same direction as Optimus, and if his smile deemed when he caught sight of Bumblebee, it was genuine when he noticed Smokescreen. “Good to see the little ankle-biter is alright as well. They haven’t hurt him -- or you, I hope?” There was a vaguely threatening undertone to his question, but Optimus paid it no mind, shaking his head.

“No, Jazz, they didn’t. Well,” he amended himself with a joyless chuckle, “they did deprive him of his Sire, but they didn’t hurt us physically.”

Jazz cursed softly, so low it wasn’t audible. “Slag; I had hoped I had been wrong. I thought I saw him going down before I took that hit to the head but…” He shook his head. “So your Bonded indeed bit the dust, then?” Optimus nodded sharply, sadly. Jazz squeezed his shoulder in support. “I’m sorry, my mech. My condolence.” And despite the fact he knew Jazz hadn’t really approved of Flame and his callous treatment of Optimus, the noble knew he was sincere.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “There aren’t many who offered me kind words about his passing.”

“I bet,” Jazz glared around at various nomads, who paid him no mind.

“Prowl did,” Optimus pointed out quickly, remembering the night by the fire as he was stirring the stew. Jazz seemed to mellow at the news.

“Did he now? Yeah, I suppose he would,” Jazz muttered, tilting his head back and looking at the canopy over them, shifting and bringing his legs close to his chest. “Can’t say I can read him well yet, but… yeah, I get his basic personality. He’s a very no-nonsense mech, and he isn’t a fool. Couldn’t trick him into freeing my hands or wrists, or into freeing me, and Primus know I tried. Cajoled, begged, pleaded, played coy, tried to seduce, and nothing.” He shook his head in disbelief, but there was a playful smirk on his lips. “Hardly ever met a mech I couldn’t push the right button to. He’s a challenge alright.”

“A challenge you didn’t win?” Optimus found himself asking, curious and amused. He knew how Jazz was about challenges; he took them on, and he didn’t stop until he won.

The black and white mech shrugged. “Meh. More like he and I agreed it was a stalemate -- not that we said it. I know when I have to admit defeat -- even temporarily. And if the price to pay to advance to the next round was my name, a pretty trinket to wear around my neck and a night of…” He coughed, cutting himself. “Anyway, it’s a price I was willing to pay.”

“I had noticed,” Optimus replied, paying close attention to the ‘trinket’ Jazz had mentioned -- the Bonding necklace that Prowl had indubitably given him. It was very different from Optimus’ own. Jazz’s own necklace was composed of several pairs of onyx black fangs, tied together by turquoise fixations as to form downside crescent moons. Each fang had been polished and carved with mysterious symbols which ticked Optimus’ budding historian and archivist side. Gold had been cast in the engraving, emphasising them while red crystal beads added further colors. It was complimentary to Jazz’s own paint job, something that Optimus could only marvel about. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Jazz shrugged. “Didn’t expect something so fancy, but whatever.”

“You do realize the significance of this necklace, right?” Optimus asked worriedly, and Jazz took a grim look.

“Oh yeah. The medic told me, and Prowl repeated it to me again and again. But that doesn’t mean I got to hold it sacred.”

“Jazz… I hope you don’t intend to do something stupid?” Optimus asked, frowning. His Spark beat faster as the black and white mech waved the concern asides.

“Don’t worry that much, OP,” he used the affectuous nickname he had given Optimus once upon a time. It warmed something deep into the noble to hear it again after all this time. “I can’t make a move now. As I said, Prowl isn’t a foul, and neither is the rest of that bunch.” He eyed the tribe members around him briefly, to Optimus’ surprise. Those who were here were mostly Carriers with young offsprings, none of them threatening… at least he thought so. “I know when I’m being watched, OP. Prowl has good optics and a crafty mind, but the rest of this ‘tribe’ is just as canny. Must be all those kidnappings of innocent, unaware mechs,” he chuckled mirthlessly before sobering up. “Anyway, I know they all expect me to do something, and they’re prepared to intercept me. No need for me to try and get them on my case right now.”

“... I see,” Optimus finally sighed. “Did he treat you well at least?

“Asides of having kept me trussed for solar cycles?” the red and black mech asked dryly, making Optimus blush. “Naw, mech it’s alright. He may have had me tied up and spoon-fed me like Sparkling, but at least he wasn’t a total jerk -- not like his brother.” He grimaced, and Optimus remembered Ricochet was ‘captive’ of Prowl’s brother, Barricade.

“Do you know how Ricochet is?” he asked worriedly. Barricade hadn’t struck as someone particularly patient or kind, but then again, he hadn’t had a chance to truly speak with the mech, and first impressions could be false.

Jazz shrugged helplessly, grimacing. “Oh, I do. They shared a tent, those two mechs -- Prowl and Barricade, I mean -- so Ricky and I had plenty of time to check each other out for injuries and to chat and plan a dashing escape. Well, when he didn’t let his glossa get the better of him and got himself gagged,” he said with displeasure. “Not sure how much the big lump who took him understood when Ricky started hitting his swear words repertory, but he certainly understood the feeling, and he took offense. Then they had us separated after we tried some good, old-fashioned teamwork to kick their afts and escape. It failed, and after they discussed, Barricade took his stuff and Ricochet with him, and I haven’t see my little bro since. Was kinda hoping he would be here, but…” he shrugged again before smiling at Optimus. “Mind you, I’m still happy to see you and Smokey, my mech. Was worried about you two. Prowl said they let the mechs they hadn’t killed or taken with enough fuel to gain the nearest oasis or Kaon, but he stayed close-lipped when I asked about you and Smokey.”

“You didn’t know we were here?” Optimus asked, confused. Prowl had sounded so truthful and level-headed when they spoke, he wouldn’t have thought he’d hide such things from Jazz. Unless he had had ulterior motives? Since Optimus had revealed he was a friend of Jazz, perhaps the Praxian had hoped to use news of his well-being as a bargaining chip of sort?

“Not by Prowl, anyway. It’s the medic, Ratchet, who informed me about you. Not a bad mech, but slag if he hasn’t a foul temper -- and yeah, I know, no swearing where the bitlet might hear,” Jazz quipped when Optimus frowned, displeased. “Isn’t anything but the truth, though. You probably noticed as well?”

“I… do admit Ratchet can be fearsome when he wants to,” Optimus agreed, thinking back about the earlier display of strength. “But I found him to be a very caring mech regardless. Without the chip he gave me, I would never had been able to communicate with the rest of the tribe, and he did his best by me and Smokescreen. So does Megatron.”

“Megatron, uh?” Jazz asked, head tilted. “The mech who kidnapped you?” There was disapproval in his voice, but now he had looked Optimus up and down for any sign of damage, he seemed reassured and willing to give the nomad who had taken Optimus the benefice of the doubt.

“Yes, the mech who kidnapped me,” Optimus sighed, shuttering his optics and taking a deep breath. “Jazz, I don’t know how much you know already, but Megatron… He’s the one who killed Flame.” He needed to say it, because he feared Jazz didn’t know and it was best to clear out the situation entirely before any misunderstanding settled in.

“Slag it!” Jazz exclaimed, and for once Optimus didn’t have the Spark to correct him. “Where is that fragger?! I’m going to kill him!”

“Hunting with the rest of the warriors, and you will do no such thing,” Optimus snapped, grabbing one of Jazz’s arm to keep him from getting up and pace around. He glanced nervously at the rest of the nomads, but nobody seemed to be surprised by the outburst. Then again, none of them could understand what they were saying -- he hoped.

“Optimus?” Jazz asked worriedly, though he was still angry, it felt in his EM field and the tenseness in his frame.

“Jazz, please, whatever happen, just… don’t.” His shoulders sagged, wariness seizing his Spark. Even Smokescreen’s happy chirps as he continued to innocently play with Bumblebee weren’t enough to appease it. He missed Flame and speaking or thinking of him was always painful. They hadn’t been close and their Bonding had mostly been about convenience, but one couldn’t just scrap several vorns of communal life and the creation of a Sparkling.

“Slag, OP, they did a number on you,” Jazz mumbled as he gently tugged his arm out of the noble’s grasp and settling back comfortably. “Come on, my mech, talk to me. What happened?”

Optimus looked at him sadly, and started to speak. The words came with difficulty at first, but soon they were flowing out of his mouth seamlessly, a continuous flow he could no longer repress.

He spoke of Flame’s distance and awkward promises of trying to be a better Bonded and Sire, which Optimus hadn’t believed, and his last stand in front of the wagon to protect him and Smokescreen. He spoke of his grief as he realized what was happening and not being able to do anything to save his Bonded.

He spoke of his own attempts at fighting before being subdued by a surprised Megatron, of being knocked out and waking up among the nomad. He spoke of the confusion, the fear, and the intimacy he hadn’t been able to refuse in half-words. He spoke of Ratchet’s first visit, the medics’ reassurances and overview of the nomads’ lifestyle, and the news he was Carrying Flame’s second Sparkling. He spoke of the tribe and its ways, of feeling so lost over what he should do, of his fear of losing Smokescreen or getting him killed if he tried to leave alone in the desert, but also of his fear of what would happen once he rejoined ‘civilization’, for he was a noble and his family would probably try to use him in political unions again, perhaps ending Bonded to someone worse than Flame.

And finally, he spoke of Megatron, of his quiet strength, of the way he took care of his reluctant Bonded despite their disastrous first meetings, of the way he was being so gentle with Smokescreen but also with Optimus, never forceful, protective and most of all, understanding to a point Flame had never been. He also spoke of his desire to do everything he could to make sure his second Sparkling would be born healthy, his determination at putting his Creations well-beings above his own.

And Jazz listened without a word, just holding his hand in support, head lowered as he took everything in.

When Optimus stopped talking, intake dry, Jazz let a beat of silence pass before he spoke. “... Okay, I won’t kill him,” he finally said, optics shuttered and taking deep breaths. “But don’t tell me he hasn’t earned a punch in the dental plates!”

The red and blue mech couldn’t help it; he laughed. It was a hearty sound, born out of genuine amusement after letting the bubble of emotions burst. He hadn’t cried, for which he was grateful, but the explanation had taken a lot out of him. “He probably does,” Optimus nodded, hiccuping with laughter. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. You haven’t met him yet, have you?”

“Eh, I got in my fair share of fights,” Jazz shrugged. “I think I can handle one more.”

“For some reason, I doubt it,” Optimus murmured as he pictured Megatron in his mind and mentally sized both him and Jazz. “Besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring more attention on yourself right now. Not… not if you want to try to escape,” he added after a quick glance right and left to check nobody was listening too closely into their conversation. It bothered him he still had no idea of whom in the tribe was susceptible of understanding modern Cybertronian. “And don’t bother denying it, Jazz; you already implied as much.”

Jazz’s lips quirked. “Hoped you caught on it, my mech. Sure, I love to leave this ditch as fast as possible, but I’m not an idiot. I’m watched and will probably remain so for some time, and I’m sure not going to make a run for it without supplies and a basic idea of where I’m going.” He looked briefly at the canopy over them. “Haven’t been out of the tent Prowl kept me in since they caught me, I would at least need to see the stars for a few nights to know how to orientate myself. Not to mention, the Storms Season is coming up; running out in the Wastelands without a decent shelter with me will be tantamount to suicide; I’m a risk-taker, but I know when I better abstain. Plus,” he added in a low voice, “no way I’m leaving this place without Ricochet… or without you.”

Optimus startled. “Jazz?”

“You’re my friend, OP,” the black and white mech rumbled. “Sure, we’re not thick as thieves, but you’re a good Spark and someone I genuinely like -- no way I leave you behind if I can help it. Nor you, nor the tyke,” he added as he glanced at Smokescreen.

Optimus stared, then shook his head slowly. “Jazz… I can’t leave. Perhaps, if I was alone and there was only me to consider, I could attempt it. But I have Smokescreen to consider, and I’m Carrying again.” He pressed a hand against his belly, his Spark giving a pang as he imagined putting the precious new life in danger, even involuntarily. “Smokescreen couldn’t survive in the desert on stolen supplies only, and I can’t risk losing that Sparkling…”

Jazz squeezed his shoulder gently. “I know, OP. I know. Which is why I’m amending my secret plans. I won’t risk you or Smokey or the future bitlet.”

“Then you should leave while you can, and leave me here,” Optimus pressed on. “I’m staying because I’ve no choice, Jazz, and because what I’ll find once I’m back to my family might actually be worse than what I’m facing now. At least with the nomads, with Megatron, I know where I stand.”

“Nothing is forcing you to contact your family once we’re back to civilization,” Jazz pointed out quietly, to which Optimus could only smile in self-depreciation.

“And I don’t see myself hiding my survival from them if I have a mean to let them know.”

“They raised you to be too honest, OP,” Jazz sighed. “But that’s what I like about you, that honesty.” He clasped the other mech shoulder. “Listen, I…”

He was roughly interrupted when Smokescreen started to wail, making Optimus bolt. “Smokescreen?!” he exclaimed worriedly, only to discover the Sparkling was being helplessly bounced in Bumblebee’s arms. The yellow Youngling had an helpless look on his face as he gazed at Optimus, quickly walking over to hand him Smokescreen. “What happened Bee?”

Optimus listened carefully at the hurried series of ‘beeps’ before he sighed in relief. “Oh. I see. No, no, don’t be sorry; you can’t help a Sparkling being hungry,” he reassured the Youngling as he took Smokescreen from his arms. The crying mechling’s sobs decreased slightly as he recognized his Carrier, and he immediately started to paw at Optimus’ chest, lips trembling. Without further thought, the red and blue mech let his chestplates part and activated his pouches, keeping Smokescreen’s mouth away until they were filled. The Sparkling soon latched on a nub and startled suckling, his distress fading as Optimus soothingly rubbed his back between the doorwings.

Bumblebee beeped, doorwings fluttering, but Optimus shook his head in reassurance. “Everything’s fine, Bumblebee. I’m going to take him back for now; thank you for taking care of him for so long.” They chatted a little more before Bee left, leaving the shelter of the canopy and losing himself in the forest of tents. Optimus turned back to his place, only to find Jazz staring at him.

“Jazz? Everything’s alright?”

The black and white mech leaned back, still eyeing Optimus up and down. “Oh yeah, do not worry. Wasn’t expecting you to just, you know, get the material out in public,” he said, gesturing over his chest. “Going local, uh?” he added with a smirk as Optimus blushed and crouched on the floor, moving his arms and Smokescreen as to hide as much of his pouches as he could given the circumstances.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” Optimus muttered, cheeks still bright red. “I’m sorry Jazz, normally I have a poncho on and I haven’t thought about the fact I didn’t have it on because here under the canopy it’s not so bad and I didn’t need it and normally I always, always wear it because it’s uncomfortable for me to flash them around even if everyone do it here and it’s the only way I have to feed Smokescreen and…”

“OP, breath,” Jazz chided, refraining from laughing as Optimus worked himself in a miniature panic attack. “It’s alright, I don’t mind, and I know Smokey needs it. I’ve been a caravaner for a while, you know,” he mentioned as he moved closer to Optimus. “Sure, we had the oil springs along the treks and had distillators for when we had Sparklings on board, but every now in a while, we found ourselves short when a storm blew up unexpectedly or we broke a wheel or whatever.” He leaned closer, smiling as he took a good look at Smokey, who didn’t even acknowledge his presence, too busy suckling from his Carrier. “It was even worse on some of the caravans owned by big money, you know? Where they handed fuel against extra credits instead of distributing it freely. Saw plenty of Carriers feeding their bitlets like that -- and even adults once or twice.”

Optimus startled. “Adults? But pouches are…” he stopped, bright red, and Jazz laughed.

“Yeah, I know. Kinky stuff, eh?” Jazz rubbed a digit over Smokescreen’s helm, cooing softly. The Sparkling mewled but didn’t acknowledge the black and white mech further. “You made a cute bitlet, OP. You can be proud.”

“I am,” Optimus smiled, his panic at having accidentally ‘flashed’ Jazz slowly decreasing. It helped the other mech wasn’t truly looking at him, attention more focused on Smokescreen. “And I can only hope his future brother or sister will be just as adorable and well-behaved as him.” He shifted his hold on the Sparkling.

“Time will tell,” the black and white mech shrugged. He eyed Optimus thoughtfully before sighing. “Okay. What can I mech do to occupy himself around here?”

“Well… didn’t Prowl assign you a task? Where is he, by the way?” Optimus asked as he looked around, half-expecting the Praxian to be looming around. The way Jazz explicitly stated he wasn’t trusted despite having ‘accepted’ the Bonding, he would have thought Prowl would have been here to watch over his quirky new mate. But nowhere around were there an hint of red chevrons, nor the tell-tales doorwings of an adult, Praxian-descended mech.

Jazz shrugged. “Probably hunting with your Megatron and the rest of the pack. Pretended to be in recharge when he left, passed out after too many… Uh, yeah, you must know what I’m talking about,” he coughed, though his visor flashed with mischief. “He’s really good with his tool, if you catch my meaning.”

“Jazz!!!”

The other mech laughed. “Relax, my mech, don’t be so uptight. Honestly, that mech don’t look like he can take a joke, but he knows what he’s doing with a lover. But anyway, he didn’t leave me with directions, so I’m on my own -- and bored out of my mind. They won’t let me get too close to the fence, and I can’t exactly hold a correct conversation with the people here.” He grunted. “Ratchet’s chip isn’t bad, but it’s not sufficient to catch the full language. I don’t get the idioms and the expressions, can’t even pull out a correct sentence thank to the weird grammar!”

“If you want, I could…” Optimus offered before being cut off.

“Naw, my mech, don’t worry. I’m looking at it like a challenge, don’t need a free pass. Still… bored. Got any idea to help me pass the time?”

Optimus raised an optic ridge, looked down at Smokescreen, then at the abandoned weaving frame he had been using. He looked at Jazz, then at the frame again. “I don’t know,” he said as casually as possible. “How do you feel about learning to weave?”

Chapter Text

Kneeling at the ‘door’ of Megatron’s tent, Optimus warily watched the agitation in the camp as several tents were dismantled and pushed asides and the fences moved around to form a bigger circle. The tribe had gone back on the roads four solar cycles ago, once Ratchet had decided Sandstone and his Sparkling fit to travel, but they had come on a stop soon after as a storm had gathered over them.

The red and blue mech had to admit it had been scary -- the sky had become gradually darker and darker, taking black and green tints while the wind had progressively become stronger and stronger while they raised the tents and put the mechanimals under shelters. Megatron had even doubled the layers of the tent by adding a thatch roof above the normal one, then gently pushing them to go rest near the center of the tent, after digging and preparing a small firepit that had helped keep them warm despite the sudden drop in temperatures.

The howling of the wind and the cracks of thunder outside had been so strong Smokescreen had started to wail for megacycles, even huddled in his Carrier and Megatron’s arms. How weird it had been, to spend most of the day in the grey mech’s arms, jumping with each crack in the tent’s structure. In retrospective, his nervousness had probably fueled Smokescreen’s own, but Megatron had taken it in stride, comforting both adult and Sparkling to the best of his ability.

By the time Optimus had become convinced the tent wouldn’t rip from the strain and Smokescreen had managed to fall in recharge, utterly exhausted, Megatron had extricated himself out of the cocoon of blankets and had taken to occupy himself by sharpening a blade. Optimus had tried to follow his lead and find an occupation, working anew on the cover he was weaving before admitting defeat.

Perhaps it had been the close proximity, or perhaps the need for reassurance, but he had soon found his way back to Megatron’s arms and… Well, one thing had led to another, and they had moved back to the nest of covers for cuddling and more. One thing was certain, Optimus’ second Sparkling would certainly never feel a lack of nanites with they way Megatron paid attention to its Carrier.

Today, though, the weather was clear and ideal to continue their trek to the fabled New Kolkular. They had actually started to fold down and dismantle the tents when unexpectedly, order was given to stop. Optimus had been in the middle of putting away a fussy Smokescreen’s toys when he had seen a party of four mechs come into the camp. Megatron had immediately left to join them without an explanation, just asking Optimus to stay put.

Well… nobody had said Megatron had manners, Optimus had thought while fighting down a wave of annoyance.

It hadn’t taken too long to finally gather that the newcomers were part of the tribe -- or rather, the sister-tribe they had been trying to reach before heading to New Kolkular. A number of warriors, Megatron and Prowl included, had disappeared with them under Megazarak’s tent, and most of them had yet to emerge. Those who did, among them two of the scouts who had immediately left to get back to their own group, had however given orders to enlarge the camp site, for the sister-tribe would join them before the end of the day.

“Optimus?”

The red and blue mech raised his head and looked up into Ratchet’s face. He had barely heard or saw the medic approach, too caught up in his reflexions and optics lost in the swirl of activities around him. “Ratchet? Is there a problem?”

The medic looked grim. “Depends; you’ve been cordially invited to go under Megazarak’s tent, and they expect you there shortly.”

The young noble startled. “What? But why? Did I do anything wrong?” he asked worriedly, only for the medic to raise his hands in the air.

“Stop worrying so much, you did nothing wrong. It’s just about posturing. Now our sister-tribe is near, our dear old leader wants to put the prominent members of the tribe on display. And, lucky you, as his only GrandSire’s Bonded, you’re getting front-row for the formal greetings. Megatron probably wants to coach you before they start,” he added after a beat of silence.

“I… see. Can I take Smokescreen with me? Or can I put him in your care?” the red and blue mech asked as he rose to his feet and moved inside the tent to pick up his Sparkling. Smokey wasn’t happy to be taken away from his blocks, manifesting his unhappiness by a shrill sound before he started to pout.

“Keep him with you. With Strika and Lugnut coming up, you’ll need to score as many points as you can, and Smokescreen might help here. And don’t even get me started on Galvatron; Sparklings or not, he’s not going to be happy about your existence,” the medic groused as he gestured for Optimus to follow him.

“Dreadwing mentioned a Strika before, though he didn’t go into much details and I don’t know who Lugnut is, but Galvatron… it’s Megatron’s Sire, right?” Optimus asked worriedly as he obediently followed Ratchet around, shielding Smokescreen from the sun as much as he could. Perhaps he should have taken his son’s miniature poncho after all.

“Yep, you’re Creator-in-Law himself, and a strange fellow,” the medic grunted. “He’s not exactly happy to have been passed over in inheritance for Megatron, so he never looks well at anything his Creation does. The fact Megatron has a mate and Creations of his own might set him off or make him decree it’s party time, depending on his mood. It’s a fifty-fifty catch, so be ready to duck,” he warned, optics serious. Optimus swallowed.

“Duck? He would try to attack me or Smokescreen?”

“Oh, he normally has more sense than that, but who knows what will start a rant with him?” the medic sighed. “He’s a great hunter, but he’s not exactly the sanest member of the tribe. He’s prompt to ranting and I’ve diagnosed him with self-delusions a long time ago.” At Optimus’ alarmed look, he squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. “Do not worry, they won’t let him raise a hand on you if the worst come to pass. Megatron would kill him himself if he tried to do you harm, and if Galvatron is stupid enough to draw a blade out under the Lord’s tent, then he will totally deserve getting his aft handed to him.”

The red and blue mech just shook his head in disbelief. “And you let him lead a tribe?”

“A sister-tribe,” Ratchet corrected. “Did Megatron explain to you the difference between a tribe and a sister-tribe?” At Optimus’ blank look, he elaborated. “I take he did not. A tribe is a tribe, a gathering of individuals following the same leader. A sister-tribe… the word is misleading. We call sister-tribes the splinters of one tribe or clan which grew too large to stay together on the same hunting ground,” he explained. “The members of a sister-tribe can change with each stellar cycle, depending on whom wants to go with the splinter and who want to stay in the main group. They’re often headed by a Heir or former Heir, or by a wise Elder or a good, trusted hunter. The leadership is given by the tribe’s Lord and can always be revoked or transmitted to someone else as he wishes, thus why a sister-tribe leader better be able to give good news at the end of the stellar cycle, less he’ll risk to be replaced.”

Optimus nodded wordlessly in understanding. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of the elections they had for the lower seats of the Senate, the ones which were re eclectibles and not given to life. “But you still decided he was fit to lead?”

Ratchet snorted. “‘Lead’ is a big word here. More like, we’re letting him be the figurehead and have Cyclonus and Strika be the power behind the throne and nudge him in the right direction. Those two have good heads on their shoulders and they can keep Galvatron grounded, even if that means sitting on him until he calms down from his latest rant. Actually, from the last message we received by Cryo-Falcon, that’s exactly what Strika did the last time he went off.” He sounded very amused by the idea. Optimus wasn’t more reassured, not even when Ratchet sighed. “Okay, I’m probably exaggerating the matter. Galvatron is able to come up with good plans. Listen, it’s more than likely nothing will happen when you meet him, alright? He got a few wires crossed, make no mistake, but that doesn’t make him a bad mech. However, Galvatron remains imprevisible, and we can’t guess how he will react at the news his son took a ‘city dweller’ as a mate, or why he did so. So try not to stay alone with him if you can help it, at least not until we’re sure there’s no problem.”

“I see,” Optimus said, shoulders squaring as he shifted his hold on Smokescreen, pressing him closer to his chest. “And Strika and Lugnut?”

Ratchet had to smirk at this one. “Ah. They’re something else altogether. Dreadwing told you about Strika, you said?”

“Vaguely; he mentioned Megatron and her were the same age and that she was, ah, ‘fiercely loyal’ to him?” Optimus recalled, and Ratchet snorted again before he waved in greeting at a couple of mechs passing by, who nodded back at him.

“Understatement if I ever heard one. Strika is, how to put it? A very passionate femme, and her mate Lugnut is just as much. And yes, both are loyal to Megatron beyond words. If he ask them to jump, they’ll only ask how high. He asks them to kill, they won’t stop until he tells them they can -- okay, wrong example, never mind,” he added quickly at Optimus’ queasy look. “What you need to know about Strika and Lugnut isn’t only that they are loyal, but they also are protective of Megatron.”

“Protective? Because you think Megatron needs any protection?” Optimus blurted out, thinking back about the broad, spiky frame of the grey nomad, and the way he handled that two-handed swords, not to mention the ease with which he had used his knives to skin and quarter a dead mechanimal. Everything about Megatron radiated ‘danger’, so the very thought someone might think he needed protection was laudable.

“That’s not nearly what I was trying to imply by ‘protective’,” Ratchet chuckled. “But nevermind, you’ll see what I mean soon enough. Here we are,” he said as he stopped. Optimus swallowed nervously as he gazed at Megazarak’s tent. From the outside, it was already larger than most tents in the camp, something explained by both Megazarak’s status has the tribe’s Lord but also by the size of his family once upon a time. With it’s bright purple canvas roof, it was almost impossible to miss it, and to further insist it was the tent of a leader, two banners had been put on display on each side of the entry.

So far, Optimus had always avoided that part of the camp when they had settled for the night or had been forced to stay put for solar cycles. Megazarak’s obvious interest in him gave him shudders, and he dreaded the moment he would find himself having to speak with the other mech -- and this moment was getting closer and closer.

“Will you be here?” he asked Ratchet in a small voice, suddenly unsure. Megatron was probably inside, but the hunting trips had proved that out in the open, away from the privacy and the comfort of their shared tent, the grey mech acted distant.

The medic patted his shoulder. “Of course. Healers are among the tribe’s ‘elite’, so to speak -- I will have to be here for the formal greetings. That said, I have to pick up my apprentice first and make sure Drift has our two hellions under control. I’d like them to at least appear neat when their sister will arrive.”

“Oh, right, you did mention you had a daughter with the sister-tribe,” Optimus remembered suddenly, thinking back about his first meeting with Ratchet. It felt like an age ago, despite having it been only two decacycles at the most.

“My eldest, yes,” the medic nodded with a brief look of pride. “She decided to become a medic -- well, a healer -- herself. Sadly, I couldn’t teach her myself,” he shook his head. “I risked not to be partial enough, so I let her go with our sister-tribe last season. Fat lot of good it did her,” he added with a dark undertone, and Optimus winced as he remembered that according to the news they had had, Ratchet’s daughter had been injured.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, only for the medic to shake his head.

“You have nothing to be sorry about; it wasn’t your fault. I just hope she recuperated and that Knock Out healed her well. I’m going to ruin his finish if he didn’t! I also hope that conceited fragger didn’t waste her time and actually taught her something useful,” he mumbled under his breath.

Optimus’ lips twitched and his optics narrowed in distaste. “Must I remind you I don’t like people swearing around Smokey?”

“Swearing is the last thing you should be worried about,” the medic retorted. “Now get in there, will you? They’ll be waiting for you.” And with that, he walked away, leaving Optimus alone before the entry.

The red and blue mech swallowed nervously, shifting his hold on a curious Smokescreen whose little hands slipped in his chest seams. He cooed at the bitlet and with a last deep breath to steady himself, passed the threshold.

The first thing that hit him was the smell; the last time he has smelled incense, it had been in a Temple of Primus, where the priests had been burning sticks to purify the air. But, he shouldn’t have been surprised, he chided himself; incense was exported from the Southern Hemisphere and was composed from dried metalloplants, or so he had read. Given the nomads tended to pick all sort of plants themselves, it stood to reason they had incense, even if Optimus had never seen them use any before now. Smokescreen sneezed twice, caught by surprise by the odors he had never breathed before and started to sniff and twitched his olfactive sensor, and it was so adorable Optimus almost laughed. He had to remain serious, though, because he could feel numerous optics on him.

Sure enough, the tribe’s Elders were gathered in a half-circle around the central post, sitting on two ranks with Megazarak sitting at the apex of the circle in a makeshift throne made of metal plates and pelts. Several free spaces could be make out, indicating several mechs were still missing. Megatron sat cross-legged at the right of his GrandSire, and on the second rank, Optimus managed to see Prowl, with Jazz sitting next to him, looking bored and uncomfortable. It didn’t stop the black and white mech to flash a smile and raise a thumb up in his direction in silent greeting before Prowl tugged his mate’s hand away. Jazz pouted, but Prowl remained firm. That didn’t meant he didn’t allow himself a short nod of greeting toward Optimus as the red and blue mech took a few more steps forward.

Megatron didn’t say or do anything, looking regal despite his position on the floor, arms crossed over his chest. Optimus thought he saw a brief lip twitch when Smokescreen recognized him and chirped, raising his arms to stretch them toward his adoptive Sire, but asides of that, there was no other greeting.

And Megazarak eyed him critically all the while.

It was instinct more than anything which made Optimus give a slight bow in front of his official ‘GrandSire in law’, avoiding to look at him directly in the optics. Just like meeting an elder, higher-caste noble, he repeated to himself mentally several times in a row as he tried to calm himself. Nomads certainly didn’t practice noble and court etiquette, but he had the feeling the respect due to a tribe’s Lord was akin to the one expected to be given to a noble patriarch by the cadet members of his House.

“My Lord Megazarak,” he whispered.

“Optimus,” the elder mech murmured back, raising a hand in beckoning. “Be welcome under my tent, O bearer of my GrandCreation’s heirs.”

“You honor me, Lord Megazarak,” Optimus answered back with a lower bow, thankful he had taken the time to practice his speech during the storm -- whenever he and Megatron hadn’t been otherwise busy, that’s it. At least it was allowing him to not make a fool of himself by accidentally butchering a sentence, even if he sounded very meek in his answers. Smokescreen choose this moment to start fussing loudly, pouting and wriggling to try and get out of his Carrier’s arms.

Megazarak’s optics lighted up as he considered the Sparkling Optimus tried to swiftly calm down without a word. “Bring my first GreatGrand Creation closer,” he ordered Optimus. The red and blue mech refrained from biting his lip and contest the statement, but he obeyed silently, walking the distance between him and the older mech with an heavy Spark. As if sensing the gravity of the moment, Smokescreen stopped whimpering and stilled completely. He allowed himself a curious chirp when Megazarak slide a digit under his tiny chin and made him look up to him.

The Sparkling and the old warrior stared at each other for a long moment while Optimus tried not to fidget, Spark beating fast. Why this sudden interest in Smokey? Was it dangerous for his son, or was it a good thing instead?

Finally, Smokescreen twitched his nose and, looking unhappy, started to push away the digit trying to hold him still with a loud huff. Megazarak… laughed. It was a booming sound that allowed Optimus’ vents to work more easily, a weight lifting from his shoulders. Glancing over to Megatron, he wasn’t surprised to see the grey mech smirking briefly before his face smoothed back into a neutral expression.

“He has spirit,” Megazarak allowed as he finally stopped laughing, settling comfortably back on his throne. “He’ll make a good addition to the tribe once he grows up. And perhaps he’s sibling will be as well.” He eyed Optimus up and down, nodding to himself. “Sit by your mate’s side, Carrier.”

Optimus bowed and obeyed, walking over the free spot left at Megatron’s right. Without a word, he settled down, sitting on his heels and installing Smokescreen in his lap. The red and blue mechling fussed a little, but eventually calmed down when Megatron looked down at him with a raised optic ridge. Optimus himself almost jumped out of his armor when he felt the grey mech put a hand over his knee in an almost possessive way. He didn’t dare to move or ask Megatron to remove him, for no one was speaking, and he had the feeling talking without being invited to would be a breach of whatever etiquette was practiced by the nomads.

Thankfully, with the arrival of more mechs, he was saved from fidgeting or being bored out of his mind. Two more elderly mechs came in, then a femme with a young Sparkling who seemed unhappy about being here and finally, Ratchet followed by a young white and red mech with an optical band and a facemask who had to be his apprentice -- First Aid, if Optimus remembered right. They hadn’t truly been introduced yet, but Optimus had seen him dogging Ratchet’s steps every now and then during the treks. The two of them had barely sat down that the sound of an horn was heard in the distance. Most of the assembly shifted slightly.

“They’re here,” Megazarak stated simply, sitting straighter. Most of the crowd in the tent imitated him, Megatron included. His hand briefly tightened over Optimus’ knee, making the red and blue mech wince. Probably sensing he was putting too much pression, Megatron released his hold, though he didn’t remove his hand.

Optimus almost asked why, but he didn’t get the chance. Outside, shouts filled the air as well as the stamping of a Zap-Horses herd. The shouts weren’t panicked or angry, though, but joyful -- people were loudly exchanging greetings, Sparklings were shrieking with joy and could be heard running around. A long awaited reunion, Optimus guessed, wondering how the splintering of the tribe truly worked. Was it truly on a mech’s desires, or were other factor involved?

As he pondered the matter, a dark silhouette appeared in the opening of the tent, the sun in its back stopping Optimus to get a good look.

“Greetings, Sire,” the mech called out in a grumpy voice. “I come forth, with the elite of my hunters, to pay you homage and bring you tales and proof of a successful season. Will you allow me to enter your tent?”

“Be welcome, Galvatron, my Creation”, the older mech rumbled back. “You and the ones who distinguished themselves may enter my halls.” And with that simple sentence, the mech identified as Galvatron came in.

If Optimus had expected a mech resembling Megatron, then he was disappointed. Galvatron looked little like his Creation -- and he looked little like his Creator either. Perhaps the mechs in this family took after their Carrier? It was the most likely explanation to their physical differences.

Red optics looked straight ahead from under a horned, purple helm. A broad purple chest, powerful purple arms and hands, large purple thighs and grey legs appeared in the dimmer light of the tent. The mech looked arrogant -- at least it was Optimus’ first impression. Then Galvatron’s optics found his and he almost jerked back in surprise. Smokescreen whimpered, and the red optics focused on him next, curious. By reflex, Optimus made Smokescreen turn and hide the Sparkling’s face against his plating while he hide the small frame as much as he could in his arms, ready to protect Smokescreen from any harm, real or imaginary.

Red optics widened then narrowed at Optimus and, most likely, his position next to Megatron’s were sized up. No, not just his seat, Optimus realized nervously. Galvatron wasn’t just looking at Optimus, but at Megatron’s hand over the newcomer’s knee. Optimus glanced at his mate, unsurprised to see the grey mech stare straight ahead in his Sire’s optics, engaging in a silent contest of will which was only broken when Megazarak called a sharp warning.

“Well, my Creation, won’t you sit down? I would have thought you tired after finishing your long trek.”

Galvatron grunted and obeyed, sitting in front of his Sire. As he settled down, more mechs came in and started to sit by his sides, until a true circle was formed inside the tent. All sorts of frames were present, though Optimus noted with interest most of the newcomers were femmes. Elderlies mechs, a young femme with medical crosses on her shoulders who was most likely Ratchet’s daughter, a purple mech with a single yellow optic who sent a shudder down Optimus’ back for a reason unknown… And on each side of Galvatron, two ‘bots who could have been shuttles given their size, a mech of teal and purple colors and a femme of dark pink, purple and orange.

The moment their optics fell on him, Optimus felt like an AtomAnt about to be crushed or a weak mechanimal being sized down by a predator. He had the feeling he had just met Strika and Lugnut, and whatever the pair was thinking of him, Optimus didn’t think it was pleasant -- though perhaps more so than what Galvatron was thinking, he was sure.

Thankfully, their attention was soon diverted by Megazarak as the Lord of the tribe rasped. “So, my Creation, you pretend to bring me news of a good hunting season? Curious. Most curious.” His tone was light, almost mocking.

“I don’t see what’s curious, Sire,” Galvatron bristled, dropping the formalities. Optimus almost gasped at such a faux-pas -- among nobles, it would have provoked a scandal; one didn’t just get so familiar with a Patriarch, even if you were closely related. However, since nobody reacted, he guessed it was allowed or that nobody had expected anything different from Galvatron. “Despite what you seem to think, I’m a good hunter. I…”

“I’m not referring to the hunt, Galvatron,” the pronged mech replied sharply. “I do not doubt for a moment you brought us a bounty of preys and enough fuel to partake in and exchange during the wintering at New Kolkular. We will check your accounts and your stocks, of course, but your messages were eloquent. Soundwave --” he gestured toward the Falconer, who was standing silent in the shadow of long curtains, so discreet Optimus hadn’t even noticed him “--relayed them to me and attested their veracity. I know you met great success in hunting down that herd of Buffaloids six moons ago, and I can only command your planning. No, my Creation, what I find curious is that, despite your success in bringing in fuel, you utterly failed at maintaining the security of the tribe.” The old mech’s optics were narrowed, his dental plates bared in displeasure.

Galvatron’s shoulders squared and he too started to bare his dental plates. “Are you truly reproaching me to have let what seemed to be innocent travelers stay the night in our camp? Weren’t you the one who drilled into me, quite painfully at that, that hospitality for the lost ones was a sacred duty for our kind?” he hissed, than his expression turned mocking as he glanced at the black and white doorwinged mech standing behind Megatron. “And wasn’t Prowl the one who is always stressing the need for us to make contacts with traders, to gather novelties we can’t get from New Kolkular or exchange for better products?”

“Hospitality may be sacred, but it doesn’t excuse idiocy!” Megazarak snapped back. “And don’t bring Prowl into this; it wasn’t his mistake, but yours! You were the one who left to hunt without making sure able warriors were left to defend the rest of the tribe, be it from ‘traders’ who revealed themselves as Razor-Snakes in hiding or from predators who would have lurked around the herds!”

Ah; so that was the Spark of the matter, Optimus thought dimly, hugging Smokescreen close as Sire and Creation glared and snipped at each other over whose fault it was. It wasn’t about the attack -- well, not completely. It was about Galvatron failing to reason like a worthy leader and endangering the mechs under his protection, thus proving once more he wasn’t fit to succeed his Sire. That two relics were stolen, that someone died, that someone else had been raped, and that Younglings had been injured were all secondary -- or rather, a direct consequence of poor thinking.

“ -- totally failed at sizing up a possible treat! If not for the actions of a few brave Younglings among your number, who knows what would have happened?!”

“If they were true warriors, no matter their age, they would have killed them all!”

Oh, it was getting ugly. Optimus winced, Smokescreen starting to whimper in his lap, scared by the loud voices. To Optimus’ surprise, a clawed grey hand cupped Smokey’s helm and started to pat it gently. Glancing to the side, his optics met Megatron’s. The nomad looked grim and bored at the same time, making Optimus wonder how much Megazarak and Galvatron verbally fought when they met to have Megatron so used to it.

“Are you even listening to yourself?!” Megazarak rose from his makeshift throne suddenly, glaring down at his Creation. “A few Younglings against mechs who might have been twice their size? And I won’t mention the Elders, who despite knowing how to fight, were caught by surprise and under armed because YOU decided weapons were only for those who went on the hunts! And we see the results, don’t we?”

The old mech paced rapidly his tents, optics darted on his Creation.

“Coelagon assassinated, the Spear of Solus and the Rolls of Solomus taken, Minerva, Chevalier, Onyxia and Ironfang injured. And then, we have Tusk.” He glared at Galvatron. “Tusk, who lost his dignity and honor despite savagely defending himself. Tusk, whose Creators messaged me and asked for my benediction in swearing an Oath of Death toward all those who had hand in their Creation’s misfortune.” There were a few murmuring around them, and Optimus shifted. Whatever an Oath of Death was -- and the name gave a pretty neat idea of the purpose -- then it augured nothing good.

“I should have let them,” Megazarak grunted as Galvatron visibly twitched. “At least I wouldn’t have had to contend with you anymore.”

“Is that so, O Mighty Lord?” the purple warrior growled.

The older warrior snorted. “Quite. Do you even realize the seriousness of the situation, my Creation? Not only you allowed for those things to happen, but you also failed to uphold honor by claiming immediate retribution for those worms’ actions. You allowed them to evade you, thus forcing the main tribe into action!”

“And what was I supposed to do?! Run after them when we were down a healer apprentice, when they had sabotaged the wheels of our carts, when they had released our Zap-Horses and Gallium-Goats into the wild, forcing us to gather them together least we’d let the ones who stayed behind stranded and famished?” Galvatron claimed. His displeasure was evident, but under the posturing, Optimus thought he sounded nervous. Obviously, the discussion wasn’t going the way he had hoped it would.

“Which is why I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Megazarak countered, optics narrowed. “At least you thought of others -- for once. You were lucky, however, that we were able to pick their traces and track them. We took revenge for the tribe, and we took the relics back. The transgressors were punished for their acts, their desecrated bodies left for the scavengers to devour. Honor was restored and, should Tusk and his Creators be wanting to, I can present them with the severed mechhood of those who took liberties with one not of age.”

Oookay. Optimus felt queasy now. He hadn’t known about that -- Ratchet hadn’t said anything, nor Megatron or Prowl. He didn’t dare looking behind him to see Jazz’s face, but he had the feeling the other mech shared his uneasiness. However, could Optimus claim it was not merited, considering the nature of the crime?

Galvatron’s face stretched in a grimace. “Very well, Sire, you proved your point. Is that all?”

“All?” Megazarak repeated in a low tone. “I’m not nearly finished with you, but for the sake of this meeting, I will abstain to further berate you for now. I’m not happy with you, my Creation,” he shook his head dramatically. “You were always a disappointment, Galvatron, but each time I think you can’t sink lower, you manage to prove me wrong. I can only hope Megatron’s progeny will be better suited for leadership. His new mate has certainly given him a spirited son already.” He nodded toward Optimus, who felt his cheeks heat up while he felt crushed under the combined weight of the stares of all the newcomers.

Galvatron’s gaze was the most striking, caught between curiosity and outright hatred. “I see my son worked fast. How strange I received no message my Creation was now mated,” he gnashed.

“I didn’t wish to render the news public before your arrival, Sire,” Megatron answered smoothly, still cupping Smokescreen’s helm, the first words he had uttered since Optimus had joined his side. “My intent was to surprise you and the sister-tribe with good news. I trust you’re happy for me?” It wasn’t really a question, Optimus knew it; it wasn’t a threat either, but there was something in those words that conveyed a lot of feelings and a warning, he was sure of it.

Galvatron’s optics twitched, but his face stretched into a smile -- an ugly smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Of course. And I look forward to meet my first GrandCreation -- and the second, for that matter,” he added after sniffing the air for a moment, optics refocusing on Optimus, calculating. “I suppose congratulations are in order. You work fast, my Creation.”

Oh, right, according to Ratchet, the nomads had known he was Carrying just by scenting his odor, Optimus reminded himself as he felt once again uncomfortable under the gaze of Galvatron -- and the added stares of the large ‘bots next to him weren’t helping.

Megazarak rumbled, shifting the attention back to him. “Suffice. Time is the essence if we want to reach New Kolkular before the next storm is on us, and we have much to speak and do before we’re ready to leave at the first hour tomorrow. Let’s resume this meeting, my Creation for it is high time we speak of your other ‘achievements’ during the season.”

Galvatron bristled, obviously displeased to let the matter rest, but he nodded smoothly, waving to a pair of femmes sitting two places by his left. The immediately took out of subspace rolls of… khipus? Yes, those were khipus, Optimus realized after he managed to untangle what his optics were seeing. “Quite, Sir. As budding Lore Masters, Lancer and Greenlight kept scrupulous account of our travels, and I trust you will find their records in to be in accordance with my tale.”

“They will be double checked by Skids and Abacus, as is customary,” Megazarak answered smoothly, waving to an old mustached mech and a younger one with doorwings on his side of the tent. “Blaster did a good job transmitting your records to Soundwave, but now we will see if the total you boasted about through on the wings of our Cryo-Condors hold true. Strafe, Nosecone and Lightspeed will also inspect your stocks once this meeting is over, to make sure the numbers we will discuss reflect the realities of your wagons’ content.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to insult me, Sire,” Galvatron noted, optic ridge raised. Optimus waited for an explosion of rage, but the purple mech looked very calm, alarmingly so. Perhaps it was usual?

“New Kolkular sent strict demands, as you well know,” the older mech shrugged. “The fury of the last Storm Seasons wasn’t forgotten, and we can’t afford to have our tribe starve if we experience a repeat this stellar cycle.”

Galvatron rolled his optics. “Don’t talk to me as if I was a Sparkling, Sire. I know all this already. Shall I start my official report now, or shall we stall yet again?”

The megacycle which followed was one of the longest of Smokescreen’s life, or so Optimus thought with amusement as his son started to wriggle and pout unhappily while the adults droned and debated.

He sometimes kissed the bitlet’s helm in reassurance and encouragement to keep quiet but the truth remained, Smokey wasn’t used to stay still and silent for so long. Optimus had brought him at formal meetings and parties before, as it had been expected of him to present his bornling to various relatives and the rest of Iacon’s high society, but such occasions had been rare and Optimus always had had the possibility to excuse himself to take his son to rest -- or put him in the care of a nannybot if his presence was indispensable. There was sadly no way for Optimus to leave the tent with Smokey, as doing so would certainly be frowned upon at best, if he was lucky.

As such, he couldn’t help but spare Megatron a true, utterly thankful smile when unexpectedly, the grey mech handed him a ragdoll out of his subspace pocket. Smokescreen thrilled happily as he grabbed it and hugged it close to his frame, cuddling with his new toy under his Sire’s indulgent gaze. Then Megatron went back to stare at his Sire and GrandSire as they continued to snipe at each other while going over Galvatron’s report. Optimus promised himself to thank his ‘mate’ later, before him too focused back on the discussion going on before him.

Despite the frequent, sometimes subtle negative comments exchanged between Galvatron and Megazarak, the whole overview was interesting. It was clear the nomads recorded everything of their journeys in precise details, from the number of mechanimals they had hunted to the number of carpets and covers they had weaved. Optimus had puzzled about it, until it dawned on him and he almost kicked himself for not having realized it sooner: trading.

He didn’t know what the rates were, but once he thought about it, then it was obvious the nomads couldn’t have just traded pelts and mechanimals meat, they also needed containers, they needed embellishments for their tents, they needed toys for their Sparklings, or they needed symbols of wealth, music instruments, rare linens, spices. Sure, most nomads crafted them themselves, but some things couldn’t just be found in every part of the Badlands.

Some plants they boiled or insects they crushed to make tinctures for their yarn could only be founds in some regions. Some mechanimals were native to only certain areas. Some tribes had developed their own unique way to weave, making their items very valuated. A prime example would have been the rugs they were currently sitting on, which had apparently been an expensive trade -- at least if he understood the veiled insinuations exchanged by Galvatron and Megazarak right. True enough, they seemed softer and plusher than the ones in Megatron’s tents, but the young noble would have been hard pressed to say if it came from the weaving used or from the material itself. Optimus just continued listening and secretly marvelled at the complexity of the system put in place by barbarians.

All the while, with each new point they breached, the two femmes identified as Lancer and Greenlight and the mechs called Skids and Abacus were going over the khipus, reaching for some colors and counting and recounting knots, sometimes murmuring among themselves before undoing a knot or redoing one -- probably to indicate a higher or lesser number, at least it was Optimus’ best deduction. He wondered if he would be allowed to learn the system, or if the craft was reserved to the ones they called ‘Lore Masters’. The appellation was vague, and he wondered just what the ‘lore’ covered.

The ‘incident’ with the ‘traders’ asides, Galvatron could truly boast about a good season, or so it appeared. Four tribe members in the splinter had given birth to strong offsprings who were still alive and growing, and there had only been five deaths to record, the assassinated Elder being one of them. Optimus’ Spark gave a pang as the matter was discussed again in impolite terms; without that assassination, that ‘error’ of Galvatron, then he would be safely ‘home’ in Kaon with Flame, fussing about Smokescreen while keeping his new house in order...

Had Megatron felt his trouble, his sudden sad mood? Probably, because his hand came back to rest on Optimus’ knee, stroking it in slow circles. Optimus hesitated, then briefly put his hand over the grey mech, shifting Smokescreen in his hold to keep him steady. The Sparkling just babbled happily at his new doll, gathering a few quick, amused looks from various onlookers who spared some of their attention for the meeting.

“... and so you’ll find the third stasis wagon filled to the brink with Beryllium-Boars’ Meat,” Galvatron stated calmly. “As per custom, we saved their manes and canines for crafting.”

“And how did you own amount of crafting went?” the old mech asked tonelessly.

Galvatron shrugged. “As well as usual. Younglings made bags of charms and trinkets, we got bags of feathers for those who care, enough yarn to supply any demand we face and we gathered a bounty of Anthemis blooms for infusions, more so than planned. It seems there were more natural rains than previous stellar cycles in the area they grow. Which remind me, before you ask, we also gathered the medicinal herbs wanted by Healer Ratchet,” he nodded briefly in the medic’s direction. “We also brought back clay from the edge of the Acid Lake, which was on our road. A few tribe members started to make pots, though they remain to be painted -- gathering the tinctures was your job, after all,” he jested.

“Don’t be impertinent, my Creation. And be assured we have the tinctures ready,” Megazarak countered. He gazed at the purple mech thoughtfully before looking at Skids and Abacus. “Well? Does the numbers match his claims?”

“They do, my Lord, to a few details,” Abacus rumbled, making Galvatron bristle. “Those are minor mistakes, though, probably made during a rapid count in a hurry to charge the wagons or due to having to take from the reserves during a Storm. The fault lie in a lack of attention from the accountants, who readily accept their mistake.” Lancer and Greenlight bowed low, not daring to look up. “The results are satisfactory nonetheless, and I can only command Galvatron for his results.” He bowed to the purple mech.

Optimus felt more than he saw Megatron narrow his optics, his EM field briefly flaring before it was tightly controlled once more. He remembered Dreadwing’s explanation about the source of strife in the tribe, Megatron and Galvatron’s status and the way some people naturally gravitated toward Galvatron as a logical choice to success his aging Sire, despite Megatron being the official holder of the title and status of Heir. Obviously, Abacus was one of Galvatron’s supporters, and the casual way he stated it while performing his duties didn’t fool Megatron or any aware onlookers, though nobody commented on it. Only Galvatron’s smirk served as deliberate proof he took the praise for what it was.

“Very well,” Megazarak stated simply. “I think it’s high time we call this meeting to an end. We all have tasks to attend to before the night set. Galvatron, a word in private,” he added as a few mechs started to rise or stretch, halting his Creation, who grunted in agreement.

Megatron rose smoothly and gave his hand to Optimus to help him as he stilled a wriggling Smokescreen, who chirped happily at the thought of leaving the tent and going back to his toys. “You were a very good bitlet, sweetie,” Optimus nuzzled him, happy that despite the imposed stillness and staying in his Carrier’s lap, the mechling hadn’t started to cry or make a scene; he wouldn’t have known what to do if that had been the case.

“Of course he was, with a Carrier that nice,” Jazz chirped as he passed by, obediently following Prowl on his way out. He cooed briefly at the Sparkling and saluted at Optimus with two fingers to the temple before Prowl caught him by the arm and made him follow him out. Megatron just raised an optic ridge at the display.

“Friend of you?” he asked Optimus, who nodded mutely. Eyeing Jazz’s departure thoughtfully, Megatron ended up snorting. “Prowl has better to watch out; he’ll be an handful.”

“My Lord Megatron?” a femme rumbled, and Optimus tried not to flinch as he found himself in close proximity to the femme he had guessed was Strika, her mate Lugnut barely a step behind her. The way they towered over Optimus was almost grating, and Smokescreen made a shrill sound of fright when he took notice of them, tiny doorwings fluttering nervously as he tried to hide his face against his Carrier’s chest and the folds of his ragdoll.

“Hush, Smokey,” Optimus whispered as he bounced the bitlet in his arms as Megatron greeted the two large ‘bots with a nod.

“Lugnut, Strika. It’s good to see you. I trust you are both well?” he asked casually as he gently nudged Optimus to move forward and out of the tent, following him a step behind, the two behemoths walking side to side behind him like bodyguards. “Knowing my Sire, I half-expected him to lead you to your doom on purpose, or claim you went missing during a scouting raid.”

“Please, as if we would have let ourselves caught off guard, my Lord,” Strika stated, chest puffing while her mate nodded frantically.

“Indeed, glorious future leader, we would never let ourselves be taken down by the vile schemes of your Sire.”

Optimus blinked and looked at them over his shoulders. Okay; Ratchet had said they were loyals to Megatron, but he hadn’t mentioned the aft-kissing… if it was truly aft-kissing and not devoted pratling one would expect from a fanatic.

“Are you telling me he didn’t attempt anything?” Megatron questioned again, and the couple traded a look.

“‘Attempting’ is a big word, my Lord. He never did anything obvious,” Lugnut started, Strika following suit. “As much as I’d like to say he is, your Sire isn’t a complete fool. He would never have gone for obvious tactics, though it was clear there was no lost love between us. At the most, Lugnut and I can attest Galvatron may have had a propension at sending us on the first line when hunting down a large predator, but it can easily been chalked to us being the most competent hunters of our group.”

“Hmph. Of course,” Megatron shook his head. “I hadn’t expected him to, anyway. Idiot or not, he knows better than to waste assets -- especially when those assets answer directly to Megazarak. Cyclonus wouldn’t have been thrilled if he did anyway.” He smirked briefly, suddenly amused. “Tell me, Strika, is the rumor true? Did you actually sit on my Sire to stop him during one of his rages?”

The big femme laughed as they reached Megatron’s tent. Optimus ducked and went in without a word, walking over the pelt where they had let Smokescreen’s toys and putting down the Sparkling on it. Smokey thrilled happily and started to crawl around, happy to finally be free.

“Indeed I did, Lord Megatron”, the femme said as she sat down heavily, her mate next to her and Megatron facing them. “You know how he gets when he’s upset, especially with the bearers of bad news. I had to think fast before he started to pursue the poor Youngling who came to announce him the Electric-bats had sucked out the fluids in the wild orchard we settled camp near to. Sitting on him seemed like a good idea at the time -- and it got confirmed when he started to flail.”

“A good idea is debatable,” Megatron mentioned casually. “Won’t you come sit with you, my mate?” he asked Optimus, patting the pelt next to him.

“Cyclonus didn’t frown or tried to push me off; to me, it falls under the category of good ideas,” the femme stated, crossing her arms over her chest with a smirk before she looked at Optimus up and down when the red and blue mech approached warily. “By the way, my Lord, I trust congratulations are in order?”

There was a vague reproach in her voice, but more in the sense of ‘how did you dare to not tell me?’ or ‘couldn’t you wait for me to do it?’ than a true objection. Lugnut, however, looked downright unhappy. If Optimus hadn’t known better, he could have thought the mech was… jealous?

“O Glorious Lord, excuse my boldness, but why him?” He eyed Optimus with clear distaste. “There are many among our tribe who would have been honored by your attentions, Glorious Megatron, and who were hoping you’d settled for them. Instead, you made a choice that was completely unexpected! Look at him: no true armor to speak off, small-sized, weak-looking and an outsider at that! How can such a mighty warrior as Lord Megatron have taken YOU as a mate?” Lugnut puffed.

“By killing my previous Bonded and orphaning my Sparklings, both the born and unborn one,” Optimus replied flatly, face blank as the three nomads collectively winced. Well, Strika winced, Lugnut’s jaw dropped and Megatron took it in stride, just resting his hand over Optimus’ own. The red and blue mech refrained from tugging it away.

“The glorious Lord Megatron wouldn’t have done something so dishonorable!” Lugnut snapped.

“But I did, Lugnut,” Megatron rumbled darkly, making the teal and purple mech stall. “I admit, it was an accident, and much of it can be laid down at the pedes of my Sire, but I did. When we caught up with the thieves and murderers of our kin, we attacked the caravan in which they found refuge. It so happened that the ones not involved in the deeds put out a desperate defense, and I felled an armed mech defending a wagon -- a wagon which had occupants, as I realized after forcing the door.” His shoulders squared. “I did as honor dictated me and assumed the mantle of mate and Sire for the ones inside, for I couldn’t have abandoned them to the desert. I do regret my deed,” he added turning toward Optimus and giving a brief nod toward him, “but what else was I supposed to do toward someone who had already felled one of our number himself?”

Optimus’ Spark and throat seized and he looked away quickly, trying to hide his distress.

“Megatron?” Strika mentioned casually. “You’re an idiot.”

That made Optimus choke, a bubbling laughter getting struck in his intake. He wouldn’t have expected the large femme to say something so… so crude, and dropping the ‘Lord’ part of her speech. A massive hand reached out and squeezed his shoulder briefly.

“Be welcome among us,” she said seriously. “May you bring honor to the tribe and to Megatron’s tent.” Her gaze fell on Optimus’ flat belly and she smirked. “You’re already doing so, it seems. Congratulations are in order for both Megatron and you, for the upcoming birth of this second heir, and may you bear many more warriors for the tribe.”

“I’ll… keep it in mind,” Optimus mumbled, cheeks heating. He turned his head away to gaze at Smokescreen and what he was doing, only to smile softly. Smokey was sitting on his aft, piling up his blocks with a look of utmost concentration, paying no mind to the adults and what they were saying. He was utterly adorable, and from the hum of the femme, she seemed to think so as well.

“He’s healthy,” she noted with approval. “And what of the one in your gestation chamber? Is Lord Megatron filling his duties toward it and you correctly?”

That was just a direct, unexpected question Optimus couldn’t help but blush and stammer. Megatron didn’t chuckle as he held and squeezed his hand, but it was clear he was amused.

“Of course he does,” Lugnut cut in, huffing. “Lord Megatron wouldn’t deprive his Creation of its precious nanites.” He blinked, eyeing Optimus critically. “Is something the matter with your mate, Lord Megatron? He just made a very strange sound…”

“Do not worry, Lugnut,” the grey mech stated calmly. Optimus glared at him, feeling the twinge of amusement in his EM field. “Though I would advise you to avoid the subject. What is going under my tent only concern my mate and I. Be just assured Lugnut, Strika, that I take my duties seriously, both toward my mate and my Creations.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Lugnut answered obediently. His optics turned toward Smokescreen, optics shining with the same approval as his mate while he watched Smokescreen drop his toys and crawl toward them as fast as his little limbs allowed him to.

The Sparkling slowed and watched the strangers warily, but continued to crawl while giving them a wide berth until he reached his Carrier. Optimus lifted him up and parted his chestplates by reflex; by now, he knew when Smokescreen was getting hungry and wanted to refuel. Sure enough, Smokey latched on a nub the moment it was available and started suckling without a care while Optimus adjusted his hold and tried not to feel too self-conscious about Strika and Lugnut witnessing something so intimate. Well, it was intimate for him, but for the nomads, it was so common it didn’t warrant a blink.

“If his appetite is anything to judge by, then his Carrier’s fuel must be as delicious as it must be plentiful,” Strika commented, and Optimus straightened, trying to take it in stride and not feel bothered by the subtle-if-weird praise. “At this rate he will grow strong and tall and do honor to the tribe. But while you can provide to his fuel need, can you provide to his defense?” She asked more aggressively than before, peering at Optimus as if she was trying to make her mind about something.

It made the red and blue mech bristle. “I won’t let anything or anyone hurt my Creations!” He barked, showing his dental plates. Megatron squeezed his hand again, but Optimus ignored him. “If you even try to hurt him…” he warned. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he would do; Strika, like Lugnut, was bigger than him, and she was deadly, he could feel it. But for Smokescreen, for the Sparkling he bore, he felt ready to take her down if the need arose -- even if it ended with his own deactivation.

Their optics met and the air became suddenly charged with tension as Lugnut shifted next to them, his optics altering between his lovely mate and Megatron’s weak looking own. Finally, he looked at his Lord in askance.

Megatron coughed. “You should be aware, Strika, that when I first laid my optics on him, he was ready to fight ME with his infant son in his arms and an improvised weapon.” Unsaid was the fact Optimus had been reeling from his mate’s sudden death, but had managed to pull himself together to protect his Creation.

The femme broke optics contact. “Hmm, that proves he has fighting spirit, but not that he has the necessary skills to defend your tent,” the femme shrugged, though she seemed mollified by her Lord’s statement.

“I know how to use an axe… knew,” Optimus corrected himself, suddenly becoming the center of attention again. “Swords as well. Haven’t had the chance to practice since before Smokescreen’s emergence though, so… I might be rusty,” he allowed, trying not to wince at Strika’s huff.

“‘Rusty’, eh?” She didn’t seem terribly impressed, but if she had doubts, she at least had the good senses to keep them to herself. “Well, we will see that by ourselves once you’re free from your current burden. Lord Megatron is a good teacher, he’ll be able to shake the ‘rust’ off.”

“Assuredly,” Megatron rumbled, and there was an hint of warning in his words. Strika backed off easily, shaking her head with a faint smile, and Optimus wondered what it had been about, because she was now watching him with the same earlier warmth. Had she wondered if Optimus truly was a suitable match? Or had she wanted confirmation Megatron would really be able to take care of him -- take care of them all? He didn’t know her enough to form a guess, though he had the feeling he would certainly learn to soon enough.

“And now, shall we partake in more agreeable news?” The grey mech asked, pulling Optimus out of his musings. “Tell me of your travels, and what you saw on your journey this season.”

Lugnut looked eager. “Of course my Lord! See, right after we separated, we…”

And just like that, all tension was gone from the tent. Optimus shuttered his optics briefly, taking a deep vent to calm himself. He looked at Strika in the optics again, but the earlier defiance wasn’t here anymore, just a sort of fond amusement, the same she seemed to hold for Megatron and for her own mate.

Such a peculiar femme… Optimus wasn’t sure if he should count her as an allie or not, but one thing was clear, he was going to have to get used to her, and soon.

Chapter Text

The whole tribe had been walking together for nearly a whole decacycle when they finally reached their final destination. Technically, had they been able to walk every day, then they shouldn’t have endured more than half a decacycle of travel, but two storms, short though violent, had forced them to halt their walk and seek refuge inside their tents. Several had been damaged by the gusts of wind, tearing fixations away.

It wasn’t unusual, Megatron had assured Optimus after the first occurrence, though it was bothersome and they didn’t have time to repair the damaged tents. The family units would do so during the wintering, in the shelter of New Kolkular. In the meanwhile, the ones whose housing had been damaged had been granted hospitality under the tents of other nomads. As such, Smokescreen had had an unexpected playmate during the last few solar cycles, a Sparkling a few vorns older than him called Hot Shot as Megatron and Optimus gave shelter to his Creators and him.

Seeing the two of them play together with their toys had been soothing and had allowed Optimus to occupy his mind while the storm continued to rage outside. He had always know the Storm Seasons was bad, but in Iacon, he hadn’t realized how much. Modern buildings had been studied and constructed following specific norms in order to limit the noise, but also to offer as little grip to the wind as possible. The roofs were reinforced to avoid being eaten by the corrosion of the acidic rains, and you knew you didn’t risk anything once safely inside.

Here in the Badlands, with only the tent for shelter, the sensation of security was almost absent. The structure of the shelter was sturdy, of course, but it couldn’t hope to survive a whole season faced with weather conditions so bad daily. The idea of getting together for wintering made a lot more sense under those conditions, Optimus mused as he followed Megatron around.

A question was starting to burn his lips, though he hadn’t dared to ask the grey mech or Ratchet or anyone really. If he had heard New Kolkular mentioned again and again in conversation, he had yet to hear or ask anything about what the nomads’ city was like. Was it even a true city, or just a massive amount of tents put together? Would it be surrounded by a gigantic fence, or left open to anyone and everyone to come in? And just how many people would be gathering there? The tribe Optimus lived in counted at least 150 mechs and femmes once they were all together, not counting the Sparklings -- and then there were their domesticated mechanimals, the Hellhounds, the Robo-Chickens, the Gallium-Goats, the Zap-Horses, the Robomaderies,...

To cater to everyone, New Kolkular had to be gigantic. But if it was, then how come the aerial reconnaissances Air Control did regularly not picked it up? They kept flying over Cybertron when the weather permitted it to map out the planet and where the oases were in order to set more commercial roads and, eventually, to recolonize part of the Wastelands if enough money and mechpower could be found. So far, it had never come up, but the project had been debated time and time again over the news.

He stumbled over a patch of uneven ground and almost fell fast forward with a yelp -- only to be caught by the arm by Megatron and steadied. He felt a brief moment of relief at the thought at least he hadn’t had Smokescreen in his hands at the moment -- for once, Megatron had insisted to bear the sling and the Sparkling. Apparently, now they were more warriors around, he could allow himself to act like a ‘dutiful Sire’ and relieve his Carrying mate from some of his duties. Fast asleep and half-tucked under Megatron’s poncho, Smokescreen wasn’t even aware there was a problem. “You’re alright?” the other mech grunted.

“Ye… yes,” Optimus said as the grey mech watched him over and patted him, checking for injuries. “I’m fine, Megatron. Really,” he insisted, tugging his hand away from the grey mech, who just frowned, grabbed him back and went back to examine him. Optimus huffed. “Please, I’m just tired, that’s all.”

And it wasn’t even a lie; they had been walking since the break of day, their departure far earlier than usual, and the wind had started to rise. Each step, fighting against the gale, took more energy than usual, and Optimus was worried another storm would break on them before the end of the day.

Megatron tugged Optimus’ poncho back in place and lowered the hood the red and blue mech as discarded earlier, his face full of fond amusement. “Of course you are. It is lucky the end of our journey is in our grasp. Soon, you will be able to properly rest, my mate.”

“Is that so?” Optimus asked, reaching out to stroke Smokescreen’s cheek when Megatron finally let go of him; properly swaddled and installed in the sling, he hadn’t seemed bothered by the change of carrier for the day. In fact, he had seemed downward thrilled to be carried around in Megatron’s massive arms, and Optimus had felt a twinge of something in his Spark. Jealousy? Relief? He wasn’t certain. However, it was clear Smokescreen had become used to Megatron and wasn’t afraid of him the slightest. It was good, he supposed; since Megatron was supposed to hold an… an important role in Smokey’s future life, it was just as well the Sparkling had a good relationship with him. But at the same time, it felt bittersweet, because Flame was supposed to be the one who should have cared for Smokey -- and he had never truly done so, until the very end.

Megatron took him by the wrist again and started to drag him behind him, taking measured strides. “Come along, Optimus, so you can see,” he said. The red and blue mech did his best to follow, wincing a little as they continued to walk the inclined path they had been progressing on for most of the day. The inclination was decreasing though, so he supposed they were finally reaching a plateau.

Some of the nomads and wagons had stopped there already, young Sparklings chirping in joy and wonder while a few mechs were gathering at the edge of the plateau, nodding to themselves or smiling. Megatron walked over to them and gently pushed Optimus forward and past them so he had a better view.

“Behold, my mate, New Kolkular,” Megatron claimed with pride, Optimus blinked, jaw dropping open in surprise. New Kolkular wasn’t a city of tents, as might have thought, but it wasn’t a city of stone or metal either. Whatever he might have have dreamed about, it hadn’t been it, and if he hadn’t seen it with his own optics, he wouldn’t have believed it.

New Kolkular… was a valley. But not a natural valley, Optimus’ mind quickly supplied; it was more like an immense sinkhole, at least three hics of diameter, with smooth inclined borders in which several paths had been tracked. And not just paths, but also caverns; he could see many round opening roughly carved in the metal and rock, some tall enough to let mechs pass through and the other being most likely windows. The most surprising thing, however, were the domes and cones he could see emerging from the rock and sand at the bottom of the valley, metal and fabric layers interlaced and woven together. It was like… tent roofs were directly put on the ground. Or if the tents had been buried? Yes, Optimus realized with a startle, it was exactly that. The nomads had half-buried their tents!

“You live underground?” he asked, turning toward Megatron, who hummed.

“There are many depressions in the ground we enlarge or dig ourselves before we put a roof on. Sturdier than just a tent when the bigger storms hit, and it keeps warmth better at night or when the cold fronts move over the Badlands.” He passed an arm around Optimus’ shoulders, bringing him close before he started to point at various parts of the valley below. “At the east of the valley you’ll find the mechanimals shelters, which are communal. The tribes all have an allotted area according to their number and the way they provided to the wintering.”

“And the caverns?” Optimus asked.

Megatron glanced down at him. “The rotunda? It holds the market, the Council of Chieftains and the Lore Masters’ halls as well as the stores where we put the fuel and the forges. A few habitations as well,” he added after a pause.

“You mean it’s a single cavern?” Optimus marvelled. There was no way it could have been natural; the nomads had obviously dug it themselves. The sinkhole, though… they couldn’t have dug that. Though… He tilted his head, thinking hard about what he knew of history and the Lost Cities of the Southern Hemisphere. Most of them had been utterly destroyed and their ruins devoured by the Wastelands, their exact localization lost to everyone. But since the place was called New Kolkular… was it possible he was standing in what remained of the original Kolkular? If the city had sunk due to erosion and rust, then it was quite possible -- and since the nomads were alleged descendants from the disappeared cities, the theory made sense.

“Almost,” Megatron nodded. “The Halls are separated, and so are the storage rooms, but yes, it’s mostly one large tunnel. One can spend his day walking it from stand to stand when the market opens.” He smirked. “I will take you and Smokescreen there once we are installed. Now come, my mate; we must report to the Lore Masters at once before we settle.” He tugged on Optimus’ hand and forced him to move along.

With a last admirative stare at the display before him, Optimus finally turned and followed Megatron as their caravan started to engage to the downward path which would lead them to the heart of New Kolkular and, hopefully, a well-earned rest.

The shelter they had been allowed was smaller than Megatron’s tent was, Optimus noted as he started to unroll the pelts and rugs Megatron had brought in, the grey mech spending his time in and out to bring in the baskets and trunks while he had tasked Optimus with ‘making the place feel homely’ -- well, not in so many words, but it had been the gist of it. Still swaddled and starting to fuss, Smokescreen was calling for his attention, but Optimus couldn’t drop everything he had in his hands and so could only rock Smokey’s cradle with his foot whenever he passed near, pacifying the Sparkling for a moment.

It was so weird to see the tall whole of piled earth, metal and stone and realize he really was underground -- well, partly. Despite being smaller than a normal tent, the dugout was separated in two areas by a slab of folding metal, the first thing Megatron had insisted to set. The bigger ‘room’ would serve as their habitation, while the ‘smaller’ room would serve to store their possessions -- Megatron’s weapons, the empty trucks and baskets, the tents’ stakes,... -- as well as their fuel. They had been given three metal cases equipped with stasis cells, their first allotment of fuel for the next decacycle.

At first, Optimus had thought it was a mistake; it was too much for three persons -- well, two since Smokescreen was still suckling from his pouches. But, as Megatron had explained to him while they waited to be given their share of mechanimal meat and metalloplants, the storms could come suddenly and last for several solar cycles when the season reached its peak. As there was no underground pathway to connect every dwelling and no one would be getting out during the storms, it was better for everyone to have a stock, even small, in their dugout. They still could get supplements should they request so when going to the Storage Halls, but not further than a certain amount for a given time, in order to ration the fuel to last for all the season.

Optimus could only nod; it was logical. But the questions about the rationing and how it was decided and implanted, as he was not privy to the details, had soon fallen behind the immediate preoccupations of settling and discovering his new ‘home’ for the next orbital cycles.

As he had noticed, the dugout wasn’t too deep but well-adapted to a mech of Megatron’s size. Already, Optimus could feel the warmth irradiated by the walls, and his core temperature was regulating itself to make him feel better at ease. A volley of steps allowed them to go in and out at will, the opening easily closed by a makeshift hatch and a curtain. Megatron hadn’t even taken a whole cycle to arrange a solid canopy over their head with metal sheets and fabric layers that let a dim light filter inside. Were it not for that and the massive, glowing crystal shards evenly parted and stuck inside the ‘walls’, then it would have been completely dark. Optimus gave them a curious glance, wondering what they were made off and where the glowing properties came from; never before had he seen that kind of crystal.

More curious still were the holes or rather the tunneling in the wall near the crystals; round shaped and closed by a grill, they seemed large enough for a Sparkling of Smokescreen’s size or slightly bigger to crawl through. Optimus had frowned at them, before dismissing the matter, reasoning they were probably part of an aeration system to help regulate the temperature during the storming.

Megatron came back grunting under the weight of the combined trucks he was bearing, one under each arms, and Optimus immediately came to help steady him as he took the last steps. “You should let me help,” he frowned when the nomad just shook his head.

“I can do it, my mate. It’s just storage.” He moved toward the storage ‘room’, only to have Optimus purposely move in his path, fists on his hips.

“I can help,” Optimus stated again, irritated. Megatron had no problem making him walk hics all day long, but the moment he offered to carry a few luggages, the grey mech acted like a Robo-Motherhen! What, did he think Optimus was made of crystal? Just because… Oh. Ooooh. “You worry about the Sparkling?” Optimus asked softly, his irritation lessening as Megatron twitched. So he was right; it was about Optimus Carrying. He sighed tiredly. “Primus, Megatron, I won’t be hurt by some weight lifting!”

“You don’t know that,” the grey mech grunted, shaking his head and eyeing Optimus closely.

“Can’t you trust me to know what I can and cannot do?” the red and blue mech retorted, crossing his arms to show he wasn’t impressed. His expression softened as he considered Megatron and reminded himself a lot of his status would ultimately hang on Optimus giving birth to a healthy Bitlet. Of course the big grey mech wouldn’t want Optimus to presume too much of his strength and accidentally hurt himself. It was as cute as it was annoying.

Pressing a hand to Megatron’s chest, the young noble sighed. “I’m not a first time Carrier, Megatron. I remember what it was like to bear Smokescreen, and I know what my limits are. So early in my cycle, I don’t risk anything, and I promise I will stop if I feel the slightest discomfort. Please, let me do it. Helping move around the truck will not hurt me and if anything, it’ll allow us to finish earlier. Then perhaps we can discuss, or you can show me the town,” he tried to cajole.

Megatron stayed silent a long moment, probably considering before he sighed and let one of the truck fall to the ground; Optimus took it as an invitation and immediately bend down to pick it up. The weight took him by surprise but he managed to stabilize his gyros and shift his gravity center so it wasn’t an issue. With a smirk, he looked up at an amused Megatron.

“Stubborn little mate,” the grey mech said fondly before heading for the storage room. “Only the lighter ones, agree? I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Optimus stated as he followed Megatron with little difficulties. “What is in this truck, by the way?”

“Pans and bowls and knives for the cooking,” Megatron shrugged as he dropped the other truck on the ground and pushed it away with his foot before lifting the other from Optimus’ hands. “I’ll have a lot to teach you during the wintering.”

“You know how to cook?” Optimus asked curiously, caught unaware and prompting a short laugh from Megatron.

“I do know how to, my mate, and I know how to weave and sew. All nomads do. It helps pass the time when you’re stuck in the storm. Though this season, I think there’ll be a more pleasant activity for us to partain in,” he stated as he eyed Optimus’ belly. The red and blue mech’s cheek heated as he understood the insinuation clearly.

“Do not joke about it.”

“Who said I was joking?” Megatron replied, swiftly moving to pass his arms around Optimus’s shoulders and press his frame against his. His EM field was tightly controlled, but it didn’t stop Optimus to feel a edge of desire and arousal amidst other feelings. “You didn’t complain, when we…”

Optimus pushed him away, hands flat on the grey mech’s chest, his blush more pronounced. “It’s… it’s different. I… the Sparkling…” He paused as Megatron kissed him on the lips with gentleness.

“I know. That doesn’t stop me from hoping,” the grey mech disengaged himself and released Optimus, who quickly took a few steps back. “I’m going to seek the rest. You finish with the carpets and you take care of Smokescreen. When we’re done, then I’ll take you to the market, agree?”

Optimus nodded and headed back to the ‘main room’ even as Smokescreen started to wail, clearly distressed at having been left alone for more than a klik. Deep down, he was feeling giddy. The ‘rotunda’ and its markets were calling to him, and he couldn’t refrain his excitement at the thought of discovering more about the nomads’ way of life. Feeling happy for the first time in a long while, he started to whistle.

Today was shaping up like a good day.

Chapter Text

If he had thought the day was good before, a single glance at the market and its rows of stands left Optimus in awe.

Well, not just the market itself, but the whole place. The ‘rotunda’ itself was a marvel to witness, and he couldn’t stop himself from stroking the stone to check if it was real, to Megatron and several onlookers’ obvious amusement. He didn’t care, though, too busy calculating how much time must have been spent in carving away such a large passage. The circular gallery was at least 20 mechanometers large, enough to let four or five mechs larger than Megatron walk side by side, while the roof hovered at least six mechanometers over them.

And it was only the main gallery; as Optimus had discovered upon entering and listening to Megatron’s explanations, there actually were three levels of galleries, one for the market, one for the habitations and Halls and one for the forges and storage rooms. All were probably just as large, but Megatron had vetoed any idea to go visit them for the moment, stating they were here for the market only. Optimus had bowed down, already satisfied with the first area, and so was Smokey. The Sparkling was looking out as much as his Carrier, babbling and chirping non-stop in Optimus’ arms.

Of notable interest was a passageway that had been guarded by several burly mechs, all heavily armed. Optimus had been able to catch a glimpse of a downward, spiral-shaped stairs before Megatron had tugged him along.

“Not to visit, not yet,” the grey mech had rumbled, offering no other explanation. Perhaps it was a new gallery still being carved or perhaps restored if it had been damaged somehow; Optimus hadn’t dared to ask, Megatron looking grumpy about the matter. Besides, he soon had had other subjects of wonder as they reached the market proper.

‘Merchants’ had settled on each side of the gallery, various tribes mixing together seamlessly -- though they still arbored tribal markings of sort on themselves or on their goods to show appartenance. Optimus couldn’t help but notice those signs either attracted or lured away patrons. Tribes rivalries, he guessed. Some mechs shared dark looks when they crossed each other, but nobody seemed willing to come to hands.

“New Kolkular is sacred to us,” Megatron explained as he noticed Optimus’ worries. “We can’t fight in its halls, unless in formal setting. Nobody will attack someone else on the market -- not if he doesn’t wish to be put to death for the offense.”

Well… that was reassuring.

Optimus shuttered his optics a moment and breathed deeply, savoring the scents of freshly made treats, but also of spices, grains and incense. “I thought the fuel we brought was supposed to be in storage and rationed?” he questioned Megatron had they walked.

“Most is,” the grey mech answered easily as he shoved past a couple going the opposite direction. “Each tribe has the obligation to bring a set amount of fuel, usually enough to feel its members during the season plus a certain percentage to parry to emergencies. It can vary from one tribe to the next and depending the road they took during their travel, which section of the Badlands was issued to them for the season. When we match the objectives, we’re formally allowed to keep the surplus and do with it as we wish. Some keep it to themselves and some use it to trade either in root or cooked form.”

He nodded toward a mech which had installed a stab of metal over a firepit and was making flat cakes. Several Sparklings and Younglings had gathered around him and were salivating at the smell. Some of them were handing bracelets of metal beads or fistful of feathers, the merchant nodding and trading away the sweets against them.

“How do you decide the value of a trade?” Optimus asked curiously as he observed the merchant check his head in refusal at two long feathers, while he nodded and handed two rolled cakes for five small ones.

“It depends,” Megatron shrugged. “Everyone is free to come up with a price, and it’s up to the one handing the good to decide if it’s a good price or not. We usually trade for items we could use for ourselves or our family, and sometimes just as an occupation. There is no straight answer to give you, my mate.”

“I guess I’ll just watch and learn, hum?” Optimus hummed as they passed by and went deeper in the market.

It wasn’t really like the Iacon’s market, which Optimus had had the pleasure to visit often before his Bonding to Flame. There was no booth to speak off, most of the merchants or rather, traders having instead spread a cover or a carpet before them before disposing their goods on them. The content was also simpler but also more exotic. Some presented cages with live Robo-Chickens inside and exchanged either the MetalEggs or the mechanimal themselves. Some did the same thing with Gallium-Goats or, more surprising, Sheepitrons.

Other were presenting carpets or blankets, rolled or pinned to the walls to be better displayed. A few ‘stands’ even had mechs and femmes working on looms, making more carpets in the open. Other were trading sticks of incense and dried bouquets of metalloplants, obviously to make infusions or as medicine, while others still presented powder which Optimus identified after a few kliks as pigments to make tinctures and paints. Beads of metal, of stone, of petrified wood were frequent as well. Optimus could smell perfumes and wax, see candles, crystals and other, more sophisticated goods.

Of particular note was the ‘booth’ of what amounted to a jeweller; Optimus’ jaw dropped open in surprise at the fine selection: breaded torques. Engraved clasps and brooches for capes and ponchos. Carved, silver or gold highlighted claws and fangs. Chiseled, iridescent, non-edible crystals mounted in pendants and given original forms such as a feather, a delicate blooming flower, a mechanimal head or a star. Rarer goods were also present in the form of tiny rubies or amethysts encrusted in carved plaques. There were even true pearls in a bowl, one of which was almost as big as Optimus’ optic!

He eyed Megatron as he reached to touch his necklace, most particularly the lion head holding a pearl in its jaw, wondering if it was here the grey mech had found the one he had gifted Optimus with.

But for all the beauty of his goods, the trader didn’t seem to gather many clients. The mech didn’t seem bothered by it though, just shrugging when mechs looked but ultimately turned away without a word. Either jewelry wasn’t something the nomads favored or it was a special treat they didn’t often partake in, Optimus decided as they neared another stand which certainly seemed to hold Megatron’s interest.

Optimus eyed the display of weapons warily while hugging Smokescreen close. Knives were simply aligned on the ground by order of size from the smallest to the tallest. Bandoliers in supple metal or in mechanimal hides were suspended to a bar in front of a rack of lances and swords. A few mechanimal hides shields were lining up against the wall, evenly spaced with what looked like brand new energy bows without energy cells inserted. There even were a few whips and energon prods thrown in, as well as some of the biggest hammers Optimus had ever seen -- asides of those used by the Mistress of the Flames and a few assorted religious dignitaries, who used them as symbols of authority.

He felt uneasy next to them, but didn’t dare call out to Megatron as the grey mech entered friendly benter with the trader, grabbing a sword as if to judge its weight -- which he probably was. Optimus sighed and bounced Smokescreen in his arms, cooing at the Sparkling to calm him as it was obvious Smokey was starting to grown bored with standing still. As he did so, his optics were attracted toward the handle of a currently depowered energon-axe. Despite himself, Optimus couldn’t help but take a step forward to have a closer look. It had been vorns since he had had any combat training and whatever skills he had had were probably rusty by now -- he hadn’t stated so to Strika for nothing, after all --, but according to his instructor, he had been good with the axe. Indeed, the weapon had always felt right in his hand.

“You like it, my mate?” Megatron rumbled suddenly, starting Optimus who took a quick step back, shaking his head.

“I, I was just looking!” he stammered.

“Nothing bad with looking, young mech,” the trader smiled cheerfully. “One has to look if he wants to find the right weapon for himself. Care to take it in hand?” he offered, grabbing the axe to hand it to Optimus, who backed away.

“I’m sorry, not today. I have my son to take care of,” he said hurriedly, making both the trader and Megatron laugh.

“No need to be so nervous, Optimus,” Megatron chided him before patting his helm. He turned toward the trader, nodding. “We’ll discuss business further. My mate and Sparkling may wish to see other things, and I think settling on a price will take a while.”

“As you wish; just remember, it’s a one time opportunity!” the other mech called out as they left.

“What was that all about?” Optimus asked with a glance at Megatron.

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Megatron waved asides. “His swords are good, but Swindle is hardly as competitive as he’d like to think. I need to check over a few other mechs’ stock to be sure, but I’m certain I can get a sword of the same quality for a lesser price. Or if I find the right ores, I may craft it myself instead,” he mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Must I understand you also know how to forge?” Optimus inquired politely. “Smokey, would you stop wriggling? What have you… Oh, I see,” he chuckled as he spotted the same thing his suddenly lively Sparkling had seen: a toys merchant.

“Indeed. It’s a good occupation during wintering, and the best way to make sure your weapons are of quality. Even if they break, then you know you only have yourself to blame,” the grey mech answered as he followed Optimus toward the toys stand. “Do you want me to pick something for Smokescreen?”

“Oh, you’re not obligated to…” Optimus started to protest, only for Megatron to raise a hand and cut him out.

“I insist. I may not be able to trade for one of the jewelries which caught your optics -- yes, I have noticed how you eyed them, my mate, do not bother deny it -- for they’d cost more than what I’m able to gather for this season, but I want to spoil you and our son as much as I can. I also know of my limitation when it comes to carving toys,” he grimaced.

“Your blocks and the tops were fine,” Optimus protested encouragingly. “And there is…” he stroked the lion head nervously.

“The result of nearly ten stellar cycles of trials and errors, and several failures,” Megatron dismissed with a frown, coming close of Optimus to pass a finger under the necklace and to stroke the lion head with his index, a contemplative look on his face. “I never was good with fine details, but for the one who would become my mate, I wanted to do something unique, something that would speak of my trials in mastering a craft I’m unsuited to, for him.” Optimus blushed.

“Really, you shouldn’t…” he protested again weakly.

“I will,” Megatron stated. “Now let’s see what our son would like, shall we?”

Smokey shrieked with enjoyment as they settled in front of the display, Optimus eyeing the various toys and his son’s reaction to them with amusement. The nomads’ toys were similar but also very different from the ones in civilized society. In Iacon as a Sparkling, Optimus had enjoyed mechanical toys finely crafted out of crystal and precious material, full of complex inner mechanisms that allowed his toys to move or transform at will like proper mechs. Smokescreen had also started to enjoy such objects before their move across Cybertron and their current situation, but Optimus had also saw fit to shower him with simpler toys, many of which the trader displayed for them.

Hoops seemed to be a classical, as well as tops and carved blocks, some of which were obviously forming pictures when correctly assembled together -- a primitive sort of puzzle. Vague car-shapes and small mechanimals were mounted on wheels and could be pulled by a Sparkling, which held Optimus interest for a while before he decided that, since Smokescreen wasn’t walking yet, it was too soon for him. Miniature mechanimals were also very popular; Optimus saw a Sparkling trade a little bag of crystal berries against ten near-identical Zap-Ponies figurines, and another make off happily with a fabric Turbofox pressed against his chest. Another still handed over two small terracotta dolls against a bigger, fabric-made one, and yet another was busy negotiating a purse of metal marbles against a yo-yo.

“What is that?” he asked, blinking at a curious doll and tentatively reaching out to take it. It was petrified wood, carved approximately like a mech and painted to resemble one; in fact, the painted mech looked a lot like a shuttle, one of the largest mechs known. It wasn’t the most curious, though. As Optimus observed the toy, he noticed a split running all over the ‘doll’, allowing it to be opened. Gently thrusting Smokescreen in Megatron’s arms, Optimus huffed as he separated the two half of the ‘doll’, revealing a smaller one inside, this one painted to resemble a bulky tank. Another split was running down its sides, and once again Optimus opened it, revealing yet another ‘doll’. He fought back a smile, understanding the principle of the toy as he continued to open one layer after the other. A truck. An heavy flier. A Seeker. A racer. A generic femme. A random Youngling. A random Sparkling. And, finally, as he opened the last layer, he revealed a swaddled, smiling bornling carved out of a single block. The figurine was so small, it was barely longer than Smokescreen’s hand.

He couldn’t help it; he giggled. Megatron rumbled pleasantly, shifting his hold on Smokescreen as the Sparkling reached out with both hands to try and grab the figurine in his Carrier’s hand. “The stacking doll has both your approbation then?”

Optimus turned toward the nomad, head tilted. “Stacking doll?”

“The toy,” Megatron explained with a head gesture toward the figurine in Optimus’ hand the the discarded layers. “Good toy for a Sparkling; it allows him to have several toys in one. The dolls are carved and painted to follow theme. Look,” he pointed to another such doll. “This one is about mechanimals. This one, about family. This one is folklore. The one you hold is about mech sizes and models.”

“Interesting,” Optimus mused, reaching out to examine another doll closely. “You think it’d make a good toy for Smokescreen?”

“He seems to like it,” Megatron shrugged, “and so do you. I say it’s good. Wait,” he intimated as he turned toward the trader, Smokescreen still in his arms, and engaged in a conversation in low voice. Not knowing what else to do, Optimus closed the different layers back down and put the doll back where he had found it.

“... no, I’m sorry, it’s too cheap,” the merchant was saying, shaking his head. “For a doll this quality and size, I want more.”

“Hmph. Don’t try my patience; there are other mechs willing to trade on the market,” Megatron warned, but his voice didn’t hold any real heat. “I can propose you a blanket of Gallium-Goat hairs and a bag of pigments; it seems fair to me.”

“Hmm. What color?” the other mech asked, thoughtful.

“I can propose ultramarine blue or vermillion red,” Megatron easily replied.

“... Let’s say a bag of each, then, plus the blanket,” the merchant proposed.

Megatron paused, thoughtful, before he finally nodded. “Very well; deal.” He shook the other mech’s hand and reached for his subspace pocket, surprising Optimus who hadn’t know the grey mech had been walking with such items on him. The merchant immediately stored them in his own subspace, smiling.

“A pleasure; which one do you prefer them? The mechanimals or the mech squale?”

“I’m letting my mate and Sparkling decide,” Megatron countered. “Optimus? Which one?”

“Ah…” Optimus looked down at Smokescreen, still in Megatron’s arms, and showed him the two concerned toys. Without much surprise, Smokey reached for the one painted to resemble a pneuma-lion. Optimus hadn’t had time to look at the inside yet, but if his son wanted it… “What are the other figurines like?” he asked the merchant.

“Pneuma-lion, Cougaraider, Hellhound, Sheepitron, Turbofox, Dynametal duck and Glitch mouse,” the other mech listed immediately. “I can take custom orders if you wish for another display, but it’ll cost you more.”

“No, no,” Optimus immediately said. “It’s perfect. Isn’t it, Megatron?” he asked as he put the first doll back down and handed their new acquisition to Smokescreen, who shrieked in joy and hugged the doll close. It was almost half his size, Optimus noted with amusement, refraining from chuckling when Smokescreen huffed, unable to open the first layer alone. “He seems to like it a lot already,” he said fondly.

“Indeed,” Megatron nodded. “Now let’s move, my mate. We still have a few things to see before going back to the shelter.”

“Alright,” Optimus nodded, leaving the toys stand behind with a last glance. Once they were a good distance away and he was sure the trader couldn’t overhear them anymore, he leaned toward Megatron, officially to take Smokescreen and his new doll back, but officiously to speak. “Was it a fair price? What you exchanged for Smokescreen’s doll?” he elaborated when Megatron gave him a blank look.

The grey mech hummed. “It is,” he finally allowed. “Though I only probably got such a good deal thank to the beginning of the season. Later one, he’d probably would have asked for metal and wood blocks as well.”

“So… stacking dolls are expensive?” Optimus asked worriedly, fuel tanks knotting as he realized Megatron most likely had ‘spend’ a lot for the innocent Sparkling in his arms. Seeing Smokey hug and cherish the doll was cute, but…

“They can be, depending on material and paints and detailing,” Megatron grunted, “but this one was a reasonable trade off. Vermillion red pigments are fairly common to obtain, but ultramarine blue is rarer and always interest those who make toys. The trade we made gave him material to do new toys, or to paint unfinished projects,” he explained. “The cover will give him at least three ragdolls and the pigments will allow him a number of combinations, thus he can make ‘cheaper’ toys he’ll trade faster -- especially with all the feathers he’s accepting from the Younglings. He’ll be able to stuff his fabric toys in no time.”

“I… see,” Optimus finally muttered. Well, that was a relief -- sort of. “Megatron? You don’t need to spend much on Smokescreen and I, we’re fine with…”

Megatron stopped and gave him a look. “I’ll trade for you as much as I wish.” His tone bore no argument, but Optimus didn’t want to back down.

“It’s ridiculous, you should first think about trading for yourself!”

“I know what I want and what I need, my mate,” the grey mech almost snapped. “Do trust me to know how to lead a good deal for us all!”

A snicker behind his back made Megatron tense. “Sure you do,” a voice drawled ironically. “You’re even so good at haggling it’s what you’re renowned for, aren’t you Megs?” The grey nomad snarled as he turned, half-obscuring Optimus’ sight of whoever had just spoken; the young noble was still able to make out white plating highlighted by some red and green.

“Wheeljack,” Megatron sneered in greeting.

“Megatron,” the other mech answered on the same tone. “Fancy meeting you here; I would have expected you to still lurk in your dwelling, barking at anyone who comes near.”

Megatron bristled before his body sagged and relaxed, his expression schooling until it went neutral. His voice was almost a purr as he spoke next. “I could say the same thing about you, Wheeljack; such an unexpected encounter! Last I’ve heard, you were still roaming the desert alone. I would have expected you to skip communal wintering altogether, like you did before. Unless you old lone wolf didn’t feel able to do it anymore?” he questioned with hidden glee.

The mech called Wheeljack snarled, and Optimus became increasingly aware of the two swords strapped to the mech’s back, as well as the energy cells strapped on his belt. “Megatron…” he called out softly, putting a hand on his mate’s elbow at the same moment a large green mech appeared behind Wheeljack. He had a jovial expression and his arms were full with bags.

“Jackie, what did we say about antagonizing other mechs?” he chided the other mech before he saw whom he was speaking to. His face fell. “Oh. Megatron,” he saluted casually, though there was an underlying tension in his voice.

“Bulkhead,” Megatron returned the greeting with a short, to-the-point nod, making Optimus blink. Just what did those two mechs had against his mate? Or what did Megatron have against them for that matter? Perhaps they belonged to a rival tribe, he reasoned quickly as he bounced Smokescreen in his arms. As he did so, Smokey accidentally let go of his toy, which clattered on the ground, making the Sparkling wail. The attention of the three other mechs immediately focused back on him.

Megatron immediately bent down before Optimus could try to and handed the fussy Smokescreen his toy back, humming. “There, there,” he murmured, patting the Sparkling small helm.

“It isn’t broken?” Optimus asked worriedly, knowing too well how some Sparklings’ toys were fragile.

“Do not worry, my mate; stacking dolls are made sturdy,” Megatron reassured him, glaring over his shoulder as he heard Wheeljack choke.

“‘My mate’? Noooo? Seriously? And here I thought those discreet little glyphs on your pauldrons were a mistake during detailing! Don’t tell us you finally decided to get someone properly under your tent? And with a Sparkling at that? No, correction,” Wheeljack chuckled after sniffing the air closely. “One and half? Why, you sly dog! You do work fast, Megs. Wait, tell me, does Starscream know yet?” he smirked, optics shining with glee.

“Starscream?” Optimus murmured even as Megatron rose with all his might, glaring daggers at the white mech.

“What Starscream does or doesn’t know isn’t your problem, Wheeljack! And before you start butting in other people’s business, may I ask you how is Ultra Magnus?” he asked slyly, making Wheeljack tense and glare in turn. “How old is his daughter again? Let’s see, what is her name again… Strong-something. Strongleg? Stronghead? Ah,no, no,” Megatron snapped his fingers, “Strongarm; I think she’s nearing four stellar cycle, is she not?” The pointed look he gave Wheeljack made the white mech snarl angrily, and if not for Bulkhead immediately grabbing him by the back of his neck, he would certainly have thrown himself at the bigger mech.

“Wheeljack! Calm down!” the green mech snapped before he glared at Megatron. “You shouldn’t rile him up,” he warned, Megatron just shrugging in answer.

“He’s the one who started,” the grey mech pointed out easily, seemingly unconcerned, to which Bulkhead could only sigh.

“Of course he did…”

“Bulk!” Wheeljack protested, struggling to get out of his friend’s hold. “You’re not going to believe him over me, are you?”

“Jackie,” Bulkhead sighed, “I may have missed the start of the conversation, but I really doubt Megatron wanted to pick a fight if he has his Carrying mate and his Sparkling with him. Besides, you’re the one who mentioned Starscream; don’t be surprise if he retaliated.” Wheeljack finally shook off the hold and huffed, arms crossed over his chest and glaring.

“I can’t believe it!” He shook his head, displeased. “Okay, you know what? I’m going back to my shelter. I’m done with this place already,” he snapped as he shoved past several mechs and disappeared in the crowd, deaf to Bulkhead’s calls.

“Jackie! Wheeljack! Wheelj… Slag,” the green mech sighed, turning back toward Megatron with a displeased expression. “Thank a lot. Were you really forced to bring up Ultra Magnus and Strongarm?”

“As you said yourself, he’s the one who started this… divergence of opinions,” Megatron stated calmly. “You know as well as I do that I won’t be the only one who will bring the matter up, especially when Ultra Magnus will come strolling to this level.” His optics gleamed. “One just doesn’t Spark up a mech and fail to bring him in as a mate without becoming the center of all conversations; if he isn’t happy with it, Wheeljack can only blame himself.”

“You know he didn’t know,” Bulkhead protested. “He only learned about Strongarm when he strolled back for the next wintering! It could have happened to anyone!”

“To anyone, yes,” Megatron nodded, “but if he hadn’t decided to play the lone Cyber-wolf and travel without a mean to contact him in the Badlands, he would have been able to correct the matter long before the emergence of the bornling. Frankly, I’m not surprised Ultra Magnus will not let himself be taken by him -- not that Wheeljack is really trying, mind you.”

“You’re unfair!” Bulkhead snapped. “He does regularly try! He even keeps following Ultra Magnus’ tribe to set up ambushes, but Magnus always outsmart him, and he’ll be damned to the Pits if he even tries to use their daughter as leverage to get him! Plus,” he added more calmly after he took a few deep breaths, “Ultra Magnus also tried to get him, you know. Jackie is evading him as well.”

“Yes, Magnus is trying to take him as a mate, but only because Strongarm needs his Sire around, and Wheeljack has proved he wasn’t much of a provider for a family unit. If he could just accept it and let himself be provided for…” Megatron pointed out with less ire.

“Wheeljack doesn’t want to let himself be tied down to a different tribe,” Bulkhead argued back, “he won’t let himself caught without a fight.”

“He should have thought of it before laying down for a romp,” Megatron argued back. “At the very least he should have make sure they were both drinking the Morning Tisane to avoid ‘happy accidents’.”

“Yeah, like you and Starscream did?” Bulkhead snipped, but it lacked true heat. “Sorry. Anyway, Wheeljack is stubborn; I’m trying to get it through him he can’t let the situation fester for too long, the Chieftains and the Elders are starting to look his way in disapproval, but…” he shrugged helplessly.

Optimus just blinked at the way the conversation went, mind racing as he caught up with the story, and he couldn’t help but wince as he understood the problem. Ouch. If he was following everything right, then it was indeed harsh. “I’m sure everything will sort itself out eventually?” he offered, unsure and taking a step forward.

Bulkhead looked at him with a small, sad smile. “Let’s hope so. But I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Bulkhead,” he said, freeing a hand and balancing his bags in one arm. Optimus tentatively took and shook it as Bulkhead leaned forward with a big, silly grin. “And who is the cute Bitlet? Hello little buddy! Aren’t you a darling?”

“That’s Smokescreen,” Optimus smiled. “Say ‘hello’, Smokey.”

Smokescreen just blinked at the close proximity of the stranger, stopping to nibble on the head of his stacking doll to stare before he bravely reached out to Bulkhead, grabbing the green mech’s olfactive sensor in his tiny hand and giggling. Bulkhead just boomed in laugher, letting the Sparkling play with his nose, to Optimus’ relief. The bend over position of the green mech allowed Optimus to take a better look at his frame, and he blinked at an unexpected detail.

“He’s adorable,” Bulkhead said as he rose back up, shaking his head. “I hope to get one as cute as him when I decide to settle down.”

“But… aren’t you a Creator already?” Optimus asked, an optic ridge raised as Megatron’s intake stalled next to him, obviously having caught up with the same detail as Optimus.

Bulkhead blinked. “Me? No, I’m still single -- haven’t found the right mech yet. Why would you ask…?” He stilled, jaw dropping. “Oh no, no, no. Please don’t tell me…?” he begged, turning toward Megatron. The grey mech smirked and coughed in his fist in a theatrical manner.

“If you don’t wish to learn you have a tiny Minicon Sparkling magnetized to your plating, then be my guest,” he said casually, laughing as Bulkhead groaned and moaned while Optimus moved to take out the tiny Sparkling that was silently and discreetly crawling over the big mech’s back.

He was a little surprised Bulkhead hadn’t felt him -- well, her, he corrected himself as he took out the general frame and the tiny peaks of an EM field -- but then again, the Sparkling was very, very tiny, barely longer than Optimus’ palm, and mechs of Bulkhead’s model usually had thick, insensitive armor.

The little femme fussed and started to screech when Optimus took her off, little limbs flailing. Bulkhead immediately turned, optics wide. “There she is,” Optimus offered, handing him the Sparkling. She was really minuscule, he internally marvelled as he transferred the femmeling in Bulkhead’s hand. He had seen Minicons in Iacon before, but never before had he seen a Minicon Sparkling -- and he hadn’t expected to find Minicons here in the Badlands. They just didn’t seem suited for the nomadic lifestyle and the harsh living conditions.

The femmeling wailed again. Handlebars on her helm gave her an unique design, and her purple, black and pink paint job made her striking against Bulkhead’s plating. Her fussing immediately calmed down when she was back in the green mech’s hand, hugging Bulkhead’s thumb with a shrill of laughter.

“Miko,” the green mech groaned helplessly. “I knew it, I knew it was too good to be true!”

“You visited the Minicons’ creche again?” Megatron inquired, leaning forward to get a good look.

Bulkhead nodded, balancing the Sparkling in one hand and his bags in the other. “You know I always do, each time we reach New Kolkular. It’s always nice to see how many they managed to Spark this stellar cycle and see how the smallest ones grew up during the turn of seasons. This one is M1K-0, or Miko if you prefer, and I don’t know, she seems to have taken a liking to me. She escaped her crib twice while I was visiting to crawl toward me. I thought she was safely back with her Creators when I left, but…” he shrugged helplessly before groaning again. “Oh slag, her Creators! They’re going to offline me, I just know it!”

“If a pair of mechs barely taller than a three-vorns old Sparkling manage to fell you, then I will ask myself some serious questions about you,” Megatron chuckled, shaking his head as he came closer to look at the femmeling. He raised an optic ridge as the tiny Sparkling just glared at him, chirping angrily. “Well, well, well. She has some spunk, I’ll grant her that.”

“Megatron, leave her alone,” Optimus stated calmly, shaking his head and bouncing Smokescreen in his arms. His son was starting to get very interested in the other Sparkling, chirping curiously at her. Miko paid him no mind, though, too busy cuddling and hugging Bulkhead’s massive digit with a look of utter contentment.

“I mean no harm, my mate,” the grey mech said, but he moved to stand behind Optimus and surrounded his shoulders with his arms, pressing a kiss to the red and blue mech’s helm. Optimus almost squirmed, unused to such marks of affections in public -- so far, Megatron had always been silent and almost ‘not caring’ in his interactions with Optimus outside their tent. Then again, when he did, he always had had his GrandSire around, or various mechs of the tribe. Here, they were surrounded by anonymous, so perhaps Megatron didn’t feel as restrained in his interactions. Or perhaps it was due to being in New Kolkular; who knew?

Bulkhead stared. “Wow. You really are mated.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You know, perhaps you should get your marks repainted or enlarged, so they are better displayed. I… well, you know how HE is, if he thinks he can still stake a claim and realizes he can’t,” he warned hurriedly, looking genuinely concerned.

Megatron grunted. “What I wish to put on my frame doesn’t concern you.”

Bulkhead gave him a look. “I’m not saying it for you, but for your mate and your Bitlets’ sake; you know how jealous he can get, don’t you? You really want him to fly in a rage when he see your necklace on a stranger’s neck?” That seemed to make Megatron pause momentarily before he huffed.

“Very well, I’ll think about it. However, you should better worry about yourself and about that Sparkling; you should get her back to the creche before the Minicons set up the alarms.”

“Don’t remind me,” Bulkhead groaned. “I know I should, but carrying both the bags and the bitlet is going to be tough, even if she decides to play nice and stay in my hand -- and I don’t believe she will.” He eyed the femmeling with fond exasperation; Miko just chirped happily.

“You can always put them in subspace,” Megatron shrugged, only for Bulkhead to sigh.

“I can’t; it’s full already. I had planned on massive trading today,” he explained. “Plus, half the stuff I carry belongs to Jackie, I loaded them to help him move them around for a stand, but we came in too late and the places were all taken already.”

“How about we accompany you?” Optimus offered spontaneously, paying no attention to Megatron’s startle and faint negative shake of the head. “I never came to New Kolkular before and there are many places I have yet to discover; I’d be glad to help you carry some of those bags while you show me around,” he smiled gracefully.

“You never…? Oh, right, you’re an outsider,” Bulkhead realized. “Should have guessed listening to your accent and your syntaxe. Well, if you want to help…”

“We should get back,” Megatron rumbled, obviously displeased, but Optimus turned toward him, stoical.

“I really wish to see the Minibots creche,” he said simply and after a moment of staring at each other, Megatron sighed heavily.

“Very well. Give me those bags,” he mumbled as he reached for Bulkhead’s load. “You carry the Sparkling and you stay near Optimus, got it?”

“Got it,” Bulkhead replied. “Optimus, then?” he asked as they started walking through the market, following Megatron’s quick steps. If before they had been wandering quietly, the grey mech now had a goal in mind, and he was eager to reach it. Optimus was grateful for Bulkhead’s size and, well, bulk, for people easily parted before him, and Optimus just had to stand next to him or behind him to walk easily.

“It is my name, yes,” the red and blue mech nodded. “I hope you don’t mind my presence. I… you and Wheeljack didn’t seem to really like Megatron. Perhaps I shouldn’t have imposed myself…”

“Nonsense,” the green mech shook his head. “Wheeljack’s rivalry with Megatron doesn’t have to spread to the mech’s mate and Sparklings -- especially when said mate is so polite and has an adorable Bitlet in his arms.” He flashed a quick glance and a smile toward Smokey, who had gone back to nibbling on his doll’s head. “Does he treat you well?”

“I… guess so?” Optimus offered weakly, unwilling to share more on the subject. “If you don’t mind me asking, you, Wheeljack and Megatron…?” He didn’t know how to finish his question and left it hanging, hoping the green mech would understand what he wanted to know.

Thankfully, Bulkhead easily did. “Ah, the snapping from earlier? Don’t be too worried. We’re not really friends with the Decepticon tribe, but we’re not enemies either. It’s just that it’s hard to like a mech like Megatron when he kicks your afts regularly in training and during the Games. Wheeljack almost lost a hand last time he went head on against Megatron during a match, and my back killed me for a whole decacycle; Megatron hit like a freight wagon. He totally cleared us during the sixth round and we had to drop our claims to the western segment for several stellar cycles,” he lamented, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand,” Optimus murmured quietly, mind racing to make sense of what he had heard, to no avail.

Bulkhead blinked, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, right, you don’t know about the Games yet.”

That was new for Optimus. “The Games?”

Before Bulkhead could elaborate, Megatron called out to them, standing before an opening in the wall leading to a second, smaller corridor that was obviously inclined upward. “Well?” he asked, tapping his foot on the ground impatiently.

“Yeah, yeah, coming,” Bulkhead grumbled. “The mech has no patience,” he confided in Optimus as they came through the opening as well, making Optimus’ lips quirk up in a quick smile. It was good to hear things on Megatron from someone who wasn’t part of the tribe; at least those mechs were honests in their feelings and not in awe before Megatron. It helped to render the mech more humane to him.

“If you say so, Bulkhead, if you say so,” he nodded as they engaged in the upward path.

Chapter Text

“Thank you for bringing her back so fast, Bulkhead, Megatron, Optimus,” the green and black female Minicon who had greeted them at the creche entry chirped as she struggled to calm down the wriggling Miko, who was whining and crying as she stretched her tiny hands toward Bulkhead.

“My pleasure, June,” Bulkhead assured her, kneeling on the floor to avoid accidentally knocking something or worse, someone. “I’m sorry, I should have been more careful when I left, but I didn’t think she would magnetize herself to my plating like that; isn’t she a bit young to have developed magnets?”

“A little,” the Minicon called June replied, and from her tone and attitude Optimus inferred she probably was a medic -- well, a healer -- of sort. “She’s an early developer, though -- and she’s quite fearsome, as you have noticed.” She glanced down at the fussing Sparkling and sighed. “She’s going to give us trouble growing up, I just know it. Wasn’t I lucky Jack was so quiet?”

“How is your Creation by the way? He’s what, four or five stellar cycles by now?” Bulkhead inquired curiously, making the Minicon smile as they amiably chatted over ‘Jack’, being obviously well-acquainted with each other.

Megatron was standing in a corner during the conversation, looking bored but patiently waiting for his mate to excuse them both, but Optimus was too busy looking around curiously, taking in as many details as he could about the ‘creche’.

Situated on the rotunda level’s of habitations, it was actually a large rectangular room filled with cradles of metals and bassinets made of dried, weaved metalloplants, plus a few cribs. In all, there had to be two dozens of Minicons Sparkings of various ages being taken care of by an equip of ten Minicons. When they had reached the creche, panic had started to settle in, the disappearance of one of their charges having been noticed, and so Bulkhead and his companions were greeted like heroes.

Smokescreen had become a hit with the older ones and their caretakers, and Optimus had gratefully accepted to let him in a crib so he could play with the tiny mechlings and femmelings. His Carrier’s attention was as such divided between Bulkhead and June and his son, who seemed to have a lot of fun ‘wrestling’ with some of the Minicons.

“So many Minicons,” Optimus whispered as he leaned toward Megatron, seeing various mini mechs pass before the entry of the creche. “How come I haven’t seen any in the tribe?”

“The Minicons are New Kolkular’s guardians and caretakers,” Megatron rumbled. “They don’t migrate with us. Instead, they maintain the rotunda in good state and do the necessary reparations all stellar cycle on. They also grow grains we use to complement our diet during the wintering, dig wells to collect water for cleaning and mine ores we can use to forge weapons deep in the bowels of New Kolkular. They also bring us more fuel when we’re stranded in our shelters during the longest storms,” he added as an afterthought.

“Bring you fuel? But…” Optimus started before he realized. “The holes in the shelter, near the crystals! I thought they were for air!”

“They are,” Megatron shrugged, “but they’re also handy tunnels for messengers. Minicons aren’t warriors, but they’re an important part of our life and so we respect them and make sure their lives are as comfortable as possible in thanks for their services.”

“That’s… very kind of you,” Optimus said softly, thinking back about the Minicons back in Iacon. Due to their small stature, many in the population tended to think the Minicons had ‘simple’ processors and as such, were unsuited for higher works. Many of those he had met had worked as simple maintenance worker or guardians, but without the respect the nomads obviously had for the framer-type. Such a difference of treatment! “Wait, you cultivate grains? And you do mining?” That was news to him! “Wouldn’t agriculture negate your need to migrate through the Badlands? You could rebuild a true city…”

“And how else would we forge our weapons if we couldn’t get our own metal ore?” Megatron asked, voice full of amusement, shaking his head. “As for settling, it’s impossible. We don’t cultivate grains; Minicons do,” he corrected. “What they manage to grow each season suffice to their needs and to basic storage, but it’s not enough to feed a whole population long term. The random storms which happen out of season often damage their fields. Game isn’t numerous enough either, and there is no natural energon or oil spring for a long distance. No, my mate, New Kolkular can’t be build like one of your cities,” he shook his head.

“Besides,” he added after a moment of silence, “who among us could endure to live all stellar cycle long in the same place, never seeing the wonders of the oases and the beautiful starry skies, changing every night?”

Optimus didn’t answer, turning his head away. The answer was honest and somewhat expected, but it still caught him off guard by its simplicity. He settled to watch Smokescreen, smiling faintly as he saw Smokescreen stay utterly still as mechling not even half his size crawled all over him -- and Primus knew Smokey wasn’t so big, having taken after Flame size-wise.

“They look so peaceful,” he murmured just loud enough for Megatron to overhear. The grey mech nodded.

“Minicons usually are, but they can be fearsome when they wish to; that make them good allies.”

“Are they a tribe in themselves?” Optimus asked, genuinely curious.

Megatron paused, pondering for a moment. “I suppose so; a few do belong to specific tribes, but most are just affiliated to New Kolkular, so I suppose we can call them a tribe,” he finally allowed. “We should be going, Optimus. There is nothing more we can do here.”

“Must we? Smokescreen looks like he’s having a lot of fun,” Optimus half-begged.

“And he’ll have a lot of fun another time,” Megatron rumbled, arms crossed over his chest. “We have little time before the next storm gathers, and there is much I wish to do before it does.”

Optimus sighed, bending down to pick Smokescreen in the crib, gently shushing or pushing asides the Minicon Sparklings with a light touch or a poke, until he could take his son in his arms. Smokescreen whined a little but calmed down upon being bounced in his Carrier’s arms and started to wave ‘bye’ to his newfound friends, some of which waved back in turn. “More weapons to see?” he asked half-tired, half-annoyed.

“I need to in order to see if I must go mine this season,” Megatron rumbled. “Should I find weapons of a quality I approve of and for an affordable trade, then I won’t need to go down the mines and will be able to spend more time with you and our son. If I don’t, however…” He let the end of his sentence hang in the air, which made the red and blue mech frown slightly.

“Is it so important to get new weapons? Won’t the ones you have already suffice?”

“A new blade is never wasted,” Megatron shrugged. “Besides, if I want to be in optimal conditions to be part of the Games this season, I need to get well-equiped before they start. My honor and the tribe’s future will hang on it.”

Alarm bells rung under Optimus’ helmet. “Those Games again! Bulkhead mentioned them earlier, but he didn’t tell me what they were.” He glanced at Bulkhead, still deep in discussion with the Minicon June, tiny Miko still trying to wriggle out of the older femme’s hold to go back to Bulkhead, a look of utter determination on her little face. “Please, Megatron won’t you tell me more?”

The grey mech chuckled. “Oh, my mate, but the Games are simple to understand. You see…”

“Gladiatorial games! Actual gladiatorial games! And just when I was starting to think they were actually civilized!”

“Yes, I heard you the first three times, Optimus, thank you for oh-so-kindly repeating it again,” Ratchet said dryly, sitting cross-legged on the floor with an embroidery piece in his lap, pulling calmly on his needle as if there wasn’t a tall, red and blue mech pacing the space of his shelter.

Optimus paused briefly and glared at the medic. “I’m being serious, Ratchet.”

The medic sighed, not even bothering to pause his work. “So I had gathered, but what do you want me to do about it, hum? Just because I have some status as a tribe healer doesn’t mean I can go up against eons of traditions. Trust me, I’d rather spare myself the processor ache.” He eyed Optimus closely. “Honestly, Optimus, how did you expect them to choose and keep their territories? By calmly sitting down around a table and peacefully talk about it?”

“Well, they could try,” Optimus retorted, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt them!”

“No, but it would hurt the table,” Ratchet retorted. “Optimus, you should calm down before you upset the Sparklings, okay? Staying confined in such close quarters until the storm calms down isn’t easy, but I’d rather not to have three upset Bitlets to take care of. Besides, getting your systems so worked up isn’t good for the Sparkling,” he warned.

It made Optimus deflate slightly as he stopped pacing and turned his head toward the corner of the dugout Ratchet’s twins and Smokescreen had dubbed as ‘their’. Well, Jetstorm and Slipstream had dubbed it as ‘theirs’ and they had been pressured into occupying Smokescreen while the adults ‘talked’ and the storm roamed. Optimus had deposited Smokescreen there on Ratchet’s order while the medic gave him an official appointment -- the main reason Optimus had come to visit the medic, asides of venting his surprise and frustration at the latest news he had received from Megatron.

“Sit down, Optimus,” Ratchet sighed. “You’re making my head spin, prowling around like that.” He patted the ground next to him and with a sigh, Optimus obeyed and sat down, tilting his frame just so he could keep a close optics on the playing Sparklings while subresptly patting his belly.

Ratchet’s shelter for the wintering was much larger than Megatron and Optimus’, but as the medic had explained it, he owned the extra space to having three Creations to take care off -- his daughter Minerva residing with them during the season -- but also to being a healer. While several ‘rooms’ in the rotunda were requisitioned every season to serve as healers’ practices, Ratchet had always prefered to have a space in his own dugout, if only to be able to keep a close optic and care for his Creations. As such, the shelter he had been allowed was large enough to have been divided into three areas: a ‘main room’, a ‘storage cabinet’ and an ‘examination room’ where his sons were forbidden to enter.

It was in that very room Optimus had swallowed his apprehension to lie down, bend his legs and open his knees to allow Ratchet to properly examine him for the first time. Cheeks heated, he had handled the medic’s touch and question as the mech checked his valve and pelvic span while asking a litany of questions about his first Carrying cycle and the emergence of Smokescreen.

It was normal, Optimus was a new patient and Ratchet needed to know if he would run into any difficulties during the gestation process then the actual emergence, but it hadn’t made the whole thing any easier. Optimus had already been blushy enough with his family medic, and the old mech had seen him grown from a bornling to a fully adult mech, but to let a near stranger examine him like that?

Honestly, he had been glad when the examination had been over and he had looked forward leaving Ratchet’s shelter immediately. Sadly, the weather had other plans; the winds were howling madly outside and they could hear the faint sound of rain on the canopy, probably acidic in substance.

And so he was still here, nervous and fretting and unable to keep the bubbling emotions he had felt since Megatron had finally explained to him what the ‘Games’ were.

“It’s not right,” he mumbled angrily. “Civilized society outlawed gladiatorial games since thousands of vorns! They’re dangerous and barbaric!”

“And I think we both know the nomads aren’t the most civilized people there are,” Ratchet replied calmly. “Please, Optimus, don’t fret; it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“You think so?” the red and blue mech raised an optic ridge, grimacing.

“Trust the medic, will you?” Ratchet replied dryly. “Unlike traditional gladiatorial fights, the matches here are hardly to death -- if it happens, it’s mostly accidental. Mostly,” he repeated. “I won’t pretend ‘arranged’ accidents don’t happen or that some mechs don’t end up settling their dispute on the arena’s floor, but it’s not usual. People are more likely to end up with a missing limb, and they can be replaced with time and enough material. The loss of status is quite the blow, though.”

“Right, because status is all that count here,” Optimus mumbled, though his Spark felt slightly lighter after hearing the matches weren’t necessarily to the death.

“You’d be surprised,” the medic sighed. He eyed the younger mech, unamused. “Please, stop worrying. If anything, Megatron is known to thoroughly wiping the floor with his adversaries on regular basis. He’s the Terror of the Pits,” he chuckled with irony before coughing and settling in face in a neutral expression after seeing Optimus’ unamused look. “Besides, the matches are only one part of the games; the various races and competitions are just as important, and those are harmless.”

“I just don’t get it,” Optimus sighed, drawing his knees to his chest.

“I didn’t either at first,” Ratchet said, patting his shoulder in comfort. “Then I realized it was all about showing off and make others less likely to try and contest your right to a hunting ground. If you kick the other contestants’ collective afts, then you confirm yourself as the meanest, baddest…” he paused, glancing at his sons with a pointed look; both mechlings’ shoulders immediately sagged. “Anyway, you kick everyone’s afts in the arena where it’s not lethal, then it’s obvious you can do it again outside -- and this time, the gloves are off. And when I mean off, it means they won’t bother with the safety and go directly for the killing blow.”

“You ever had to deal with the aftermath?” Optimus asked, not impressed, and Ratchet deflated.

“I did. It’s not pretty, but given Megatron is a force to be reckoned with ever since he grew up into adulthood, those kind of events eventually died out. We get skirmish, but…” he shrugged helplessly. “I can try to knock sense into them, but it doesn’t mean say sense won’t leave them the moment they think their honor and the tribe’s fuel is threatened. That’s why I support the Games; at least when they’re in the arena, I know I won’t have to work miracles to save a Spark, not like I would out there in the open.”

Optimus sighed. “I hope you won’t ask me to like it,” he said in defeat, knowing nothing he would say could change how the nomads lived. Ratchet was right; he couldn’t protest eons of tradition.

“I’d be an hypocrite if I asked you to,” Ratchet sighed as well. “I always worry for Drift when he’s selected to be part of a match; I suppose you’re worried for Megatron as well?”

Optimus blushed. “I… it’s just that if something happen to him, then what will happen to Smokescreen and I? And the unborn Sparkling?”

“Sure, that’s the only reason,” Ratchet snorted. “More seriously, I understand; it’s never fun to see your mate down in the arena for a fight, though you’re lucky. Megatron never lost a match,” he assured the other mech, who didn’t look very convinced.

“He may have not, but he certainly made no friend with his victories; who knows if someone won’t tempt anything? I told you I met Bulkhead and Wheeljack…”

“Bulkhead is a good mech,” Ratchet nodded, “though he tends to break a lot of things by accident. I don’t think he holds a true grudge against Megatron -- he’s a graceful loser. Wheeljack, on the other end, is more of a wild card. Especially given his current situation,” he hummed thoughtfully.

“You mean the fact he Sired a Sparkling without being ‘mated’ to the Carrier?”

“Oh? So you know already?”

Optimus flushed. “I listened to Bulkhead and Megatron speaking; it wasn’t so hard to understand. I take it’s unusual?”

“Yes and no,” Ratchet sighed. “It can happen thank to the wintering, but usually the situation is quickly corrected. Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus are dragging it out and bringing a lot of attention to themselves -- and not of the positive kind. Sadly, they’re both stubborn and prideful and neither of them will back down. Trust me, I had the time to get to know them in all those cycles. They’re regular arena’s contestants,” he explained at Optimus’ look. “I usually stand by with the other healers and I often treated them, especially Magnus when he lost a hand.”

“Lost a hand?” Optimus repeated, horrified.

“He’s well,” Ratchet quickly reassured him. “Fighters tend to lose limbs, remember? But I’m a good enough medic to limit the risks. Anyway, Magnus hasn’t appeared in the arena ever since he had Strongarm. Though to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s because he was eliminated in the early rounds or if he had withhold from entering the qualifications altogether.” Ratchet paused, humming before he shook his head. “Yeah. Probably the second; he’s a very good fighter, he wouldn’t have failed to qualify to defend his tribe’s claims.”

Optimus shifted. “Those qualifications, how do they work exactly? Is everyone in the tribe forced to participate, or is it just something you do out of your own free will?”

“You’re wondering if you’ll manage to convince Megatron not to enter, eh? Don’t bother; he’s Megazarak’s Heir, he’s obligated to participate, even if you beg him not to,” Ratchet said dryly and Optimus’ shoulders sagged. “Usually it’s not an obligation, it’s a matter of free will, though if you are acknowledged as a good fighter by your tribe, you more or less got a moral obligation to participate so long you are a recognized adult; Younglings may not enter the formal matches.” As he said so, he threw a pointed gaze in his sons’ direction.

“‘s not fair,” Optimus heard one of them say, but he wasn’t sure which. Ratchet didn’t bother replying to the mumbled comment, focusing instead on his ‘patient’.

“Do not fret, okay? Mostly, the tribe members will talk among themselves of whom are their best choices, considering we can only enter a limited amount of fighters in the matches. There might be some infighting, but only if they can’t all agree, and it’s rare.”

Optimus nodded slowly, still feeling distressed. “Does that mean you know already who will get in?”

“Not everyone, sadly, but I have a few ideas already. Megatron is in, of course, and so will Dreadwing and Skyquake. Breakdown might be considered, and Drift of course.” His optics darkened momentarily as he mentioned his mate’s name. “The rest will be subjected to review. Soundwave sometimes participates and he can be fearsome in the arena, but I’m unsure if he will this stellar cycle; Falconers are often too busy between themselves breeding new Cryo-Condors and completing the training of the new ones, so he has a dispense. Same things with the medics -- and the expectant Carriers, of course,” he added as an afterthought, startling Optimus.

“They would expect me to fight if I wasn’t?”

Ratchet gave him a look. “Don’t say it as if it was the end of the world; Megatron told you that nomads all do the same things, no? It’s not like in the cities, with a member of the couple staying home to take care of the domestic aspects of life. Here, everyone hunt, everyone fight -- even you, eventually. Now, they wouldn’t exactly expect you to participate in the matches, but if you were good with a weapon, then they would expect you to at least ask for admittance, you follow me?”

“Clearly,” Optimus winced, shifting to let a hand rest over his belly. “It makes me doubly happy for the new life I’m nesting.”

The medic eyed him with a frown. “The idea of fighting weights so much on you?”

That made the young noble sigh. “It’s not that. Well, it is, but not as you may think. I understand the idea of having to pick up a weapon to defend yourself -- I was trained to do it when I was younger, after all -- and I understand that I will need to hunt to feed myself and my Creations. But fighting just for the sake of fighting, even if it’s to gain access to, to a better hunting ground?”

“... Pacifism is nice and dandy, kid, but it’s not a mindset which will allow you to survive long in the Badlands,” Ratchet sighed after a long moment of silence. “You’re lucky that this particular tribe isn’t composed of warmongers; at least they will allow you your convictions, even if they’ll think you’re a weird one.”

Optimus had a pale smile. “I’m used to being called ‘weird’ ever since I didn’t react with excessive joy at the news of my engagement to Flame and gaining higher standing in the nobility; I think I can handle it coming from the nomads.” The comment brought a sharp, short laugh out of the medic, easing the tension.

“I like you, Optimus. You’re a good mech.”

“I try to be,” the red and blue mech answered, distracted as he listened to the faint noise of rain outside. The winds had calmed down, but the rain seemed to have become more intense. “Do you think the storm will pass soon?”

“Oh, it should be over before the end of the solar cycle; those with rains usually are short. Why? Worried about Megatron?” he teased.

“Not really; I mean, I know he went ‘down to the mines’ -- at least that’s what he told me when we parted earlier -- but I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“Kid, storms come and go and they get you stuck in places you’d prefer not to be,” Ratchet reasoned. “Just be glad you weren’t out when it started and didn’t have to scramble for the nearest shelter. Nobody would have turned you out -- an expectant Carrier with a small Sparkling seeking shelter would never be turned away, it’d be against all hospitality laws we have -- but some mechs are better frequented from afar.” The fool expression he had on his face indicated he wanted to say something far less polite, but was refraining to for the Sparklings’ sake.

“I’ll keep the advice in mind,” Optimus replied as he glanced back toward the Sparklings, fighting down a smile. It was truly the first time he had had any time to observe Ratchet’s twins, and if he hadn’t known beforehand who they were, then he wouldn’t have guessed they were related.

The twins didn’t resemble Ratchet much, or at all -- and they weren’t taking after Drift either; he had met the mech several times during the travel, even exchanged short conversations with him around the campfire before the other mech usually ended tugging Ratchet away to get some ‘alone time’ or a good night of rest. Drift was a lithe mech, probably a racer of some kind, as red and white as Ratchet was. It could explain Slipstream’s entirely red paintjob, but where Jetstorm had gotten the black was just mindboggling. Not to mention the twins’ helm shapes, which were very distinctive.

“They get it from one of their Grand or Great-GrandSire -- both actually, from what I gathered,” Ratched suddenly said, having noticed Optimus’ glance; the red and blue mech blushed and mumbled a ‘sorry’ the medic was quick to dismiss. “What for? I know I certainly looked at them long and hard when they were born, and so did Drift. Minerva took a lot of after us, but those two took after Drift’s Creators from what the older members of the tribe said.”

“‘Said’? You never met them?” Optimus asked curiously.

Ratchet shook his head negatively. “No; they died from a plague when Drift was still very young, along with a quarter of the tribe, including some of his closest relatives. I suppose it contributed to his attraction to me; what’s best than to have a medic in your bed when you lost so much to sickness?” he joked, but his optics were dim.

“I’m sorry,” Optimus murmured, reaching out for the medic’s shoulder, but Ratchet easily slide under the attempt at touching.

“What for? It’s not like I ever knew them; you should reserve your compassion for Drift. He can’t remember what they had looked like, though he thinks one of his Creator was orange. If so, then I’m very happy Jetstorm’s paintjob is black.” His tone was slightly mocking, showing he was kidding, and Optimus allowed himself a small smile.

“I suppose so; orange is an hard color to bear,” he commented. “Ratchet? Megatron did mention some events in the Games were open to Younglings, right?”

“Yeah, there are,” the medic nodded. “Mostly races and a few archery contests that don’t really play in the tribe’s final hunting field’s allotment, but which give them a good excuse to practice and show off. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Optimus defended himself before stealing a glance toward the Sparklings. “Will your sons participate?”

“Certainly not!” Ratchet snorted. “They’re far too young.”

“Aw, Carrier!” Jetstorm whined, immediately shushed by his brother as Ratchet stared hard at their back. The two Sparklings went back to play and take care of Smokescreen while Optimus just shook his head at them, amused. They were headstrong, those two, especially Jetstorm, but they seemed to know what they were doing with Smokey.

If Jetstorm had huffed about playing with a ‘bornling’ at first, Slipstream had been amiable and readily handed his toys to Smokescreen to play with. Currently, the pair of mechling was playing a game of pick-up sticks, while Smokescreen was nestled against Slipstream’s side, cuddling with a teddy bear. They didn’t look like it, but it was obvious they were listening to the adults’ every words, if one had to judge by the tilting and twitching of their little helms and Jetstorm’s recent outburst.

“Sparklings stay safely on the side and don’t participate in races,” Ratchet said slowly and distinctly. “And they certainly don’t play with weapons, especially when their Carrier said ‘no’.”

“Scythe is going to participate, and he’s just one vorn older than us,” Jetstorm argued back, losing all pretension to play while Slipstream frowned and ticked Smokescreen’s belly when the Sparkling startled at the outburst.

“Hush baby,” he shushed, gaining a smile from Optimus while Ratchet rose to his pedes and towered over an also standing Jetstorm.

“Scythe is perhaps only a vorn older, but he’s also bigger than you, physically more fit and, oh, what was the last thing on the tip of my glossa? Ah, yes; more mature,” the medic stated, not impressed. “For example, he never tried to slip into the Zap-Horses’ paddock during the night to try and see how it was to ride one, and he didn’t almost get trampled by said Zap-Horses when it failed.”

Jetstorm blushed. “I…”

“He also never broke an arm strut after falling from cliffs his Carrier AND Sire had strictly forbidden him to climb,” Ratchet continued matter-of-factly.

“Slipstream did too!”

“And that’s supposed to be an excuse?” Ratchet retorted. “We had an agreement, your Sire, I and you; if you could prove us you were mature and responsible for a full season of travel and hunting, then we would allow you to participate. You didn’t fill your part of the contract, so don’t come up whining because we won’t fill ours. Don’t look at me like that, Jetstorm,” he added with a frown. “I said ‘no’ and that’s final. And if you don’t believe me, your Sire will be happy to confirm.”

“You’re blowing everything out of proportion!” the black mechling whined, letting himself drop on his aft, arms crossed and pouting.

“No, kid, I’m not,” the medic shook his head, his face softening as he walked over Jetstorm and knelt before him, patting his helm. The Sparkling leaned into his touch, the pout softening as well. “You’re still young, Jetstorm. There’ll be other games.”

“But I want to participate; I want to show them all of great I’ve become, me and Slipstream both…”

“Don’t drag me into it, I didn’t ask for anything!” the red mechling whined as he continued to tickle Smokescreen’s belly, Optimus still watching them from the corner of his optics.

“Noted,” Ratchet chuckled before he became serious once more. “Jetstorm, why do you wish to grow up so fast?” The mechling didn’t answer, looking away. “I know you want to make me and your Sire happy and proud, but we’re already so very proud of you. You don’t need to participate in the Games for us to see what a great mech you’re shaping up to be, you know that, right?”

“But if I don’t, the others will not want to play with me anymore!” Jetstorm blurted out before blushing and hiding his mouth behind his hands, while Slipstream flinched.

“Ooooh, Sparklings’ drama,” Optimus murmured, shaking his head in disbelief and lingering amusement. Sparklings were the same everywhere, it seemed. Slowly, he rose to his pedes and moved to go crouch besides Slipstream and Smokescreen, making sure he wasn’t accidentally stepping on a toy. Smokey immediately started to show him the teddy bear he had been playing with while Slipstream eyed him warily, his attention split between the adult he didn’t know well, the Sparkling he had been watching over for said adult, and his Carrier and sibling.

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his olfactive sensor, muttering something about ‘Minerva not having been so hard to raise’ before he looked at his son in the optics. “Run that by me again, little one? Did someone give you grief, perhaps?” he prompted. “Jetstorm, either you tell me yourself, or I’m asking Slipstream, and we both know your brother can’t tell a lie to save his life,” he warned.

“Not true!” Slipstream exclaimed, rushing by his brother’s side, Smokescreen and Optimus forgotten already. “We’re alright, Carrier, nothing to worry about!”

“You realize your olfactive sensor twitch when you’re not telling the truth, right?” Ratchet mentioned casually, making the red mechling blush. “Now, I’m waiting, kids. Don’t be afraid to speak before Optimus; he’s here for a while and I won’t delay this conversation,” he warned. “Obviously something has been festering for a while, and I want to know what.”

“... Rockslide said he won’t play with ‘babies’,” Jetstorm finally mumbled, not looking at his Carrier. Slipstream nodded vigorously. “And not just him, Carrier! Terradive too, and Gunbarrel and Thunderwing too! They’re the only mechlings our age, and their Creators let them participate to the Games last stellar cycle and now they say they’re too grown up to play with us both!” Jetstorm grunted. “They gave us the cold shoulder all season! We tried showing them we were grown up too, that we were as good as them, but they just laughed and said we’d remain babies until we manage to participate in the Games!”

“Oh? Is that all? Because we all know they’re the smartest and most sensitive individuals around, of course,” the medic commented. His sons looked at him, hurt, and he sighed. “Oh, sweetlings, why do you always have to listen to idiots and blow what they say out of proportion?”

“We’re not blowing it out of proportion, Carrier,” Slipstream protested.

“Of course you are; you always do,” Ratchet replied, shaking his head with sad fondness, reaching out to hug both of his sons against his frame, much to the mechlings’ protests.

“Let me tell you something, Slipstream, Jetstorm. You’re good Bitlets, and I’m glad to have you as Creations, even when you drive me up the walls with your antics -- like the time you almost ran up in the desert out of shame when you accidentally chipped your Sire’s blade, Jetstorm.” The mechling blushed. “But if you’re good Bitlets, you’re also just that: Bitlets. You may have forgotten it, but Rockslide and the others are both older AND bigger. I know for you, a vorn doesn’t seem like much, but to a medic like me, it is. A lot of changes can happen in a Sparkling under one vorn. Just look at Smokescreen here,” he waved toward Optimus and his son. “In one vorn, he’ll be able to toddle around happily and start speaking his first words in intelligible Cybertronian. That doesn’t seem like much, but trust me, to a Creator, it is. Plus, and I can’t believe I have to stress it out again, you two are TWINS; you’re naturally smaller than most of you agemates, and you’re also taking more time hitting the important development stages. There is no shame in that; you just have to be patient.”

“‘s not fair,” Jetstorm mumbled against Ratchet’s shoulder while Slipstream snuggled deeper into his side, hugging him close.

“Life rarely is,” Optimus commented before Ratchet could, earning himself a dry look from the medic. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he muted toward Ratchet.

“What he said,” the medic nodded. “Stop caring about what those idiots are saying; it’s not like you’re alone, are you? You have each other, and you have a handful of younger playmates still -- playmates who won’t think you too old to play with them,” he winked and glanced at Smokescreen knowingly.

“But he’s so little he doesn’t speak, Carrier,” Slipstream half-objected. He still stole a look toward Smokescreen himself, waving at the Bitlet who waved back, tiny doorwings fluttering in the most adorable way.

“Well, you can try and help him develop his language skills,” the medic argued back, ignoring Optimus coughing and his amused ‘isn’t that my role?’.

“He can’t play ball or hide and seek or pick-up sticks or dices,” Jetstorm half-objected as well, but him too waved at Smokey.

“Someone will have to teach him the rules, won’t they?” Ratchet replied matter-of-factly. “Granted, it’s not for today, but in the meanwhile, I can think of half a dozens of young mechs who’d be happy to play with you. Plus, I’d like to remind you we’re in New Kolkular; there are currently many, many Sparklings here for you to play with.”

“But you said we should stay away from the other tribes?” Slipstream asked curiously.

“Some of them are better avoided, but there’s still plenty of mechlings in allied tribes you can meet up with. I can organize a playdate, if you wish?” At the unconvinced look on his Creations’ face, he paused, looking crossed and thoughtful. “Very well. You know what? I’m going to speak with your Sire. You too may be too young to enter the Younglings events, but if Drift agrees, maybe we can reward you otherwise. How about we register you on the Sparklings’ orienteering game? Or the scavenger hunt?”

“The scavenger hunt is too easy!” Jetstorm whined at the same time Slipstream cheered. “Yay! Orienteering!” Obviously, the idea was meeting his approval.

“Isn’t it dangerous with the storms?” Optimus asked, alarmed at the thought the two small mechs -- and if they were indeed older than Smokescreen, they truly weren’t that big -- could lost themselves outside.

“We don’t hold them outside if the weather don’t allow for it,” Ratchet shook his head. “There is plenty of space in the different levels of the rotunda and in the underground area where the arena is situated. Plus, there are always adult to supervise them everywhere.” He patted Jetstorm’s helm again. “Alright, sweetling?”

“... Can we speak with Sire first?” the black mechling finally asked in a small voice.

“Of course we will. And I think it’s high time Drift took some time to cuddle you properly,” the white and red mech replied, making the two Sparklings look up at him horrified, prompting Ratchet into a long, loud burst of laughter which in turn made Smokescreen look up at him curiously, chirping worriedly at his Carrier.

Optimus smiled and took him on his knees, shaking his head. “It’s nothing, little one. Just… a family being a family,” he whispered with longing.

Chapter Text

“Thank you for coming with me, Bulkhead,” Optimus nodded amiably as he walked the rotunda, Smokescreen half-asleep in his arms. “With Megatron away in the mines for the day and Ratchet busy with a patient, I didn’t know who to address to. I know I should have asked someone from my own tribe but…”

“No need to justify yourself, Optimus,” the green mech shrugged. “If anything, I’m glad you sought me out and consider me enough of a friend to confide in. I know it’s not easy taking your marks in a new tribe when you just mated, I don’t want to imagine what it’s like for someone who is learning, well, everything.” He rubbed the back of his helm. “Sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have…?”

“It’s alright,” Optimus answered calmly. “I know I have many things to learn, which is why I don’t want to venture alone in the market. You’re sure it doesn’t bother you to help me trade a few items?” he asked again worriedly as he glanced quickly at the goods a trader presented before dismissing them altogether; there was nothing worth a double check here.

“Of course not! I need to get something for me and Jackie as well, so it’s no biggie.”

“How is Wheeljack anyway?” Optimus asked curiously, thinking back about the way the white mech had stormed out when he had first met him. He hadn’t heard of him since, nor saw him -- but given how large New Kolkular was and how many mechs populated it, Optimus supposed it was normal.

Bulkhead’s shoulders sagged. “He’s sulking -- and when he sulks, he can disappear for days. I only know he’s fine and grumpy thank to his comms, but I had to threaten to barge in his dugout and drag him out by the scruff bar before he agree to even talk.”

That made Optimus feel self-conscious. “I’m sorry; if Megatron hadn’t...”

“Don’t be,” Bulkhead shrugged. “If your mate hadn’t needled him, someone else would have; Jackie doesn’t have that many friends, and he tends to rub mechs the wrong way. Hopefully he’ll calm down soon enough, and I think what I’ve in mind will cheer him up. But how about you?”

“About me?” Optimus repeated dumbly, caught off guard. “What do you mean by that?” he asked as they passed by what Optimus was tempted to call an herborist. Several pots full of dried metalloplants and powders were lined up. He scanned them quickly before dismissing them like he did the previous ones. What he searched wasn’t here.

“You know, Optimus, what I don’t understand is why you didn’t wait for your mate; surely, Megatron would have been happy to help? Especially since you told me you needed something for your Sparkling?” Bulkhead gave Smokescreen a significant look, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched the doorwinged Bitlet calmly suck on his thumb, optics flickering on and off.

The red and blue mech blushed slightly. “It’s… not for Smokescreen, but for the other.” Bulkhead’s optics widened slightly. “Which is why I had wanted Ratchet to come with me, but he had to deal with a patient at the last moment. Apparently, the tribe’s other main healer wasn’t available and it’s too delicate work for First Aid or Minerva, whatever it means.”

“Ookay, okay,” Bulkhead mumbled. “It usually means someone is about to lose a limb -- do not worry, Ratchet knows what he’s doing!” he added quickly as Optimus paled, optics dimming. “I said ‘usually’, it may not be the case here! Anyway, what did you say you were seeking?” he tried to divert the conversation, and Optimus sighed.

“I’m looking for a particular species of dried metalloflowers to make infusions, on Ratchet’s instructions. I could use supplements during my gestation, but what I’m familiar with is not available here.” He thought longingly about the tablets and pills he had so easily poured in his warm energon cubes when he had been expecting Smokescreen. “He gave me a description and a few image captures of the ones I’d need, but I’m unsure about my ability to trade for them, and I didn’t wish to bother Megatron. Those days, he hardly has time for me -- he spends his time mining all day long and when he comes back, he’s too tired to do much more than crashing down and recharge.”

His shoulders sagged slightly at the reminder. On the most part, he didn’t mind Megatron being absent, for he still harbored conflicted feelings toward the grey mech, but sometimes he did miss his presence. Megatron was familiar and comforting, a new constant in his life and Smokescreen -- and indeed the Sparkling was getting distressed not being able to see his ‘Sire’ regularly, often looking and crawling around while making questioning chirps, something he had regularly done when he had been searching for an absent Flame. The way Smokey’s little face lighted when Megatron finally entered the shelter was nothing short of beaming and it made Optimus’ Spark flutter with bittersweet feelings.

To Megatron’s credit, even dirty from head to toes and exhausted by a day of hard labor -- and it was obvious he was, Optimus couldn’t miss the subtle tremors rattling his frame -- the nomad always took a moment to hold Smokescreen and cuddles with him. Which in turn prompted Optimus to give Smokescreen an impromptu bath in a ‘tub’, actually the reversed, empty shell of a massive Turbo-Turtle, while Megatron stoically cleaned himself with a rag before Optimus tutted and fussed over him as well, using small brushes to dig out the dirt Megatron hadn’t gotten out of his joints. The red and blue mech suspected Megatron did it on purpose, but he could have been wrong…

He must have looked ridiculous, kneeling behind the sitting Megatron and rubbing wet rags all over him, but at least it had helped fight down his boredness. Because it was the biggest downside to Megatron’s absence: Optimus ended up being alone almost all solar cycle.

Perhaps the fault laid partly on him; he made no true effort to get out and mingle with the rest of the tribe and get to know them better. He knew most of them from sight alone and if they were friendly enough, but Optimus didn’t feel at ease with them yet. Ratchet, Bumblebee and Jazz -- and by extension, Prowl -- were the only mechs he truly knew among the tribe and whom he trusted, but either they were too busy, in Ratchet’s case, or they were elusive, in Bumblebee, Jazz and Prowl’s case. He had pondered asking Dreadwing, or even Lugnut or Strika, but he had ended dismissing the idea; loyal to Megatron they might be, but Optimus remained wary of them, far too aware they were still judging his worth as Megatron’s mate.

Bulkhead had been a spur-of-the-moment inspiration, prompted by Smokescreen recognizing the mech and chirping happily at him -- not that he dared to say it truthfully to the green mech. Still, Bulkhead felt safe, especially after the ‘incident’ with little Miko; Optimus had seen the gentleness hidden behind his massive frame, the carefulness he had with smaller beings, and since Smokescreen apparently liked him, he was a good choice of guide/chaperon. On the plus side, since he wasn’t of Megatron’s tribe, Optimus didn’t feel as if he was judged every step he took, allowing him to completely relax around the bulky mech.

“Most mechs who do mining end up like that,” Bulkhead nodded readily as he opened a path through the crowd, mechs still parting easily before him and his bulk. “Do you know what he’s searching for?”

Optimus frowned. “Ores for a new weapon, I think. Is it important?”

“Simple curiosity,” Bulkhead answered easily, but Optimus raised an optic ridge and gave him a look. The green mech’s frame tensed a little before he sighed. “Okay, okay, I’m mainly concerned about what kind of thrashing I can expect from him if we end up face to face in the arena, but it’s wrong of me to ask from you and I won’t anymore, alright?”

“Alright,” Optimus nodded. “Now, do you know where we could find dried crystalline sorrel leaves?”

The green mech frowned for a moment, thoughtful before he snapped his digits. “Ah, yes. If you want sorrel, we better head out toward the southern part of the rotunda. That’s where you find the metalloplants from the wetter regions and the Cryo-Fishes. I bet Ratchet told you to take Cryo-Fishes’s liver oil as well, uh?” he asked sympathetically, making Optimus wince.

“He did mention it, and from his and your looks, I understand it probably taste as good as it sounds, isn’t it?”

“Awful,” Bulkhead confirmed, “but it really help. It‘s good for growing Sparklings and for expectant Carriers, plenty of supplements inside, but sadly, you often wish you didn’t have glossa buds when you must take a spoonful. I remember how much I hated the stuff while I was growing up and I don’t look forward getting reaquainted with it for anything.”

“Joy,” Optimus deadpanned, shifting Smokescreen in his arms as the Sparkling snuggled against his chest. “I’m surprised you have Cryo-Fishes available at all,” he mentioned to entertain the conversation. “I mean, you can’t find them in the Badlands; are you trading them in an outpost?”

Bulkhead shrugged. “Of course not; we fish them ourselves. Some of our number go very far in search of fuel,” he confided. “One of the hunting grounds we have is very prized because it contains an actual river, which the tribe live next to all season. They’re the ones who bring in the Cryo-Fishes and the pearls, when they follow the river to the Cobalt Sea.”

“Are you going to fight for it this year then?” Optimus asked worriedly, making Bulkhead snort.

“I wish! That particular segment is off-limit, though -- it was given to a specific tribe which has plenty of mechs with altmodes allowing them to go on and under water. We grounders wouldn’t be able to bring even half the number of preys they do if we tried, so the Council of Chieftains decided the hunting ground was a permanent concession to that tribe, so long they filled a yearly quota and allowed a sister-tribe or two to prowl their territory for additional fuel.”

Optimus made a small ‘oh’ and nodded in understanding as he continued to follow Bulkhead around. They passed by numerous stands, some of which Optimus was surprised to see were held by Sparklings or Younglings having mounted various spectacles. Some were reacting a puppets show, others were juggling. A couple were even playing music with various stringed instruments and drums fashioned with empty Turbo-turtles shells, energon and metal cords and mechanimal hides.

“Kids got to occupy themselves,” Bulkhead shrugged as Optimus asked him why. It made sense, really. “I used to do that as well when I was their age -- especially when I was too young to get into the Games. Once I did, I was spending my whole time training,” he boasted.

“And did it bring you victory?” Optimus asked playfully, making Bulkhead deflat.

“Well… not exactly. I…”

“He often lost against me,” someone drawled behind them, making Bulkhead still and snarl as he turned to face a mech Optimus knew from sight -- he had seen him with Megatron’s sister-tribe, the mate of the healer Knock Out if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Breakdown, you…! What happened to your optic?!” Bulkhead stammered, going from angry to aghast in a klik as he took in the sight of the blue and grey mech. Optimus stared as well; it wasn’t the first time he saw Breakdown and his unique feature, of course, but it was the first time he saw him from up close since the main and sister-tribe had joined to finish the trip to New Kolkular. He hadn’t been able to make an opinion of the couple yet, but he had certainly noticed them, between Knock Out small red frame and his comparatively tall, hovering mate. But that wasn’t the reason Breakdown had stood out so much to Optimus. The red face was unusual in itself among the nomad, but the eyepatch which marred one of the newcomer’s yellow optics was nothing short of jarring, and he was happy Smokescreen had finally fallen asleep and was so spared the sight. Optimus would have rather not thought about the kind of damage the patch was hiding.

Bulkhead shook his head slowly as Breakdown stayed silent. “Mech, did something get the drop on you? That surprises me; you’re usually more careful than that. And how come your precious mate didn’t change it already?”

“Not something, someone,” the blue and grey mech corrected, looking deeply unhappy. “Someone you know well and will not be happy to be reminded of.”

Bulkhead stilled again, face decomposing in a look of abject disgust and… was it fear? “You don’t mean…?”

“Airachnid is back,” Breakdown said shortly, frame tense, his unique optic scanning the crowd around them. Bulkhead swore loudly and with a variety of words which made several mechs turn to stare at him, while Optimus hugged Smokescreen close and doubly thanked the Sparkling for his nap.

“Slag, slag, slag, slag, slag! Where? When? Is she here in New Kolkular yet? I thought the Tribes Justice Division had dealt with her?! Frag, I need to tell Arcee and Chromia before they stumbled on her! I need to tell June! Are the Minicons warned?!” He wriggled his hands nervously, looking ready to bolt, Optimus completely forgotten, and it made all sort of alarms rung under Optimus’ helm. He didn’t know who they were talking about, but he knew bad news when he heard it.

“I don’t know,” Breakdown grunted. “I had the misfortune to run into her three orbital cycles ago while on a solo hunting, and I’m slagging lucky I didn’t end up dead and in pieces!” The last part was snarled out, making him bare his dental plates and Optimus took a careful step back, wondering if he shouldn’t cover behind Bulkhead. Breakdown quickly calmed down though, his face schooling in a neutral, distant expression. “You shouldn’t insult my mate’s capacities to repair me, Bulkhead. Knock Out did a fantastic job of welding me back together and decreasing the risk of heavy scarring over my face. Sadly, that bitch Airachnid didn’t just rip out my optic, she made sure to make long-lasting damage to the optical nerves and sensors. They’re fragged up so bad they’re useless.” His fists tightened minutely, and Bulkhead winced in sympathy.

“Sorry, mech; it’s rough.” Breakdown dismissed the concern with a frown.

“Your friend Arcee knows; Knock Out dropped by her shelter a few solar cycles ago. From what I heard, she didn’t take the news well.”

“What? Did you expect something else, considering?” the green mech rumbled with irony, making Breakdown snort.

“Of course not; but I certainly didn’t expect her to pass her nerves on my mate!” He moved, gesturing toward a lithe red mech, draped in a poncho, who was arguing with a trader. They were too far away for Optimus to hear them or feel their EM fields, but it was obvious by their demeanour and their gestures the discussion was heated. Finally, with a final huff, the red mech exchanged several goods -- a sealed pot, three covers and a handful of beads -- against a jar that promptly disappeared into subspace. Knock Out turned on his heels and, after advising where Breakdown was and who was with him, made his way toward them with a subtle grace he had obviously worked up on.

But the grace did nothing to hide his foul temper, and he was cursing under his breath as he joined Breakdown. From so close, Optimus could make out various scratch under the poncho, which hadn’t been here the last time he had seen the tribe healer. Whoever ‘Arcee’ was, she had made a number on him, at least on a cosmetic level.

“Five ounces of spices, three covers and twelve beads for a pound of red ochre, it’s extortion!” he snapped angrily as Breakdown passed an arm around his shoulders and started to rub his back.

Bulkhead eyed him dubiously. “If you used vermilion red like everyone…”

“Are you kidding?” the healer huffed, affronted. “Vermilion is nowhere near the color I need in order to make the right hue for my personal paint stock! And don’t get me charged on what those rapaces are setting for the ingredients I need for my polish,” he bemoaned dramatically. Optimus almost laughed; almost. Bulkhead certainly wasn’t shy of showing his amusement though.

“Sad for you, Knock Out, but that’s what happen when someone is so vain.” The comment made Knock Out snarl and Breakdown growl.

“What did you just say to my mate?!”

Bulkhead drew himself up, EM field tucked close but full of refrained hostility. “Nothing but the truth: if he wasn’t so vain, then he wouldn’t have to complain about…”

Which was Optimus decided now was a good moment to intervene. “Excuse me? Bulkhead, I still need those supplements, and you promised to show me where I could get them,” he interfered as quickly and nicely as possible, hoping to bury the budding conflict before it could escalate from words to fists.

It effectively stalled the complains as Breakdown and Knock Out both eyed him. “Ah, Megatron’s new mate,” Knock Out acknowledged. “Optimus, right? What are you doing in the company of Mister Bumpkin here? Oooh, is that your and Megatron’s little one?” he asked again with interest as he noticed Smokescreen, still blessedly recharging with his thumb in his mouth. “How adorable! You’re seeking supplements for the new Bitlet? Why don’t you come with us, I can show you the good addresses?” he offered with a small smirk as he glanced at Bulkhead, looking superior.

It really rubbed Optimus the wrong way. “Thank you very much, but I’m trying to enjoy my time with a friend, who has already promised me to show me the ‘good addresses’,” he said calmly. “I take note of your consideration, though, and thank you for your offer,” he added with a formal bow and letting his EM field flare up with obvious gratitude, which seemed to take the healer and his mate aback.

“Ah, uh… well, if you insist,” Knock Out finally said, sounding annoyed. “We’ll be on our way ourselves. Bulkhead,” he nodded sharply. “You better keep an optic on your mini-friends; you know how that witch of a femme like to set up webs everywhere.”

“Are you sure she’s in New Kolkular though? She could have just, I don’t know, holed herself up somewhere else?” the big mech asked, grimacing and sounding vaguely pleading, prompting Knock Out and Breakdown to snort.

“Are you kidding? She wouldn’t have missed a chance to see ‘dear old Arcee’ and make her life a living Pit!” Knock Out exclaimed even as Breakdown spoke. “She’s here, we know it; her original tribe lined up her name as one of their contestants for this season’s Games.”

“They…? Oh slag it to the Pit!” Bulkhead moaned, facepalming. “How could they…? Can’t the Justice Division just take custody of her and be done with it?”

“I guess they’re either that desperate or that stupid,” Knock Out shrugged. “And no, the Division will not intervene; her tribe accepted her back for the season, thus she’s not an exile anymore. Of course,” he started to smirk, “at the end of the Games, her protection will become void, and she will have to run fast if she wants to survive. Especially if I manage to rile up enough mechs to take arms against her.”

“It’s not exactly legal,” Bulkhead pointed out, though he looked anything but sorry. He seemed contemplative. “I find it curious you get so worked up over her when you didn’t seem to care the slightest when she murdered Tailgate.”

Optimus startled. Murder? What could the nomads consider straight out murder, when their core values were so different from civilized mechs? Whatever that Airachnid had done must have been dire...

“‘Not legal’? So what? Considering whom we’re speaking about, I prefer to deal with her first and with the Justice Division later,” Knock Out snapped. “She had no right, no right to touch MY mate! Trust me, she’s going to pay for it!”

Bulkhead sighed while Breakdown shuffled nervously. “I should have known. You never care about anything if he doesn’t touch you directly.”

“Sorry I’m not a bleeding Spark like you,” the healer shrugged. He eyed Optimus for a moment, considering. “You should keep a close optic on your son, Optimus,” he said flatly. “Airachnid has no real beef with Megatron, but she LOVES Sparklings -- and not in a good way, if you get my drift. So be careful, will you?”

He turned and left without further word, Breakdown almost running after him and carelessly shoving passerbies out of his way, making them curse at him. Optimus turned toward Bulkhead, face pale and optics dims.

“What does that mean, ‘she LOVES Sparklings’? And who is Airachnid?!” he asked with a twinge of hysteria, feeling his core temperature climb and his frame minutely shake, his processor racing. His CPU came up with all sorts of nasty images, snapshots from Iacon’s news filled with horrific stories about unspeakable acts done on small, fragile beings. His grip on Smokescreen tightened, waking up the Bitlet who cried out in pain and confusion at being woken up so suddenly and unexpectedly from his nap.

Optimus bounced him up in his arms, trying not to whimper in distress himself. He was normally more courageous than that, and had the circumstances been different, he would have snarled, snapped and perhaps run up to the menace to deal with it before it could even pick up Smokescreen’s youthful and innocent EM field.

Right now? He felt tired, anxious, scared, confused, overwhelmed by everything he saw, heard, felt for the last orn, his systems were pinging him about the lack of proper nutriments in his daily fuel, the Sparkling in his gestation chamber wasn’t developing right he just knew it, Smokescreen was crying and there was no one feeling remotely safe around he could bury his face against and feel reassured by…

Until large grey arms snaked around him and he was suddenly brought up against a broad chest the same color as the arms holding him close. Optimus buried his face against Megatron, allowing the whimpers to leave him. Clawed hands patted his back soothingly, Megatron’s red optics looking down at him worriedly.

“I finished earlier than planned, I came to our shelter but you were gone, and here I find you distressed,” he murmured, flaring his EM field to calm both his mate and Sparkling while levelling an unimpressed look on the suddenly shuffling Bulkhead. “What happened?” he ordered the other mech, his patience low for one who wasn’t of his tribe and whom, for all he knew, was the one who had put his mate in such a state.

“Uh… we, we got a little ‘friendly warning’ from Knock Out,” Bulkhead stammered, caught by surprise by the cold fury in Megatron’s optics. The mech generally wasn’t so calm and quiet when he was unnerved; ordinarily, he could have already grabbed Bulkhead by the throat and lifted him up, strangling him and asking for answers. Meh. Perhaps having a mate and a son and soon a second to take care of was changing him? “A ‘friendly warning’ about Airachnid,” Bulkhead prompted further, swallowing as the fury in Megatron’s optics intensified. Thankfully, he realized it wasn’t directed at him, but still…

“I see,” the grey mech let out in a clipped tone. “I shall bring my mate and son back to our shelter. I will see to them.”

“We, uh, were supposed to go seek supplements for him,” Bulkhead let out worriedly as Megatron gently guided Optimus away, earning himself a flat look. “Nevermind, I’ll go pick them and bring them to your shelter myself, okay?” he said quickly, not bothering to wait for an answer before leaving. Hopefully by the time he dropped by, Megatron would have calmed, and so would have Optimus. Mech had fragile nerves… but then again, Carriers could get hypersensitive when their Sparklings could be at risk, and Airachnid was one Pit of a risk!

“Who is she?” Optimus asked much later in a low voice, sitting in Megatron’s lap, hands tightened around a bowl full of hot oil in which Ratchet, called to quickly give him a look over, a mixed a crystalline powder to help his systems recover a normal setting. Smokescreen had stopped crying and was now innocently playing on the ground, crawling after a rubber ball Jetstorm had grumpily given him, the black mechling claiming he was ‘too old’ to play with it himself.

“A dangerous femme,” Megatron rumbled. “An abomination we hope will be put down some day.”

“What did she do?” Optimus whispered, processor half-foggy, optics focused on Smokescreen, as if hypnotized by the moves of his tiny doorwings. “Knock Out said she ‘loved’ Sparklings… but it’s not good, isn’t it?”

“Airachnid is a sadist,” Megatron confessed, arms tight around his mate. “Always has been. She’s descended from Insecticons, like most mechs of her tribe. But where they are sociable, if odds in their form, speech or demeanour, she always stood out as different. More violent. More cunning. More… monstrous.” He rumbled unpleasantly. “We can’t attest what she was like as a Sparkling, but we started to notice her at Younglinghood, when Minicons started to get caught up in webs. Sometimes, solar or decacycles passed before we found them, trapped in the most improbable places, half-dead from starvation. When it started to move to Sparklings, we grew concerned -- and we eventually found out the source of the webs.”

“Airachnid,” Optimus murmured.

“Airachnid,” Megatron confirmed grimly. “She was severely punished, of course, but it didn’t deter her. She could trap a prey in her webs and start to observe them for solar cycles without moving as she watched them fight against the webbing, more and more slowly, and succumb to despair or even die. She has patience.” He worked his vents, sighing. “She grew up and she started to seriously hunt, but it was clear she wasn’t normal even in that regard. We can lay the extinction of a least two species of mechanimals at her pedes, perhaps more. She loves to take trophies -- and not the normal way.” He made a face, unseen by Optimus, and refrained from elaborating. His mate didn’t need to know about the whole, rotting heads in her collection.

“Who’s Arcee?” Optimus murmured again, still watching Smokescreen play. “Bulkhead and Breakdown spoke of someone called Arcee, and she being out of her mind at news of Airachnid’s presence… They said something about Airachnid committing murder… hers?”

“Ah,” Megatron rumbled. “Understandable. No, she didn’t murder Arcee -- though she may have claimed part of her Spark, twice. Let me tell you a story, my mate. Once, a long time ago, outsiders built a village over a trail that Beryllium-Boars, precious for the hunters due to their size, followed during their migration and to join their reproduction sites. When the tribe assigned to this sector came in, they were angered to see their fuel had disappeared, and decided to rectify the matter by attacking the new outpost. They had thought it populated only by adults mechs, warriors from the city dwellers. They were wrong for, in the rubbles of a destroyed house, a warrior found two small female Sparklings, hidden away by Creators who died bravely defending them. The rest of the outpost population was decimated, and so the warrior took his responsibility and upheld honor by adopting them, making them members of his tribe. The two femmelings were of similar built and colors, as blue as the sky on a clear Cybertron midday. They were small, but quick and agile, as tough as steel. The eldest sister was named Chromia. The younger one was called Arcee.”

He paused, wondering how to spin the tale. “Arcee made herself noticed by many during the Games, an excellent shots in the Youngling contests, a superb rider during the races, and an incredible fighter during the gladiatorial matches, easily dispatching her adversaries. Many mechs and femmes alike started to look at her as a potential mate, rivaling to gain her favors, hoping she would take them under her tents -- or setting up ambushes she easily thwarted, hoping to bring her under their tent. In time, she started to notice a mech she started to harbor tender feelings for. He was named Tailgate, and was of her tribe. The two were thinking seriously of starting a courtship and ask the Elders to help them set a hunt for each other, not caring who would win, when the unthinkable happened.”

“Tailgate died,” Optimus stated calmly, easily deducing the outcome.

“Tailgate died,” Megatron confirmed. “He died in the arena, during a match against a spider-like femme who had also noticed Arcee. But whereas Tailgate’s feeling were pure and sweet, those of the femme were called and are still called into doubt, for no one can tell if Airachnid is motivated by love, as strange as it sounds, or by a pure desire to hurt Arcee. What is certain is that she webbed Tailgate to the ground and dealt a mortal blow before the referees and the Chieftains could stop the fight, which was not supposed to be lethal.” Several mortal blows, rather, but he wasn’t about to tell Optimus that. Airachnid had drawn it out as long as she could before everyone caught on she had intended to kill her adversary from the start, and that some of her bites and scratch had actually infected Tailgate with a poison leaving him no chance to survive.

“And she wasn’t arrested? tried? Executed?” Optimus asked, voice still calm, though his frame was tense.

“The death was ruled acceptable during a match, even if the way it happened was scandalous and contrary to honor,” Megatron scoffed. “It was a mistake, but there was nothing to be done. Perhaps things could have stayed quiet, if several vorns later, she didn’t kill the second of Arcee’s sweetsparks, yet another mech of her tribe, this one named Cliffjumper. And she didn’t do it in the arena this time, but out in the open, during a hunt. She had been stalking Arcee’s tribe for an unknown amount of time, perhaps so she could kidnap the feisty femme herself, and so she witnessed the two becoming friends and more. She struck during a hunt, when Cliffjumper wasn’t with the other. Perhaps nobody would have known if Arcee hadn’t happened on the scene just as Airachnid struck,” he shook his head, grimacing. “They fought. Airachnid retreated, injured, and Arcee and her tribe reported the spiderbot to the Chieftains’ Council, the Tribes Justice Division and Airachnid’s own tribe. They officially cast her out for being dishonorable, thus allowing the Justice Division to officially hunt her down and ‘deal with the problem’. Sadly, she always managed to escape them, and now she’s back.”

Optimus breathed, shuttering his optics. “If she’s so dishonorable, why would her tribe take her back?”

“Desperation, I suppose,” Megatron murmured thoughtfully. ”They haven’t been faring well for vorns now, their number growing too quickly and their performance in the arena not allowing them better, bigger hunting grounds. Sadistic and potentially crazy or not, Airachnid remains a formidable opponent, and one of the best warriors they produced in hundred of vorns. They may have felt it was necessary, but they may not have realized how dire the consequences could be for them and their honor.”

“Starving mechs won’t care for that,” Optimus said flatly, optics focusing back on Smokescreen. “Megatron, be truthful. She’s not just here for Arcee, is she?

“I do not know, my mate,” the grey mech admitted. “She made no friends among the Minicons, and some among their number managed to humiliate her once by the past. A brave, brave Spark even destroyed her collection of trophies, and she remains bitter to this day.

“Was it June?” Optimus asked calmly, remembering Bulkhead’s fretting and his intent to warn the little femme.

“It may; I do not know,” Megatron said truthfully. He had only heard rumors, and he had never cared for them.

“Have you fought her?”

“In the arena, more than once. I always beat her.” It wasn’t a boast, but a simple statement. Optimus nodded, not surprised.

“She doesn’t like you, does she? No, don’t answer, I know it already. Tell me, Megatron, does she still lay her webs for mechlings and Minicons to fall in?”

“... She is known to continue trapping preys this way, yes,” the grey mech was forced to admit after a moment of silence.

Optimus stiffened. “I see.” His EM field flared out, full of fury and defiance, surprising Megatron. “Megatron? I want those fighting lessons, and I want them now. I don’t care if you think it’s not indicated in my state, but I need to get back in shape, and quick.”

Megatron looked down. There was a fire in his smaller mate’s optics, a fearsome determination as he looked at Smokescreen. The fierce courage of a Carrier wanting to defend his Creation from danger. It felt like those short moments in the wagon he had broken in, before surprise and despair and fear settle in. In those short, precious seconds, he had felt the steel under his mate’s gentle Spark, and he had been conquered.

“Of course, my mate,” he murmured. “I’ll do as you wish. Let’s find you a good weapon too start with, hum?”

And Megatron had just the one he wanted for his mate in mind. Somewhere on the market, there was an axe with Optimus’ name already engraved on its handle…

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe I have agreed to come,” Optimus sighed as he followed Bulkhead around, down the large spiral stairs leading to the fabled arena. Mechs and femmes were making their way downstairs as well, alone, in couple or in large groups, chatting excitedly between them. Smokescreen chirped and fussed angrily, not liking the fact he had been swaddled for the day, but Optimus wasn’t about to risk letting him wander if he had a moment of inattention. Hopefully, suckling once they were properly settled down would calm his son.

“You aren’t eager to cheer for Megatron?” Bulkhead asked, glancing at him over his shoulder and adjusting the shoulder strap of his bag -- something to which Optimus couldn’t help but glance curiously at. Normally, Bulkhead tended to put everything in his subspace pocket, but apparently he had been in a hurry and decided to just trade for a bag full of goodies, which he hadn’t bothered to put securely in his pocket, fearing to crush the treats inside. Which, Optimus had to agree after tasting one, would have been a shame. The delicate confection, filled with crystal-berries jam, was indeed very fragile but incredibly tasty, and he couldn’t help but look forward the moment Bulkhead would share them as he had promised. This days, Optimus had become increasingly hungry for sweet energon, and he had a good idea of why, he thought fondly as he caressed his belly.

“I can’t say I am,” he answered Bulkhead’s previous question when the mech coughed, reminding him he waited for an answer. “I don’t want to see him injured…”

The comment made Bulkhead snort. “Oh, trust me, it’s not for Megatron you should worry, but for whoever will end up against him.”

“Including you?” Optimus asked dryly. “I thought you were going to participate in the matches as well?”

“I should, but not today,” the green mech confirmed with a shrug. “Today will be mostly about Younglings events, a few races and the first archery round, and I haven’t registered for those. The matches happen later.”

“Then why did Megatron leave so early? If it’s all Younglings fights?” Optimus asked, feeling vaguely hurt and disappointed.

“Opening ceremony. The Heirs of each tribe are supposed to gather and light the arena’s torches after praying. Plus, they will help judge the Younglings’ events -- though they aren’t allowed to judge the Younglings belonging to their own tribe, to avoid favoritism.” The green mech rubbed the back of his helm. “Though no one will ever be able to accuse Megatron to show favoritism; that mech is a harsh critic.”

“Is that so? He never was like that with me,” Optimus murmured, thinking back about the fighting lessons they had taken together a few solar cycles ago. Megatron had been so patient, correcting his posture and his handle on the training staff with infinite care, his hands resting on Optimus’ own as he shadowed his every moves and guided him through a series of exercises. Megatron had promised him something better, soon, but until he knew where his mate stood in term of fighting prowess, the staff would have to do. Optimus had taken to keep it strapped to his back, though today, he had decided against.

“You’re his mate; I suppose he’s more patient with you,” Bulkhead shrugged as he moved to the side to let a group of giggling Sparklings run past him and down the stairs in a blur of indigo. Optimus watched them go with a blink.

“Did those Sparklings wore… hats?”

“Turbans, actually,” Bulkhead corrected with a chuckle. “The tribe they belong to often do the longest treks by ground to join their allotted hunting field, very far East -- and they’re usually the last ones back to New Kolkular for the wintering, so perhaps you hadn’t had a chance to meet them?” Optimus shook his head; if he had met turban-clad mechlings before, he would have remembered. “The conditions there are harsher, since it brings them closer to the Rust Sea, where the winds and heat are far less endurable than in the rest of the Badlands, so they developed the habits to wear heavier clothes than ponchos. Turbans, robes, veils,...” he listed off. “Even here, they continue wearing them. It helps them stand out, and when you see them, then you know the wintering has officially started.” Bulkhead gave him a look. “You truly hadn’t noticed them before?”

“I think I had too much on my processor lately,” Optimus shook his head, making Bulkhead wince. They didn’t speak of Airachnid, or Optimus’ burst of hysteria, but it hung over them both.

“Ah… yes. Uh, goodies?” he offered, showing off his bag. As if understanding the word -- which he probably did -- Smokescreen perked up and chirped happily, making Bulkhead chuckle. “Ah, ah, those goodies aren’t for tiny babies,” the green mech singsonged, making Smokescreen’s smile change to a pout and Optimus shake his head in amusement.

“You shouldn’t tease him, Bulkhead,” the red and blue mech chided him as they reached the end of the stairs. Mechs were gathered at the bottom, waiting for guards to let them pass a double door as high as the ceiling and carved with various symbols Optimus eyed thoughtfully.

The writing was old, very old. He didn’t recognize the symbols, but unless he was mistaken, it was Old Cybertronian, though it didn’t resemble the glyphs he knew and had studied in old texts. Perhaps it was a variant, a local dialect now extinct? They had lost so much more than cities over time, he thought with a twinge of sadness. Primal Vernacular had been the most widespread before the Neocybex reformation -- and even that had been gradual, and linguists usually spoke of First, Second and Third Neocybex Reformation -- but it hadn’t been the only language used. Cants had been common in a number of city-states, and unless he was mistaken, those doors were reflecting such a dialect. Which tended to confirm Optimus’ first theory about New Kolkular having been founded over the ruins of the fabled city, for he doubted the nomads had crafted those doors and that writing themselves.

Soon enough, the crowd was being allowed in, a few mechs at time, and Optimus soon understood why: the door lead directly to the arena’s gradins. The bleachers were cascading down to a large ring at the center of which a brazier burned, spreading a smell of incense in the air. Burning torches of different colors had been installed all around the ring, probably reflecting some sort of symbolism, but Optimus was unable to say what. It was intriguing, though, and he wondered how they had managed to color the flame -- perhaps they had coated the brands with chemicals? He could make out various silhouettes in the ring itself, installing targets, and his Spark fluttered briefly as he recognized Megatron among them.

“Come on, if you want to get a close look at your mate, better hurry up and take a seat in the front rows,” Bulkhead tugged at his hand, helping him take a step down over a damaged area the green mech looked at crossly. “Looks like the Minicons didn’t finish their job this stellar cycle.”

“Are they usually the ones who maintain this place?” Optimus asked curiously.

“Pretty much, yeah. We sometimes give them a hand at the end of the season, but it falls under their assigned duties and responsibilities. Mind you, with everything they have to do, I can understand how they wouldn’t have been able to finish everything on time, but the Chieftains aren’t going to be happy,” he grimaced.

Optimus nodded distractedly and adjusted the sling and Smokescreen to make the Sparkling more comfortable as he looked right and left, unwilling to lose any details of the structure even as he was forced to take careful steps down, the steps revealing themselves slippery under his pedes. The bleachers were old, and it was obvious they had been half-destroyed at some point before the steps had been levelled somewhat and newer metal slabs installed to make the ‘seats’ more comfortable. Some parts still held carved scenes or old glyphs similar to the ones on the door, and Optimus thought briefly about the faces archaeologists and archaeometrists would do back in Iacon if they only had the opportunity to see what he was seeing -- Glyph especially. The little femme had haunted the Iacon Archives back when he had been working there, and he had often spoke passionately with her over several matters. Knowing her, she would probably overload on the spot just thinking about how much these gradins, this arena could teach them about Cybertron’s long forgotten past.

Glowing crystals had been installed at regular interval under those bleachers, diffusing a pale light that allowed everyone to watch their steps, making out paths in the stone and metal and helping dissipate part of the darkness this far underground. Most magnificent and radiant, though, was the formation of rough, uncut, gigantic crystals hanging from the ceiling just over the center of the ring, its pointed excrescences spreading in all directions. It looked, to Optimus’ optics, like an upside-down crystal-trees which roots were deeply burrowed into the cave’s ceiling. The light it diffused reminded him of the moon, and the tiny, stray shards he could make out here and there on the ceilings felt like stars.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, noting that Smokescreen had too become silent, his little mouth open in ‘o’ of surprise as he stared, mesmerized as well. “Is it natural?” he asked Bulkhead as the green mech moved in a row to take a seat, Optimus following him closely. Further down the row, the red and blue mech noted the presence of Dreadwing, who glanced and nodded at him in greeting but didn’t intrude, too busy talking with his brother Skyquake.

“I guess so?” Bulkhead blinked. “I never asked myself the question. I always knew that crystal outgrowth here, so I guess I’m too used to it to truly wonder.” He looked up briefly, frowning. “It’s alive, anyway. Well, sort of; it keeps growing, and the Minicons regularly trim the excrescences less they take too much place and invade the whole cavern.”

“And what do they make of the part they cut? Do they keep glowing, or do they become normal crystals?”

Bulkhead chuckled, obviously amused at Optimus’ eagerness to learn and his good-natured curiosity as they sat down; from here, they would have a good view on the targets. “The small shards usually stop glowing quick and are either mounted in jewelries or carved to make trinkets -- they’re not edible, so it’s a bit of a waste. The bigger ones, though, keep some phosphorescence and can be polished and ‘replanted’, primed to grow; those ones we use in the shelters as makeshift lamps to avoid using too much combustible for the firepits. You saw them, yeah?”

“I did,” Optimus confirmed, “but I hadn’t imagined they came from here.”

“All glowing crystals in New Kolkular come from the Crystalline Mother,” Wheeljack’s familiar voice drawled, making Optimus dart his optics to the side. Sure enough, in the row behind them, Wheeljack was calmly stretching, chin in a hand and a mocking smirk on his face. Bulkhead beamed at seeing him and greeted him cheerfully, but Optimus felt more wary. The white mech didn’t strike him as a bad person, but he wouldn’t categorize him as ‘friendly’ either. “Didn’t your mate teach you that?”

Optimus flinched while Bulkhead frowned, letting out a disapproving ‘Wheeljack!’ that made the white mech shrugs. “What? I’m just asking; is that wrong?”

“You could be more polite,” the green mech chided as he sat down heavily, the slab audibly creaking under his weight. Sighing internally at the close proximity of Wheeljack and his still miffed temper, Optimus sat gingerly, arranging Smokescreen’s swaddled body in his laps so the Sparkling could look at the ring beneath them.

“But I’m being polite,” Wheeljack objected, making Optimus audibly snort.

“If that’s polite, then I’d hate to see how you actually treat people you aren’t to -- and I’d hate to be you when they disagree with your manners.”

For a moment, there was silence, neither Bulkhead nor Wheeljack having expected him to speak, let alone to talk back to Wheeljack like that. Bulkhead stared, jaw hanging slightly open while Wheeljack whistled. “Ooooh, so Megatron’s little mate has some spunk after all! I was starting to wonder if the Cyber-Cat got your glossa and your spike,” he chuckled, ignoring Optimus’ very unamused look.

“I’d rather avoid crude language around my son, if you don’t mind,” he said politely if coldly, gently hugging Smokescreen close.

“I don’t think I ever saw you without the Bitlet,” Wheeljack noted as he leaned forward with narrowed optics. “You ever put him down? Or try to get him a sitter?”

Optimus raised an optic ridge, wondering where the question came from. There was something in Wheeljack’s voice… was it longing? He tilted his head to the side, pondering. Wheeljack was a Sire, but a Sire who had never even held his Creation, from what Optimus had learned. He was following the tribe of his Sparkling’s Carrier around, so he probably had spied on tender moments between Ultra Magnus, whoever he was, and little Strongarm. Was Ultra Magnus an attentive Carrier, like Optimus was, unwilling to let go of his Creation unless he felt sure and certain about the person he was handing the Bitlet to?

“I would perhaps consider the idea, had I not be made aware a certain Airachnid wasn’t prowling around,” he finally allowed out after a moment of silence, making Wheeljack’s optics flash.

“She’s slagging back?! You knew, Bulk?!” he turned angrily toward the green mech, who winced.

“Uh, I might have heard it from Knock Out and Breakdown?” he said weakly, flinching as Wheeljack’s face darkened. “Jackie, don’t rise and run to Magnus,” he hissed, grabbing the white mech’s hand before he could do just that, yanking him back down.

“Don’t? Are you slagging kidding me?! She’s out there, Bulk,” the white mech hissed back, trying to free his hand. By instinct, Optimus let himself slide to the side, just far enough to be out of reach should the two other mechs end up fighting. “Do you have any idea what that bitch could do to my daughter?! I need to make sure…!”

“She could do nothing more to Strongarm than she could do to any other Sparkling!” Bulkhead growled. “Slaggit, Jackie, Magnus knows! I told him myself, and he has already taken measures!” Wheeljack stilled and looked at the larger ‘bot with a betrayed look. “You…” he started before Bulkhead cut him off.

“Yeah, I know, I was wrong to go behind your back, but given you were off sulking again and out of contact, I had to do something! I warned the Minicons, who in turn warned a bunch of Carriers and hunters, and I went to deliver the news to Magnus myself because that was the right thing to do, as a friend!” He looked exasperated. “If you just kept your fragging comms on when you go off, I wouldn’t have had to do it -- sorry for the language, Optimus,” he excused himself with a nod toward the red and blue mech.

“Excuse accepted,” Optimus answered dryly, hands over Smokescreen’s audio receptors. “I sometimes wonder why I bother chiding people about their language; it’s obvious no one is listening to me,” he mumbled and disinterested himself from the agitated conversation in low, angry tones Bulkhead and Wheeljack started to have. At least, he tried to; it was hard to not hearing them and after a moment of awkward exchanges, he finally dimmed the volume of his receptors, so he wouldn’t hear anything more than a whisper while cuddling with Smokescreen.

His son was starting to get fussy again, wanting to move, and Optimus gently bounced him. “Sorry, little one, but you’re staying in your Creator’s laps,” he cooed, trying to entice the Sparkling’s attention to calm him down. It wasn’t an easy task, given the sulky look on the mechling’s face and the way he was huffing, but eventually, Smokescreen’s attention wandered and he chirped curiously at the preparations below. Helpful, Optimus lifted him up a little so he could have a better sight of the ring, and Smokescreen broke out in happy chirping as he caught sight of a familiar yellow plating.

“Ah, you recognized your friend, didn’t you?” Optimus chuckled, rising up so he was more visible.

In the arena, Bumblebee paused as he heard the high-pitched chirps and looked up, waving at Smokescreen and Optimus before walking up further to join a group of Younglings around his age, all of them with a bow slide over their shoulders. Two bows, actually, Optimus noted after narrowing his optics, quickly scanning the Younglings’ equipment.

The first bow was obviously a classical one, carved, bowed metal equipped with a supple, bendy energon-string to shoot roughly cut arrows, while the other, thicker, spotted a differently colored string -- a bow Optimus knew from readings was made of a special conductive material, in order to project energy shots. All they needed to work was an energy cell to insert in the bow; once done, the archer just had to pull on the string like he would with a regular bow, and energy would gather and pool at his fingertips, extending to the visor of the bow in a straight line, and once the archer released the string, the ‘energy arrow’ was shot like a regular projectile. They were used more to stun than to actually harm, but if the charge released was high enough, then an energy arrow could easily kill when it hit its mark.

His mind briefly flashed back to a guard falling off his mount in the caravan, and he shook his head to vanquish the memory, trying not to let his brief moment of upsetness show in his EM field, less he would worry Smokescreen.

He wasn’t sure he liked to see such weapons in the hands of still growing mechlings, but an off-conversation with Ratchet had assured him the cells they gave Younglings were not charged enough to deal lethal blows -- mostly because, despite being hunters and warriors by nature and tradition, young nomads were just as susceptible as young ‘city dwellers’ to try and show off their skills and have an accident. Ratchet had even commented amusedly on a few of the accidental injuries he had had to treats, ranging from someone shooting himself in the foot and being forced to hop down on one leg for three solar cycles until the numbness dissipated, to someone accidentally shooting an energy arrow in one of his comrades’ aft. Though it had nothing on the one Youngling who managed, somehow, to shoot HIMSELF in the aft.

Optimus had to admit he had giggled at those tales, mostly because Ratchet had a way to tell them that just was infectious and prompted you to laugh.

Bumblebee and the rest of the Younglings in the arena, however, looked far too collected and professional to fall victim to such incidents. Optimus eyed them thoughtfully, noticing the differences in frames, colors and style.

They were a very varied bunch, ranging from small, lithe mechs with obvious racer ancestry to large, burly mechs and femmes alike who had to be future trucks or tanks. A few were winged, with body-type ranging to thin Seekers model to heavier typed ones like Dreadwing. He spotted a distinctively doorwinged Praxian in the lot, as well as a mech with an unidentifiable altmode type he suspected was actually aquatic in nature. A few wore bright paint markings over their frames or faces, other wore charms as bracelets, some were spotting UV tattoos while other wore turbans or scarves or veils, displaying a wide range of style which Optimus concluded were proper to their respective tribes. It was like the nobles of Iacon wearing capes of different styles and length bearing their coat of arms at various celebrations to let them be identified from afar.

“What do my tribe and your tribe wear to be identified easily?” he asked politely, turning toward Bulkhead and resetting his audio receptors to a normal volume and thus interrupting Bulkhead and Wheeljack’s conversation. Apparently, they had calmed down significantly, because they both looked at him, blinking and surprised.

“What, you don’t know that either?” Wheeljack asked, raising an optic ridge, which annoyed Optimus. He gave a mock bow.

“Excuse me for not having been raised to know those details, nor to have thought about asking them before. I’m afraid that between losing my first mate, getting acquainted with the second, adjusting for a life I never knew of and making both my Sparklings were fine, I totally forgot to dig into lores and history,” he mentioned casually, raising an optic ridge in turn.

Wheeljack smirked while Bulkhead facepalmed. “I think I like your attitude -- even if you have a jerk as a mate. What? You know Megatron is,” he added at Bulkhead’s crossed look.

“Wheeljack…” the green mech sighed. “Our tribe, which is formally called Autobot, identifies its members with a series of painted red glyphs along the upper arms. See Overclock there?” he pointed to a blue Youngling slightly taller than Bumblebee, who was walking toward one of the ranges. Actually, all the Younglings were moving to join different ranges, beckoned by the adults. Optimus nodded, augmenting the focus of his optics to mech out the glyphs, which circled the entire limbs and from afar appeared like red bracelets around the arms. “Now, Decepticons’ traditional color is purple. Adults get painted or etched glyphs, but Younglings like the yellow one --”

“Bumblebee,” Optimus supplied, making Bulkhead pause and correct himself.

“-- Bumblebee then, well if you look closely, you’ll see he has a bangle with purple crystalline feathers hanging. That identifies him as a Decepticon-aligned Youngling, and one who is not of age to be taken as a mate. Those of age usually don’t wear jewelries unless they’re mated, and they get tiny glyphs etched on to show they’re available once they reach the proper age.”

This made Optimus jerk, optics widening in horror. “What do you mean, ‘identify him as not of age’?! Isn’t it obvious?” he waved toward Bumblebee and the rest of his group as they drew up numbers from a box an adult was handing to them, probably to determine their order of passage. “He’s a Youngling!”

Bulkhead rubbed the back of his helm while Wheeljack shrugged. “He is. Adulthood standards are rather fluctuating -- they depend on the tribes. For at least one, he’s about old enough to be mated, and in another, he’d be mated already.” He eyed Optimus with sympathy. “Relax, okay? Just because they happen to think he’s old enough doesn’t mean they can make a move on him without your tribe swearing a feud and kicking their collective afts. So long he’s considered too young in your tribe’s optics, then nobody will dare to court him.”

Dread lifted from Optimus’ Spark, though he remained unnerved. “I think I could have lived long without knowing that particular detail.”

“I think we all more or less had the same reaction the first time we realized it,” Bulkhead mentioned as he started to forage in his bag for goodies to munch on. “But don’t worry, even in the tribes were the adulthood age is set low, they tend to wait before they take mates.” Wheeljack nodded vigorously along as Bulkhead made a sound of triumph and bit into a treats, a large smile sprawled on his face; obviously, it was good.

“They’re not so crazy. They know you can’t really safely birth a Sparkling if your body isn’t ready for it, and Younglings are a little low in that area,” he drawled, and Optimus glared at him. “Just saying!”

“How about you shut up?” he mumbled uncharitably, appealed at the other mech’s crude approach on serious matters. He was trying to keep an open mind, he really did, remembering tips and bits he had learned from his readings and from visiting officials, such as the age of consent being of 25,000 vorns in Kaon whereas it was of 30,000 vorns in Neo Vos, far less than the 40,000 vorns Iacon’s law expected you to be before you submitted for a Bonding contract -- and even that was considered a bit young to make such a serious commitment -- but still, the thought one could look at Bumblebee and consider him ready to be ‘mated’... Brr.

Optimus shook his head and looked back at the arena as a horn blowed, the noise echoing in the massive cavern, making everyone focus on the events below. His optics immediately scanned the mechs downstairs in search of Megatron, finally finding him near the last range on the left, arms crossed over his chest as a group of Younglings neatly lined up before him in silence.

A grey helm lifted and Optimus briefly crossed gaze with red optics despite the distance. It was brief and he couldn’t be certain, but Optimus thought it was a smile he saw cross the face of his mate before Megatron turned away.

“Let’s the event start!” a voice proclaimed loudly in the ring as cheers rose from the gradins. Smokescreen screeched in fright at the sudden noise, making Optimus flinch even as he hugged the Sparkling and gently rubbed at his back through the swaddling cloth to sooth him, optics calmly scanning the ring for the source of the voice. It wasn’t hard to identify the owner; in the center of the ring, a wizened old mech who could have passed for one of Alpha Trion’s contemporaries -- and it was hard, for Alpha Trion was OLD and it showed -- was sitting, surrounded by several elderly mechs, a mic relied to an old-fashioned voice amplificator before him.

“Outdated tech again,” he murmured to himself as the cheering finally decreased, allowing the old mech to speak again.

“This season’s Games have officially started!” Another cheer spread through the arena. “Today, we gather in this sacred hallow to judge the strength and competences of our members, in accordance to tradition, in order to determinate whom among our number will be able to claim the right of ownership on the hunting ground of their choice!” Louder cheers and cries rung, making Optimus wince at the cheer volume as he put his hands over Smokescreen’s audio receptors. The echoes were really loud here.

“But a good fight is best appreciated after a few examples of sportsmanship and talent,” the wizened mech continued calmly, “especially when such abilities are displayed by the youngest among our number, those who represent our future and will one day step forward as true, acknowledged hunters of their respective tribes. Which is why I invite you now to give them a warm welcome as they prepare for their first event: the archery competition!”

The clapping which followed was nothing but thunderous, making Optimus look around in amazement as he saw many nomads rise to get a better look as the cheering reached its peak while the Younglings in the ring waved back to their supporters and saluted. So many were present already -- and more were coming through the doors, taking place in the last ranks left unfilled. And not everyone was here, the arena wasn’t big enough to allow all the tribes in at the same time -- according to Megatron at least, whom Optimus had briefly questioned about the place, without entering in the details.

“Let’s the first shots be fired,” the wizened mech let out before he turned the mic off, and the adults surrounding the Sparklings started to gesture for the first mechling of each line to take position.

“How do they judge them?” Optimus asked, turning briefly toward Bulkhead and Wheeljack. The white mech’s earlier rage had subsided and he was wearing a bored expression, but there were still signs, like a small tension in his frame, which indicated he wasn’t as unfeeling as he looked. As for Bulkhead, he seemed sad but resigned, and Optimus wondered how they had settled the situation. Obviously Wheeljack had seen reason, since he hadn’t stormed off, but it must have been a close thing. If he had to guess, Optimus would bet Bulkhead had only managed to negotiate a respite -- that’s it, Wheeljack would wait until the end of the event before leaving in a rush to see his Sparkling and her Carrier.

After a moment of discrete observation, Optimus was startled to realize Wheeljack’s optics were actually powered to the max, their focal lenses turning as if zooming on a far away detail. Was it possible Ultra Magnus was there with the Sparkling…? He tried to get a look in the direction Wheeljack was obviously glancing at, only to be startled when Bulkhead answered his earlier question after gulping down his latest treat, handing the bag to Optimus so he could pick one himself.

“Normally, it goes in two parts -- well, two mains one anyway. The use of the classical bow and the use of the energy-bow. They’re all going to aim and shot at the the target in their row, with the normal bow first and the energy-bow later. They need to make it a bullseye, or as close to a bullseye as they can. They have three tries, knowing they shot once then leave their place to the next concurrent. Their results will be noted each time and once they have finished shooting their three arrows, they’ll be given a total of points, then they’ll move to shoot the energy-bow’s arrows -- three shots as well. Once they’re given their points, then the results will be added and divided to form a grade. Those who have results under a certain percentage will be eliminated; the ones who remain will then redo the whole process again and again until there is a clear winner,” Bulkhead explained as Optimus gingerly took a sweet to nom on, shushing Smokescreen when the Sparkling started to chirp to be allowed a mouthful.

“Not for you, sweetie,” he reminded his Creation. It was hard to resist Smokescreen’s pitiful look as he watched the treat being lifted away from him and disappear down Optimus’ intake, but the red and blue mech reminded himself it was for Smokey’s own good.

At not even three vorns of existence, Smokescreen’s tanks weren’t yet strengthened enough to handle complex fuel, and despite their simplicity compared to the elaborated confections proposed in Iacon, the nomads’ treats were already more than Smokescreen could handle. Though, if he developed on par with what Optimus had read and if he believed the tales the other Carriers in the tribe had exchanged as he listened quietly to them, he might be able to give him a spoonful of crystal berries jam to suck on once he reached three full vorns. He would have to look into the matter and ask Ratchet for his opinion; surely the medic would know if it was safe?

“Do you think Overclock or Bumblebee can win?” he asked Bulkhead, trying to distract him from the worried glances he kept throwing Wheeljack.

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know,” the green mech answered absentmindedly. “Overclock is good, but the most exceptional shots aren’t always who you’d think. In our age group, nobody would have expected Perceptor to be such a good shot -- and he won the slagging competition for Younglings five stellar cycles in a row! Then he moved onto the adult ones early on, and wasn’t that fun,” he mumbled. “We were lucky archery doesn’t hold the highest value in getting hunting rights -- unless you’re aiming to get a hunting ground filled with avians.”

“I suppose the matches get the most points?” Optimus inquired with distaste.

“Pretty much, yes,” Bulkhead nodded. “I don’t see Overclock getting far -- perhaps third round, fourth if he’s lucky; I know the kid, he doesn’t have the sharpest optics. Dunno about your candidate, though.”

“If I were you,” Wheeljack interjected unexpectedly, “I’d keep an optic on the green femmeling in row four.”

“You know something we don’t, Jackie?” Bulkhead asked, half-turning toward him as Wheeljack shrugged.

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Okay, no joke, I saw her on the market trading away bushy turbofox tails, and given how much she had at her belt, she hunted them down herself. You know how slippery those damn things are -- if she got them fair and square, then she got something to her, that Moonracer kid.”

Bulkhead chuckled. “Okay, if you decided to look up her name, then she definitely be something special. Jackie doesn’t bother learning things about people he has no respect for,” he confided to Optimus.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” the red and blue mech replied as he eyed the third line of Younglings advance to take their first shot at the target, Bumblebee among them. “You know, I was expecting to see more Younglings down there; I was under the impression all Younglings were allowed to participate? And I know my tribe has many more…”

“Normally, yes, but the first Youngling event is kinda semi-official, and it is timed to finish midday so there can be a small benediction ceremony after,” Bulkhead explained. “So we tend to only pick up a single Youngling from each tribe to defend our colors. The rest of them will participate in smaller, less important events, alone or in group.”

“Like the scavenger hunt?” Optimus half-guessed, making Wheeljack chortle.

“Wrong category, mech; those are for tiny Bitlets, to teach them how to orient themselves and be resourceful. Younglings already know how to do it,” he waved. “Plus, the prize isn’t worth it unless you’re a glutton.”

“Why? What is it?”

“For Sparklings? Their weight in treats and goodies,” Bulkhead answered, cheeks flushing as he half-glared at Wheeljack; obviously, there was a story here.

“Sorry I don’t know what kind of educations they receive or have received already by the time they’re Bumblebee’s age,” the red and blue mech drawled. Actually, now that he thought about it, he had never thought about asking Megatron, Ratchet or even Bumblebee what kind of education nomads received.

Optimus seriously doubted they had schools, but surely someone had to be in charge to teach them how to read and count? Or at least use the proper algorithms in their processors in order to decipher the information? On the other hand, reading might not have been a skill in use among the nomads; asides of the glyphs in New Kolkular in Primal Vernacular, he hadn’t seen any writing or reading yet. Well, there was Soundwave transmitting messages through Cryo-Condors, so Optimus supposed the nomads had their own writing, though perhaps the Falconer actually transmitted audio recordings on tapes or morse? He’d have to ask the thin mech, provided Soundwave was willing to grant him an answer. As far as Optimus knew, the other mech never spoke.

The question of writing stayed in the back of his mind, even if he tried to dismiss the concern for now. Would he have to teach Smokescreen such basic skills himself? He was no teacher, but he could probably hand down this knowledge to his Creation -- Neocybex as well. Even if they were living among nomads, it’d be unfair for Smokescreen not to know his Carrier’s mother tongue.

“Oh, we get all the basics down pretty quickly,” Bulkhead cut through his musings. “Usually we start by helping our Carrier and Sire around in the tent, by cleaning up or packaging everything when we move camp and by night, we gather around the firepit or under the tent to listen to old tales. When we get older, we start on keeping an optic on the mechanimals, usually the Gallium-Goats, the Sheepitrons for those who have them and the RoboChickens -- we go gather the MetalEggs and make sure none of the other wander away from the area they’re grazing in. The Hellhounds help as well, but it’s mainly the Sparklings’ task.”

“You don’t have them take care of the Zap-Horses and Robomaderies? Ah, never mind, they’re probably too small,” Optimus corrected himself immediately with a blush.

“Yep -- though we let them go near the foals and the calves,” Bulkhead nodded readily. “It’s best to get the mechanimals used to Sparklings when they’re young and vice-versa. That way, we learn to rely on the mechanimals and they learn to rely on us. We grow with them and so build a relationship based on trust.”

“I see,” Optimus murmured, nodding. It made sense. “And I suppose the next step is learning to cook, weave and sew?”

“Correct, along with using various tools,” Bulkhead confirmed, leaning forward as he noticed it was Overclock’s turn to shoot. The blue Youngling took aim and stilled utterly for several kliks before releasing the arrow, which went to lodge left of the bullseye. Bulkhead winced while Wheeljack shook his head, sighing. “Ouch. Not a very good shot; he better hope the next ones will be better, or he’ll be out by the first round. That’d be a waste.”

“You tell me,” Wheeljack groaned. “I knew they shouldn’t have allowed him to compete; Evac would have been a far better choice!”

“Yeah, but he got injured and his digits haven’t recovered yet. Plus, since you weren’t here this season to help judge all the Younglings’ progresses and missed the voting, you can’t exactly waltz in and pretend to know better than everyone,” Bulkhead chided him as Optimus shook his head at the banter. As Smokescreen fussed in his arms, he released his chest plates and let Smokescreen latch on one of his pouches. His self-consciousness at displaying them was slowly easing down with time, helped by the fact that seeing other Carriers fuel their Creations that way had become a familiar sight to him -- and it was hard to feel embarrassed when Smokescreen was obviously so famished and he needed the energon.

“Do you learn other things?” he asked, taking advantage of a lull in the banter to interject his next question, his worries about Smokescreen’s future education still present in his processor. “Who teach them to count? To read? To write?” he inquired a little more forcefully than he had wanted, making both mechs blink at him.

“Uh, it’s the Lore Masters who teach us how to use khipu knots?” Bulkhead said slowly, yelping when Wheeljack gave him a punch in the shoulder.

“Idiot, it’s not what he’s asking! Bulkhead is partly right,” he leaned toward Optimus, optics bright. “The Lore Masters teach us the ‘practical uses’ of numbers through khipus knots as well as the laws of our tribes, but most of the basics are transmitted to us by our Creators.”

Optimus sighed. “Just as I thought.”

“We don’t have much use for writing, so the Lore Masters are about the only ones who know how -- same thing with reading. That doesn’t mean we’re uneducated, however.” He made a face at Optimus’ expression. “We learn morse alphabet, both oral and written, and we also learn sign language to avoid using comms around scaredy preys or when trying to mount an ambush on a herd. And then we got lessons with the healers as well on which herbs can be used for medicamentation and counter-poison should we accidentally consume something inedible, and how to make a correct bandage and clamp a line if we get injured on a hunting trip.”

So they were also learning first aid; it was a relief, sort of. Optimus was still far from happy with what he considered a sub-par education, but he had to grudgingly admit he shouldn’t have expected anything else. A classical education in high literature and advanced mathematics served no purpose in the Badlands.

He was going to have to put much thoughts in Smokescreen’s education if he wanted his Creation -- both his Creations, he mentally corrected himself -- to at least be able to mingle with civilized mechs, should they one day decide to go back to civilization.

“And then we learn how to fight,” Wheeljack continued with a small smirk, optics shining. “Daggers and knives first, as we learn how to skin a dead mechanimal and save its hide, then we move to projectile weapons; slingshots are a bother to learn and very inefficient again most preys, but they help scare away small wild mechanimals and birds when we’re lying in wait. Then we have the bows and once we’re tall enough, we have the javelins and spears.” He sighed, stretching. “The fun weapons like the axes and swords we must wait until we’re mid Younglinghood because, and I quote the spunky Elder who taught us how to use them, ‘no way I trust you bunch of idiots before then’.”

“Sounds very reasonable to me,” Optimus declared matter-of-factly, remembering Ratchet and his twins and the trouble the two mechlings were facing from older yet immature tribe members. Wheeljack made a face while Bulkhead chuckled.

“You’re no fun, mech.”

“I told you he’d be in agreement with the Elders; most Creators are.”

“Well I’m not,” Wheeljack declared boldly. “My daughter will learn how to be a fearsome fighter as soon as I know she can hold a weapon, and she will not have to wait until she’s on edge of adulthood to pick up a bladed weapon.”

“For some reason, I think Ultra Magnus will disagree,” Bulkhead commented as he dug in his bag to pick yet another treat only to utterly froze. “Oh sweet Primus!” he blurted out, retracting his hand with a look of deep horror on his face, immediately putting Wheeljack and Optimus on edge. Optimus hugged Smokescreen close to him, ready to bolt, while a blade appeared in his hand.

“What? What? Did you see her?” he hissed venomously, optics narrowed and scanning the crowd around them and across the ring.

Bulkhead shook his head mutely, looking utterly unsettled still. “They’re going to kill me,” he groaned, putting his head into his hands. “They’re going to kill me, I just know it!”

“Bulkhead?” Optimus asked worriedly, something about the situation reminding him of… Oh. Oooooh! “Don’t tell me… in the bag? But how?!” he asked, feeling his jaw drop when Bulkhead nodded meekly, gingerly grasping an edge of the bag to keep it open while he carefully foraged within with the other. After a klik, he took it off precautiously, a tiny, familiar form cradled in his massive hand. Smokescreen blinked at the happy chirp while Optimus giggled and Wheeljack just stared, flustered.

“What is that?!”

“That would be Miko,” Bulkhead sighed helplessly, still cradling the Minicon Sparkling in his hand, bringing it protectively against his chest. “Oh slag, she got into the goodies!” he exclaimed as he noticed fluids and metallic crumbles spattered over her face as Miko cuddled against his fingers.

“Is it dangerous for her?” Optimus asked with alarm, knowing all too well how dangerous some fuel were for Sparklings’ tanks, even diluted and processed in goodies. Bulkhead shook his head as Wheeljack bended down to get a good look at the femmeling, looking nonplussed.

“Normally, it shouldn’t. Minicons got sturdier tanks than we do, even as Sparklings, so no, she shouldn’t be in risk of poisoning, but given she probably eat several, she’s in for an upset tummy. Primus,” he groaned. “I must get her back, they’re probably worried sick about her!”

“How the Pit did she end up in your bag? And how come you didn’t feel her before?” Wheeljack asked dubiously, poking at the tiny femmeling, only to blink as she snapped her underdeveloped dental plates at him. “Oooh, feisty; where did she come from, seriously?”

“Well, when two Minicons really loves each other… ” Bulkhead started sarcastically before Wheeljack snorted, raising a hand to silence him while Optimus hide a smile.

“Don’t need the practical details, mech, you know what I meant. Minicons don’t let their Bitlets out of their sight if they can help it -- too easy to step on or loss in the ventilation tunnels. So how did she land in your bag?”

“If only I knew,” Bulkhead sighed. “She’s always crawling after me when I drop by the Minicons’ quarters to bring stuff, and she keeps trying to magnify herself to my plating. I usually spot her, or the Minicons do, but she might have gotten sneakier. She’s a very smart Bitlet.” He looked both proud and distressed by the idea, and Optimus could only sympathise. Sparklings with quick-developing processors were always troublesome, their CPU able to come up with plans and moves normal Sparklings took vorns to get a hang on. Smokescreen was an average, normally intelligent Sparkling, for which Optimus couldn’t help but be thankful for it.

“You tell me. She managed to evade everyone and just dig into a bag you traded for right before coming down here?” Wheeljack looked at Miko with interest. “You clever girl,” he cooed, caressing the femmeling’s helm with a digit, making her brittle and snap at him again. He smirked. “Don’t like me much, eh? Don’t worry, I’m not going to steal your mech,” he chuckled to Bulkhead’s exasperation.

“It’s not funny! Do you have any idea how much trouble I’m in here? Her Creators are worried sick about her behaviour, and the caretakers at the creche are so close to ban me from going to see the tykes!” It was clear the possibility worried him.

“Oh, come on…”

“Wheeljack, it’s the fourth time it happens!” Optimus silently raised an optic ridge; fourth already? It was only the second he was aware off, but then again, it had been a while since he had last seen the green mech, in between the storms and other preoccupations. Miko was either a budding escape artist with no parallel, or Optimus was starting to suspect someone was letting her out on purpose just to have a good laugh at Bulkhead… Unless Bulkhead himself unconsciously helped in her attempts by not ‘noticing’ her when she did?

He gave Miko a speculative look but ultimately decided to let the matter drop as Bulkhead continued to mumble he was doomed while protectively cradling a chirping Miko against his chest and Wheeljack spent his time chuckling as he poked at the femmeling or looked away in the general direction where Ultra Magnus and his daughter were probably sitting. Both had apparently forgotten everything about the event taking place below, but not Optimus, who tried to focus back on the show.

With disappointment, he saw Bumblebee had regained the end of the line and he realized he had missed the Youngling’s first shot. There was now no way to know how much he had scored, but he crossed his digits for the yellow mech as rows after rows of contestants shooted their arrows. Some were truly skilled archers while others… weren’t so much. The crowd cheered or booed at will, encouraging their own tribemech while trying to destabilize theirs rivals, with varying degrees of success. Soon enough, Optimus was joining the encouragements, calling out Bumblebee’s name while holding a pouty Smokescreen steady.

His Spark swelled with pride when, on his second turn, Bumblebee scored a bullseye. It was stupid, he wasn’t related to the young mech and shouldn’t have felt so proud, but Bumblebee was a good ‘bot and a great Sparkling-sitter when Optimus needed him. Plus, he could see how important this event was to the participants.

“Stop whining and go give her back if she bothers you so much,” Wheeljack finally grumbled, annoyed by Bulkhead’s freaked out mutterings. “Or better, call on one of the other Minicons to pick her up.”

“I already did, what do you think?” Bulkhead retorted, glaring. “June is on her way, she was somewhere the other side of the arena -- and she didn’t sound happy on the comm.”

“Aww, are you afraid of the little, bad Minicon?” the white mech taunted earning himself a glare from Bulkhead and a frown from Optimus, but before they could start saying anything, Wheeljack yelped, holding his ankle. Lowering their collective gaze, the three mechs crossed optics with a familiar looking Minicon.

“The ‘little, bad Minicon’ may not look like much, but so long as you’re in New Kolkular, I would watch your words about her,” the tiny femme said sweetly. “After all, you never know if she won’t visit you during your recharge to wreck havoc on your possession or, oh, on yourself, especially if she happens to be a nurse. Minicons are so slippery, you can never fully keep track of them.” She was smiling politely, and it was incredible she could threaten a mech five times her height without even batting an optic latch. Optimus almost applauded her for that -- and judging by the look on Wheeljack’s face, the white mech was probably hesitating between applauding her gall as well or dismissing her veiled threats with a laugh.

“Hello June,” Optimus saluted politely, earning himself a nod and a smile.

“Hello Optimus; I see you and Smokescreen are in good health.” She looked kindly at the swaddled Sparkling, who chirped curiously at her. Despite having played and rolled along with several mini-Sparklings, Minicons and their unique EM fields kept puzzling him. Optimus bounced him lightly on his knee to sooth him as he wriggled, wanting out of his swaddling cloth to get a better look at June -- at June, and at the bundle on her back, which had startled wailing. “Oh dear,” she sighed as she moved, reaching behind her back and unclasping the tiny Sparkling from a special socket she had in the back. “It’s okay, Jack,” she cooed. “No need to cry, sweetling.”

“Oh, you took your Creation with you, June?” Bulkhead inquired as he leaned down to smile at the darkly colored mechling, Miko still cradled in his hand.

“Well, obviously; I wasn’t going to let him alone with that witch is back in town,” she growled, optics narrowed. Wheeljack’s optics flashed in approval.

“Oooh, I like her,” he snickered. “So, Miss, here to pick up the tyke?” he gestured toward Miko, who made a sound of distress and anger as if she understood what was being said -- and it wouldn’t have surprised Optimus the slightest.

“Yes; I had planned to watch the event further, but little Miss Escape Artist needs to get back to her creators, and she needs to now. They’re fretting already on the comms, I had to call them to back off before they alerted the whole guard,” she sighed. “The sooner they get her back, the better -- but don’t worry, Bulkhead, they’re not angry at you.”

“Is that supposed to be a consolation?” the green mech asked morosely as he handed Miko to June, the small femmeling shrieking as she was taken away and securely held in June’s arms before she was clasped in the socket Jack had previously been attached to. Optimus eyed the process with interest even as Miko wailed and wiggled.

“Interesting system; do all the Minicons have it?”

June shook her head. “No, it’s custom made. I needed both my hands to treat injuries and I couldn’t leave Jack alone or in the creche at the time, so I had to find another solution. It’s practical, but slightly uncomfortable when the Sparkling doesn’t want to stay still. Hush, sweetling,” she cooed at Miko as she bounded on her pedes to calm her down while hugging her son, a small mechling who didn’t look much older than Miko and who was now quiet as him and Smokescreen stared at each other with mutual curiosity.

“Chirp?” Smokescreen let out, head tilted to the side. Jack mirrored him, tilting and chirping in turn. Both Sparkings then thrilled in laughter in their respective Carriers’ arms, making the Creators coo, while Wheeljack raised an optic ridge.

“Lovely,” he drawled. “I suppose that’s what you call the start of a beautiful friendship?”

“Laugh it up,” June retorted, still trying to calm a fussy Miko who was indifferent to the two mechlings’ chirping exchanges. “You and Bulkhead weren’t any different when you were toddling around. There, there, Miko; I told you, there is no need to cry. Let’s get you back to your Creators, shall we?”

“Do you need an escort?” Bulkhead prompted, making the Minicon adult pauses.

“That… might be a good idea,” June finally let out. “I was planning on taking the maintenance tunnels for the road back, but since you’re offering your services as a bodyguard… I’m ridding your shoulder,” she decided, stomping her foot down, making Wheeljack chuckle.

“You heard the lady, Bulk. Let’s get her back to her place.”

“You want to come too?” Bulkhead blinked. “Not that I mind, really!” he blurted out immediately. “It’s great that for once, you want to spend time with the Minicons! But I thought you wanted to stay to keep an optic on the competition and on Ultra Magnus and…” His optics turned toward Optimus, obviously worried about leaving him alone. The red and blue mech had to smile.

“I’ll be perfectly fine, Bulkhead,” Optimus chided him gently. “There are plenty of mechs around, and Megatron is just downstairs,” he nodded toward the arena and his mate, whom he could see, arms crossed and looking almost bored as he watched the Younglings shoot their arrows. “I doubt anything can happen to me at the moment.” And if someone dangerous dropped by, he had an energon dagger hide in his subspace -- not that he planned to advertise the fact for now.

“Ultra isn’t an idiot. He is surrounded by heavy-hitters,” Wheeljack grumbled for his part, looking away. “And he had Seaspray next to him.”

The name was unknown, but Bulkhead’s shoulders dropped in relief, and Optimus half-guessed that whoever this ‘Seaspray’ was, it was someone the two nomads trusted. “Oh, in that case then… You’re sure you can stay alone, Optimus?”

“Certain,” the noble retorted quietly, fighting down a burst of annoyance. Sure, he preferred to have some company, especially because he still felt lost among all the nomads present, without knowing how to difference allies from enemies nor understanding all customs he should abide to. Sure, there was a psychopathic femme on the loose somewhere in the nomads’ city and he feared for his son’s safety -- and sure, he almost had a full mental breakdown when he had learned of Airachnid’s existence. But he wasn’t weak, dammit, and he wasn’t going to come apart the moment there was no one to hold his servos!

He smiled thinly at Bulkhead. “I’ll stay here and watch the Games. Don’t worry for me.”

“Well… if you’re sure,” Bulkhead shuffled, only for Wheeljack to punch him in the shoulder.

“Oh, grow up, you big lump; he’ll be fine! You’re coming, Missy?” he asked as he knelt down and offered an hand for June to climb in -- which the Minicon did, without an afterthought, while Jack waved ‘bye’ at Smokescreen, who giggled.

“I insist on Bulkhead’s shoulder,” June repeated.

“Mine isn’t high enough?” Wheeljack teased as he obediently lifted her so she could sit cross-legged and magnetize herself to the green mech’s plating.

“Not nearly enough,” the femme Minicon replied dryly. “For once I have the option to see the world from above, I’m not taking a second-rate perch,” she added, deaf to Wheeljack’s choked ‘second rate’ and Optimus giggle, which he tried to hide behind his hand. “Besides, close proximity to Bulkhead should make Miko calm down -- see, she’s less fussy already,” she remarked as Miko stopped wriggling on her back and looked with big optics at Bulkhead’s head while the green mech glanced at her with a grin.

“Meh. Let’s roll out of here,” Wheeljack shook his head, getting to his feet. Still, he seemed wary, his gaze scanning the crowd, silently searching for threats. “She isn’t here,” he breathed low in Optimus direction, and the red and blue mech nodded a silent ‘thank you’ back, reassured.

He watched them go, a strange trio -- well, quintet if you counted the two miniature Sparklings, Jack still waving ‘bye’ at Smokescreen over his Carrier’s shoulder -- but one which didn’t seem so out of the ordinary among the different frame-types of the nomads and the various groups of friends gathered together in the gradins. Come to think, there was hardly any mech sitting alone… Was it normal, like a pack mentality? Or was it because of Airachnid? Unlikely, he knew, but he couldn’t help but still feel on edge, even with Wheeljack’s reassurance she wasn’t around.

He looked down at his innocent son and sighed. Well, there wasn’t helping it for now. The only thing he could do was attempt to relax, and cheer on Bumblebee as the Youngling went through today’s trials. Speaking off, it was going to be his turn again.

So, plastering a smile on his face, he cried the name of the helpful tribe’s mechling aloud, just like any good nomad would have.

Chapter Text

Despite Optimus’ misgivings and fears, the Games went on without a hitch. It was far less violent than he had expected -- but then again, there hadn’t been any duel between adults so far; only between older Younglings, who were only allowed training weapons will dull blades to fight against each other. It probably was a good thing, Optimus had mused, because some of them were vicious in their attacks, and he shuddered to think what blows dealt with true blades would have been like for young mechs whose plating was still thickening.

It never seemed to bother anyone else, except perhaps the rare ‘Robo-motherhening’ Creators who waited fearfully at the first rank of the gradins. Optimus could sympathize with them, though he never had the occasion to express that sympathy aloud. He could only sit passively and just smile when Megatron, acting as a judge, raised the winner’s hand high to the sky, roaring. Being anything but supportive of his mate, of his tribe and of the Games (in that order) would have reflected badly on him and by extension, on Megatron himself. And as Strika had commented airily when she had read him the riot act under the pretense of a hearty chat, harming Megatron’s status wouldn’t do. At all.

The message had been clear, and so Optimus had make an effort to come and see all events he could, although he couldn’t care less for most of them. Only when Bumblebee or other Younglings he had had contact with during the trek to New Kolkular, such as Runamuck, participated did he truly cheer for… whatever the day’s event ended up to be.

Optimus had quickly discovered there wasn’t a true set plan and schedule for the trials. Which, upon reflection, was logical, for the unpredictability of the storms didn’t allow for a rigid schedule. If the day started clear, then there would be an event. If storm clouds started looming on the horizon early in the morning, all plans for the competition were cancelled and everyone went through their daily routine, be it trading on the market, training, taking care of the mechanimals, preparing meals or doing one of the hundred little tasks all nomads seemed capable to fill.

But if there wasn’t a set schedule for each events, some still held priority over others. As Megatron had explained to him late one night as the wind howled outside, tradition dictated that Younglings go first -- why, Megatron was less certain about, but if Optimus had to guess, it was all about posturing. By showing off just how good your Younglings, who were ‘non-combatants’ as far as the red and blue mech was concerned, you implicitly let the other know just how badass the adults were -- and so you destabilized future opponents who had assisted to the victory of the young ones already. It was a cheap psychological trick, or at least it registered as such for Optimus.

But psychological guerrilla asides, the young noble had been quick to learn that after the Youngling trials came the mechanimals’ related events -- which overlapped with both the Younglings and the adults’ ones.

“Of course they do,” a distant-sounding Dreadwing had scoffed as he assisted to one such race, sitting by Optimus’ side -- his brother Skyquake had been sitting by Optimus’ other side, silent but intent, the two of them reminding the noble of bodyguards on a mission. Given the red and blue mech had witnessed Galvatron further away in the same row, looking at him with narrowed optics, Optimus guessed he wasn’t that far from the truth. He had had no further contact with Megatron’s Sire since his return to the tribe and his appearance in Megazarak’s tent, though not from lack of trying. Megatron just deflected any ‘invitation’ and unhinged or not, his Sire had yet to try and force his way through his son’s dwelling. How long it would last, Optimus could only guess, and it was one more worry nagging at him when he let his mind wander.

The biggest of those worries remained, unsurprisingly, Airachnid herself. She was always lurking in the back of his processor whenever Optimus went out alone with Smokescreen or whenever he met a Minicon in the rotunda, and unseen, elusive threat he had yet to meet face to face. He even wondered if he ever would; as far as he knew, there had been no confirmed sighting of the dangerous, unhinged femme since Breakdown and Knock Out had shared the news of her return. It was probably for the best; desiring to defend his Creation or not, Optimus had to ruefully admit he hadn’t regained enough fighting skills to stand on his own for more than a couple minutes.

Megatron had taken to train with him regularly, early in the morning or in the evenings when Smokescreen was fast asleep. Well, train was a big word, for they lacked the space to truly stage a fight, but the large grey mech had helped him learn a few hand-to-hand stances, patiently guiding him, correcting his position. And… he had gotten Optimus an axe. The very axe Optimus had noticed on Swindle’s stand. Optimus had tried to protest, but...

“A good weapon, at least for now,” Megatron had rumbled. “I wish I had more time and ores already to craft one for you myself, but this one should do in the meanwhile. A warrior needs a weapon to protect their owns, and mine aren’t shaped for your convenience; they would only give you troubles. Consider this axe,” he had added to cut short to any further protest, “as a… Bonding present.” His face had turned weird as he pronounced the word in modern Cybertronian, to Optimus’ surprise. “Prowl’s mate, that black and white mech who say he’s your friend, told me City dwellers offered gifts to their new mate?”

Jazz, Optimus had decided, was a very crafty individual. The noble hadn’t had much chances to meet with him since their arrival at New Kolkular, but his friend was apparently up to a few tricks of his own. Where and when he had met with Megatron, and how he had convinced him the mech needed to give Optimus a ‘Bonding present’, Optimus had no idea. It would probably be quite the tale to hear, but Megatron was tight-lipped, and Jazz remained elusive -- and so was Prowl, for that matter. Optimus wondered why…

Anyway, he hadn’t been able to refuse the axe, not when it was a convenient weapon to arm himself with, not with Smokescreen’s safety to consider. He allowed Megatron to show him how to swing it properly and, when he was alone, Optimus practiced old moves he had been taught once upon a time -- but only after he was certain Smokescreen was perfectly safe and he wouldn’t accidentally hit him one way or another.

And the grey nomad didn’t stop there to guarantee his expecting mate’s protection. Megatron was taking no risk and made him accompanied by Dreadwing, Skyquake, Strika, Lugnut, eck, any tribe member who ‘happened to be free’ if himself wasn’t around, and if he didn’t look particularly enthusiast about it, he tolerated Optimus’ association with Bulkhead and Wheeljack easily, for the sake of ‘protection’ if nothing else.

If it unnerved the noble at time, it hadn’t escaped Optimus that Megatron was hardly the only one being protective. Sparklings were seldom left alone to wander, adults always looming over them, and Minicons tended to travel in groups of six or seven at the very least. Or perhaps it was normal behavior, and Optimus’ paranoia was blowing it out of proportion; as it was the first time he saw so many nomads and tribes gathered together, he had no point of comparison.

Honestly, Optimus wasn’t as fragile as Megatron thought. He would probably surprise the mech if they could have a real spar, but between Megatron often being gone for one reason or the other, the regular events to watch, the slow but steady rounding of his abdominal plating, Smokescreen to care for, and settling in the nomadic life… well, there hadn’t been a chance yet. And there probably wouldn’t be for a good while.

So Optimus was even more attentive to anything he could learn, not taking any chance for he never knew what could come in handy. Take the true purpose behind the races, for example.

“Wintering makes for a good breeding season for our mounts, since we aren’t moving for orns,” Skyquake had rumbled in turn after his brother. “Most mechanimals breed and whelp fast. But we don’t have much time to do so, and limited resources force us to be careful about the number of possible breedings. We select the breeders for their strength, their quickness, for the weak amount of fuel they’ll need to consume.”

“But if we need beasts who can fill multiple purposes, we also need the occasional specialized ones,” Dreadwing had finished, and Optimus had only been able to nod and watch, occasionally asking further, prudent questions when he felt confident enough to. It was slowly going, but bit by bit, he started to understand what he should look at and be impressed by.

In Robodromederies races, it wasn’t necessarily the quickest who was interesting, but the one who supported the most weight; the speed was just an added bonus. Zap-Horses could be separated into two categories, the ones bred for speed and those bred for strength. Optimus watched different types of races, from the classical riding to sleds-pulling contests and obstacle courses before he picked up on the finer clues, under Dreadwing and Skyquake’s amused or unimpressed gazes.

Broad chests and long, thick legs were to be favored, for they were good indicators of the beast’s strength -- and since Robodromederies and Zap-Horses were primarily used to pull wagons and carts, that strength had to be colossal. Colorings and natural elegance were at the bottom of important criterias -- indeed, they weren’t even on the list at all. The shape of the head, the size of the ears,... they mattered little as well. Optimus couldn’t help but nagging feeling they played a role in some tribes, though, because not every nomad he looked at during the events seemed to watch for the same details.

A lithe silhouette wasn’t very interesting, unless one wanted to breed a messenger Zap-Horse (which puzzled Optimus, because he had yet to see a nomad ride, asides of a few Younglings; adults were just too big and heavy for the most part. Well, adults of Lugnut or Strika’s width were; Optimus could have rode one, provided it was a big enough Zap-Horse, and Megatron might have been able to as well. He just couldn’t see the point. But then again, the red and blue hadn’t been with the nomads long enough to know everything about their daily lives, and even less so about Zap-Horse riding.)

Size, of course, had its importance as well, and tribes had to be considerate and allow for mounts of all sizes to accommodate for their smaller members. Younglings apparently learned to ride on growing foals, but also on adult, small-sized specimens. Plus, there were Minibots on each tribes -- and Optimus had learned on the fly there was a tribe somewhere who accounted nothing but Minibots among its members.

And the young noble was certain there were much more he just hadn’t thought about.
He had the feeling the winged twins weren’t impressed by his lack of previous knowledges on mechanimals, but they answered his questions dutifully if concisely. When it wasn’t enough, Optimus went on to pester Ratchet when he dropped by the medic’s dugout on his way ‘home’. And if Ratchet grumbled, he let Optimus tag along as he went to inspect some of the winners closer, or went into the mechanimals’ stables to see the Gallium-Goats and other assorted mechanimals.

“Scoring a win in the races isn’t enough,” the medic had revealed to him as he made Optimus palpate a Gallium-Goat’s udder, trying to teach him the signs of a good breed -- something the medic insisted could become useful to him, as Megatron’s mate. “Before we decide to open negotiations with another tribe to rent a stallion or any kind of mechanimal or offer up mares for breeding, healers like me come and check them over, see if they truly fit with the criterion set by the Chieftain beforehand. Megazarak can be picky, but he’s not unreasonable. He trusts me enough to make a good first choice, but he also loves to argue, especially if he has his mind set on something. In the end though, he’ll bow to me. if I say he can look up with the owner of a specific mechanimal, he’ll do it and be assured it’s a good deal… provided the other tribe aren’t greedy fraggers who ask for too much.”

Which had prompted a few rants and more grumbling from the medic, to which Optimus had wisely decided not to answer as he continued to palpate the Gallium-Goat according to Ratchet’s pointers, taking note of the size of the udder but also the ‘fluffiness’ of the fur, as one cheeky Youngling charged to shepherd the mechanimals, since it would be used to weave blankets and carpets.

Funnily enough, it was on such a trip with the medic Optimus had come to learn how to milk a Gallium-Goat, and he had felt strangely proud when he had brought (on Ratchet and the shepherds’ insistence) the bucket of warm energon-milk to their dugout for Megatron to see -- and even more so when Megatron had started to drink it, humming in appreciation for the ‘treat’ his mate had brought them. There was something very rewarding about doing something just by yourself, and see mechs you cared about enjoy its benefits.

And care for Megatron, Optimus was truly starting to, to his surprise. He couldn’t say he loved the mech -- at least in the passionate way lovers did in the romance novels his own Carrier had enjoyed and tried to foster the love of on him -- but he was starting to feel… less conflicted about living with him. The two of them were slowly settling into a comfortable routine, sharing a quiet companionship.

In a way, Optimus was growing to love the storming days. With no fight, race or competition programmed and unwilling to brave the howling winds and the acidic rains to go back to the mines or to the forge where he seemed to spend a lot of time -- at least from what he had told Optimus -- Megatron stayed in the dugout and shared his attention between playing with Smokescreen and teaching his new mate everything he needed to know to live like a true nomad. Without prying optics watching their every moves, Megatron seemed to relax and show more patience and, well, tenderness.

Gentle pats, little caresses, brief hugs,... they never lasted long, but they tended to become more and more numerous as Megatron grew comfortable enough to dispense them -- and Optimus grew comfortable enough to receive them. It was slow going, but having to live together in such close quarters without interruptions helped.

Megatron was genuinely trying to help, and Optimus supposed it made all the difference. While the storms roamed outside, the grey mech patiently guided him through various crafts. Some, Optimus had learned the basis of during the trek to New Kolkular, but there was much he still needed to learn, and he also needed to practice and hone his budding skills. Megatron was only too happy to make him do so.

He showed Optimus how to mold clay to make pots and bowls, putting his hands over his and guiding him through the right motions, applying the right strength and avoiding to left fingerprints on the resulting objects. There weren’t particularly big or good looking, but Optimus felt gratified with the results. Megatron later carried them over a communal kiln to fire and harden them. Those same pots and bowl he also taught Optimus how to paint them, after showing Optimus how to grind dried plants, dead insects shells and small rocks into fine powders to make pigments, then how to mix them in order to create tinctures and paints.

Which had been fun -- at least until Smokescreen, who they had forgotten due to their high concentration on the task at hand, got into the paints bowls and made a mess of himself. The remained of their evening that day had been spent cleaning the filthy, giggling Sparkling in the oversized turtle shelf that served as Smokey’s bathtub, alternatively scowling Smokescreen or just chuckling at his antics between two scrubbing with tiny brushes and sponges.

Suffice to say, both Optimus and Megatron had become more careful afterward, and the grey nomad had taken the habit of putting any potentially dirtying substance high in the shelves of their ‘storage room’. At the same time, Optimus couldn’t bring himself to regret Smokescreen’s mistake, for it had allowed his Carrier and new Sire to spend a very close, bonding moment. Deep in the back of Optimus’ processor, there was the distant regret that Flame had never helped him clean their Creation, always too busy or uninterested in spending time with the Bornling.

Megatron always had time for Smokescreen -- or he always arranged himself to continue whatever task he was up to while keeping an optic on the Sparkling. It wasn’t rare for Optimus to look up from a task only to see Smokescreen sitting in Megatron’s laps, entertaining himself with a toy -- usually his stacking doll -- while the grey mech weaved thread into a solid rope, or sewed together pieces of fabric Optimus himself had weaved for practice in a makeshift patchwork cover. On occasion, Smokescreen took to teething on the edge of the patchwork, making Megatron chuckle as he patted the little helm. And when he looked up, smirking, Optimus could only look away quickly, blushing without understanding why.

Instead, he tried to concentrate on his own tasks, fighting to improve. His own sewing wasn’t as good as Megatron -- his stitches too inegales, sometimes too loose or on the contrary, too close and tight -- and he was trying to correct that, with various level of success. He could fix up tears, but it certainly lacked elegance. The grey mech pretended no one would care so long the job was done, but it still bothered Optimus. As a consolation, he took solace in the fact his weaving was slowly but surely improving as he worked on small squares, barely big enough to serve as rags, but which Megatron praised and took pleasure in shaping in makeshift ragdolls for Smokescreen or added to his patchwork.

He was still far from being able to work on complicate pieces such as the carpets he had seen on display on the market, but it was a start.

In between weaving on the loom, Megatron was also showing him how to weave baskets, using grasses he brought from the rotunda or from the tribe’s own stores. Most of them Optimus only knew from datapads, for they didn’t grew in Iacon’s area, and he sometimes poked at them or rubbed them between his fingers in wonder, in awe of the distance the nomads must have covered to bring them to New Kolkular. And it wasn’t just grasses Megatron brought for him to use; tree bark, roots, straw,...

The ease with which the grey nomad used them, creating small baskets to serve as models to Optimus was almost enough to make the red and blue mech jealous. However, Optimus reasoned it was only normal; Megatron, like all nomads, had learned how to weave those herbs in the desired shape since he was a Sparkling himself. It was as natural for him to do than, say, for Optimus to recite poetry from the famous classical authors of the long forgotten Golden Age of Cybertron.

But basket weaving wasn’t that hard, all things considered. Certainly not harder than to sharpen blades -- which he insisted for doing only when Smokescreen was recharging or completely swaddled, least he’d come over and cut himself with something by accident -- or cut and sharpen arrowheads, or stretching out a bow’s string. Learning to shoot it -- and how to shoot an energy-bow as well -- was something Megatron had promised to teach him on the next trek and if Optimus wasn’t eagerly looking up to it, he admitted he was he was curious as he wondered how different it would be than to shoot with a blaster.

Those peculiar tasks, at least, were simple. Cooking their fuel, on the other hand…

On the long trek to New Kolkular, he had had to skin a few mechanimals -- a Dioptase-Doe, and a couple of Robo-Chickens who had been sacrificed because they were too old to lay eggs anymore. Thankfully, someone else had taken to pluck them earlier, so he just had had to remove the outer layer of metal protecting the tender protoform underneath, but still… Optimus didn’t think he’s ever get used to it. Carving up already skinned ‘meat’ was easier -- especially with Megatron sitting behind him and calmly guiding his hands to hold the knife and the meat and cut out the bad parts. Which, Optimus had learned, weren’t that bad since they’d serve to prepare the Hellhounds’ own food. Simply, given their relative hardness even when cooked for megacycles, few mechs bothered with them and set them asides as rewards and treats to their four-legged companions, whose powerful jaws and fangs made little work of them.

Dicing metalloplants and crystals and seasoning the brew was much easier for Optimus anyway. Although he had had little prior knowledge of the various plants found in the Badlands, conversations with Ratchet had led the noble to discover he knew some of them under different names or knew of different if similar varieties. Who would have thought so many of the plants and crystals in Iacon’s public gardens were actually comestibles?

All in all, he could now make a very edible stew all on his own and other, more liquid dishes Megatron called ‘soup’ or ‘broth’-- though there had been a misshape or two with the seasoning at first. Just because Optimus recognized what the spices were didn’t meant he knew how to properly dose them. The results had been… Well, not awful, but spicy. Very spicy. And Optimus could only marvel at the fact Megatron had eat it all without a grimace, instead complimenting him for the meal.

He wished Flame had ever done something similar…

Lips components brushed against the back of his helm, and Optimus startled, narrowly missing to drive the needle through the fabric he was sewing together and directly in his finger as he did so. Behind him, Megatron chuckled. “Is my mate’s mind wandering again?” he rumbled, amused. Optimus just leaned back against his chest and looked up.

“It did not,” he lied, but Megatron just snorted.

“I’m sure it didn’t. That’s why you’ve been sewing back and forth on the same point for the last cycle. Embroidering your work is nice, but I’m unsure it is the effect you’re aiming for,” he answered dryly. Optimus looked down again and blushed, realizing Megatron was right.

“Primus,” he muttered, letting the thread slide off the needle and starting to pull on it to undo part of his work, trying to ignore Megatron’s soft chuckle as well as his arms around his waist -- or more specifically, his hands over his belly. Belly which, over the course of the last decacycle, had lost his flat aspect in favor of a moderate but well-visible curve.

It was perfectly normal, of course. Cybertronian gestations were long, but Sparklings, who grew up by stages once they had gathered enough material to do so and enough processor power to engage the next step of their development, didn’t waste time in letting their presence known. The Carrier’s silhouette could evolve in a matter of solar cycles when the Creation in their chamber hit the next growing stage. Optimus himself could still remember the way he had suddenly swollen while he had been expecting Smokescreen, his protoform nearly doubling in size over the abdomen in less than three solar cycles. Walking and bending over had been hard for at least a decacycle after that as his body struggled to come to term with its new specifications. It had been the only time the changes to his frame had been so brutal -- the previous and following ones being far smaller. Optimus remembered spending a lot of time in front of the mirror back then, marvelling at the way his body was slowly changing. Then he had felt the Sparkling inside him kick for the first time, and he had come undone.

He had little doubt he’d feel much the same way once the one he was currently Carrying started to move. But there was plenty of time before it did, he reminded himself. For now, the developing Sparkling couldn’t be bigger than his fist, and his gestation chamber had barely stretched.

If his recent swell often distracted Optimus, who couldn’t help but think of his previous carriage as he compared his current situation and his previous one, the apparition of this first obvious sign of a Carrying cycle was fascinating Megatron -- much like it had fascinated Flame in the very beginning.

The grey nomad never seemed to be able to take his hands off Optimus, always reaching out to brush his fingers over the red and blue mech’s light swell, or frankly caressing it. More than once, he had simply took to kneel down and stare long and hard at Optimus’ abdomen, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Sometimes, he went as far as pressing his cheek against Optimus’ belly, trying to hear movement inside the red and blue mech. Then he would be back to caresses, petting and the occasional kiss.

It was… worrying and flattering at the same time, Optimus had decided. Surely, Megatron was used to seeing expectant Carriers? But at the same time, Optimus’ Creation was also supposed to be, well, ‘his’. Megatron was falling into the familiar trap of young Sire who just realized the Sparkling their Bonded carried was indeed real, and it would be there sooner rather than later.

Which was the main reason behind Optimus choosing to just sit cross legged in the grey mech’s lap while he worked on a patchwork blanket of his own to give Smokescreen. This way, he could work quietly while Megatron indulged in his newfound obsession. It made for surprisingly comfortable evenings or even afternoons when the storms roared outside. They sometimes talked of what they had done the day before, or of what they’d do once the sky cleared -- which usually involved the upcoming duels in the Games and Megatron’s preparations, or the need to pick such or such items from the market, or to go pick new rations in prevision for the next storm. There was still much of New Kolkular Optimus had yet to see, but there was still plenty of time for it;

They resolutely avoided tricky subjects such as Galvatron (although Megatron had mentioned Megazarak had extended an invitation for a ‘family dinner’ at some point in the future) or Airachnid, as they made for poor conversation. Sometimes Optimus asked for lores of the nomads, and Megatron murmured tales he had heard in his own Sparklinghood. Most were centered around great warriors and hunters whom, back when the nomads were still One Big Tribe, brought so much glory to themselves for their deeds that when they decided to walk out in the desert on their separate ways, many of their brethren were so awed they followed him without a care, thus forming new tribes.

Decepticons, from what he told Optimus, were founded when the first of the tribe, whose name was lost to the sands of time, felled a winged monster which breathed fire. The legend had it that the First Warrior fashioned a helmet with the skull of the beast, which had quickly become a sacred relic. The skull helmet had been rumored to make its wearer stronger, and it had been tradition to pass it down from one leader to the next for vorns until it disappeared one day. The description of the beast sounded suspiciously like that of a Predacon to Optimus, but it wasn’t possible; the species had been extinct since hundred thousands of megavorns. Even if the Decepticon tribe was old, it couldn’t possibly be THAT old.

Other legends followed suit. How a hunter one day fell in love with a mermaid and how their offsprings became the first river tribes. How the First Moon felt so alone that she one day begged the Sun to give her a companion, and the Second Moon appeared. How a Sparkling lost in the wildness was raised by Cougaraiders until one day he became the leader of their pack and the Cougaraiders were transformed into mechs so swift they could barely be kept up with when they run. And many, many more.

They were fascinating to hear for Optimus, who tried to draw parallels with tales and legends he had come across during his education and his work at the Archives. The nomads’ tales were probably metaphors or deformed versions of true events, but without the context behind them, the red and blue mech didn’t know where to start. It made him long for the library in his Creators’ home, and for Alpha Trion and his private collection of datapads, some of which were older than the mech himself.

Still, Megatron’s stories were interesting to listen to, because it gave Optimus a chance to learn how the nomads saw the world and would serve him in the long run, one way or another. Of course, Megatron didn’t make an habit of telling him stories. Actually, most of the time and despite sharing the same space they didn’t necessarily speak to each other, but the silence didn’t bother them and brought it’s own comfort.

Smokescreen usually filled it with giggles, shrieks of laughers and occasionally tears when he couldn’t get what he wanted, prompting either Optimus or Megatron to drop everything to take care of him. Megatron hummed songs Optimus had never heard before to calm Smokescreen and rock him to sleep, and sometimes he launched into tales of great hunts in a low voice. Optimus hardly found them appropriate as far as berth-time stories went, but Smokescreen seemed fascinated all the same, and it wasn’t rare he fell asleep holding to Megatron’s digits for dear life. Then Megatron would put him back in his basket and resume his snuggling with Optimus, though not without pointing out little mistakes his new mate made in his work, then helped to correct them.

Which he wasn’t in any hurry to do tonight, come to think. Optimus perked up as Megatron’s lips slide against his neck. “Megatron?” he asked softly, all too aware of the hands resting on his belly and the heat of the mech’s systems as he leaned against him.

The grey mech just hummed, and Optimus hesitated. He didn’t need words to know what Megatron… what his mate wanted. It was both unexpected and expected at the same time, for asides of their disastrous first time, it was always Optimus who had initiated the love-making so far. Megatron might show displays of affection, but he never went further than caresses. The way he leaned against him and the soft kiss -- kisses, he corrected himself -- left however little doubts on his intentions.

The true question the red and blue mech asked himself in that moment was… did he want to do it with Megatron now?

Smokescreen was deep in recharge already, so he wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise -- and how long it would last and how Megatron and the nomads in general resumed intimacy when there were Sparklings around, Optimus still had no idea; perhaps they just asked other tribe members to watch them overnight? -- that his Carrier and adoptive Sire would be sure to make. In theory, there would be nothing wrong with just… enjoying the night. Especially not if it was for the future Sparkling’s benefit.

And that was why Optimus hesitated.

As it was, the developing Sparkling could always use more nanite supplements, that much was true. However, Optimus had already interfaced with Megatron the day before, and another ‘donation’ wouldn’t be strictly needed before up to a decacycle at this stage of his Carrying cycle -- something he knew both from his previous carriage and from lengthy conversations with Ratchet about his health; the tribe’s healer took no chance when it came to Carrying patients and saw to them almost daily if he had the time.

All things considered, it meant that Optimus was under no obligation to follow Megatron’s playful mood. He could just shake him off, or shake his head in negation, and he knew the grey mech would back off without a word and without an hard feeling, and would even give him space for the night if Optimus wished to.

At the same time, though… Optimus couldn’t help but long for the interfacing the grey nomad was wordlessly offering. Even if it wasn’t for the Sparkling’s sake. Optimus wanted… Optimus wanted a normal relationship -- or as normal as he could have it. However, it felt like a betrayal of Flame to even think so. His Bonded hadn’t been gone for so long he should try and truly replace him in more than words -- and especially not with his murderer.

But Megatron was patient with him, caring, protective without being (too) overbearing. He had handed Optimus an axe and fully expected the red and blue mech to know how to use it, and he was making plans to teach him to shoot arrows and perhaps learn how to use other weapons. He never acted as if he expected Optimus to stay under his tent all day long -- at least, not after the new sparkling was born. Smokescreen adored him, he seemed to adore Smokescreen back, he was teaching Optimus so many things, and he listened to him…

“Optimus?” Megatron asked, and he sounded unsure. His hands had stilled, resting heavily over the curve in the formerly flat plating, as if wanting to cup a bulge that wasn’t quite there yet. He had leaned back, sensing the tension in the smaller mech’s frame and was waiting patiently for an answer.

Optimus took his decision.

Setting asides his needlework, he disengaged himself from the grey mech’s arms. Megatron let him go without a word or a complaint, and Optimus swallowed. Moving to rest on his knees, he turned to face the nomad. Megatron raised an optic ridge but waited, still silent.

He didn’t say anything either when Optimus hesitantly kissed him.

Wondering if he had made a mistake, Optimus started to lean back.

He hadn’t yet broken the kiss when he felt Megatron’s large arms wrap himself around his shoulders and the grey nomad returned the kiss with a passion that his stillness hadn’t betrayed.

When the kiss finally broke, Megatron looked down at him and smiled.

And Optimus felt instinctively, deep inside his Spark, that he would never regret his decision.

Chapter Text

Energon splattered everywhere on the ground of the arena and against its wall. A gurgling sound followed and a mech went down on his knees, helplessly pressing his hands against his slashed open throat cabling. There was a high-pitched laugh, and long limbs ending with pincers raised high, ready to strike down again.

The barks of the arbitrator and the sudden apparition of more armed mechs before her stopped the decisive, obviously deadly strike to come down, and the femme in the arena snarled briefly. Then her face schooled into a neutral expression and she gave a shrug, turning her back to her defeated opponent and his defenders and walking away on her strange extra limbs under the jeers and insults of the crowd. Uncaring, she even blew a kiss toward a lithe, small-sized blue femme who had to be restrained by her neighbors less she’d jump in the arena to fight against the abomination inside. That was probably Arcee, Optimus decided, though he paid her little mind as he watched Airachnid finally disappear from sight, passing the arena’s door. In the maelstrom of noises in the gradins, barely a few clapped for her and even those who did, hulking mechs who looked more like Insecticons than standard mechs, seemed to do so half-heartedly, keeping their head low.

Optics wide and disbelieving, Optimus just hugged Smokescreen harder, thanking Primus for his foresight in hiding the bitlet under his poncho so he wouldn’t see the fight below -- and he wouldn’t be seen by what accounted for a very real boogeyman. In the center of the arena, healers were rushing to the side of the fallen warrior whose fellow nomads had made lie down. Optimus recognized Ratchet among them, and he didn’t need to be able to read on lips to know the medic was cursing fiercely as he went to work.

“Now, that’s just sick, my mech,” Jazz muttered next to him, and Optimus could only nod in agreement, thankful for the presence of his friend by his side.

“Quite,” he murmured back, quietly bouncing Smokescreen on his lap and refusing to let him peek out of the poncho despite more and more disgruntled whines.

Primus… She truly had been ready to kill her opponent, Optimus thought with horror as he replayed the entire match in his head. It wasn’t the first one he had assisted to, for the fighting events had started two solar cycles ago already, but it was certainly the most memorable. So far, every match had obeyed to rules of sort and opponents had showed each others a level of respect, exchanging brisk nods or the occasional handshake after a duel, making Optimus think that no matter the rivalries which existed between tribes, the nomads’ high idea of honor, both personal and tribe related, forced them to behave in a civilized manner in front of so many eyewitnesses.

Airachnid had been different from the start, her very appearance at the door of the arena sending chills down Optimus back strut. Jazz hadn’t fared better, immediately tensing as the new arrival let her gaze lazily slide over the crowd, a smirk on her lips. Optics as pink as fresh energon had crossed Optimus’ for less than a klik and she hadn’t seemed to pay him for attention than to any other mech, but the red and blue mech had the feeling those optics would haunt his recharge tonight. Pink was a very unusual color for Cybertronian optics, making it all the more unsettling.

But the optics’ unusuality paled in comparison to the grisly belt the femme had been wearing. Megatron had mentioned Airachnid had a taste for unusual trophies and he was right. Nomads took fangs and claws out of predators, reserving those of the most fearsome to adorn their future mate’s neck, they kept their hides to decorate their tents or tanned it to make light scabbards and sheaths. Airachnid didn’t just take claws; she took whole limbs -- and heads. Optimus had only been able to stare in horrified fascination at the the shrivelled, dried out paw which long claws were still spread in death. And he had definitely gagged, ready to purge, at the sight of two shrunken heads slowly rotating on themselves, their empty optic sockets staring at nothing. Primus, was he wrong, or was there mechs’ digits among her trophies as well?!

Jazz’s hand over his optics had come too late to stop him from seeing. “Better not look at her too close, my mech.”

“Too late,” Optimus had retorted, but Jazz intervention had at least allowed his tank to settle, and it had made Optimus battle even harder to keep Smokescreen safe under the relative safety of the poncho. He had still gagged again when he saw the dangerous femme come closer to the center of the arena for her match. “Why would anyone let her keep that?” His mind wandered briefly back to June, who had apparently destroyed most of the sick femme’s ‘trophies’. Had they been as macabre as those Airachnid was exhibiting down below? If so, then she was worthier of praises than Optimus could have ever guessed, and he resolved to make sure she and her Creation were safe.

Jazz had just shrugged, but it was clear he was rattled as well. “‘Cause they never got a chance to take them from her. Prowl told me she isn’t the sort to play nice and cuddly, even during wintering. Was surprised to hear she was back, and you should have seen the angle his doorwings took when he heard about it!” Optimus could only imagine. He wondered if Jazz’s recent absence was due to his new mate getting protective. Jazz certainly wasn’t confirming or denying in either case. “I didn’t get it at first but now I really do. That femme is a psycho alright,” he had whistled as he took notice of a whole lower jaw hanging from her belt. A mech’s lower jaw.

“Strangely, I have the feeling we’re both underestimating the truth,” Optimus had simply murmured back, trying not to cringe as Airachnid’s opponent came forward and the duel started.

The femme’s strikes had been quick and potentially crippling, but their pattern… Granted, he wasn’t an expert in fighting but even to him it was obvious she had been toying with her opponent, drawing it out until she had had enough and moved for the kill. A kill only prevented because others had recognized what she was up to.

Knock Out’s warning, Breakdown’s anger and missing optic, Bulkhead and Wheeljack’s unnerving, the Minicons’ wariness, Megatron’s stiffness when her name was mentioned and him agreeing so readily to hand Optimus a weapon… He had already known of course, but now Optimus could truly see by himself why so many people were rattled whenever Airachnid was the subject of the conversation. That femme was just monstrous.

And he couldn’t help but be glad she was now gone -- though the idea of her prowling the tunnels and caves of New Kolkular was hardly reassuring.

“We should move out,” Jazz murmured, giving Optimus a nudge. However, the red and blue mech shook his head.

“I can’t; Megatron should be fighting soon.”

“So? You don’t like to be here and frankly, I don’t either,” Jazz shrugged. “Let’s go back to the market or I dunno, perhaps you can come to Prowl and I’s shelter. He showed me how to make infusions with a bunch of dried metalloplants, and he said they weren’t bad for Carrying mechs.” He gave Optimus a pointed look and an encouraging smile.

But Optimus shook his head again. “As much as I appreciate the thought--” and he truly did, because the idea of spending time with Jazz in a secure, cozy setting and just spending time sharing a cup of something and talking made him feel wistful “-- but it has been stressed upon me I need to be here. It’s a status thing; Prowl didn’t ask the same thing of you?”

Jazz shrugged. “Not really. I guess he knows I hate to stay too still, and just watching people fight without being able to join them is dull.” Optimus gave him a look, but Jazz replied by an unrepentant grin. Of course; the black and white mech had been employed as a guard for the caravan and he had been involved in fights before, so he’d see no problem with them. The grin widened. “Plus, he’s not the Heir apparent, hmm? Mech, when you get picked by mechs, you always get the powerful ones.”

Optimus turned his head away. “I hardly find it funny,” he let out in a clipped tone that made Jazz pause and apologize, passing an arm around the other mech’s shoulder.

“Aww, don’t be like that Optimus. You know I’m just joking -- and tripping over my own foot as I go. So, that mate of you is going to fight down there?” he tried to cajole, and Optimus relaxed after sighing deeply.

“Next match after this one, from what he told me.” He nodded at the new fight which was undergoing, pitting a red Minibot with a blue face against a thin but tall winged mech the young noble identified as a Seeker.

It was… interesting to witness, he supposed. Mainly because the winged mech was dodging and taunting his opponent without respite, using his light weight to make high leaps and pass behind the Minibot, who lost precious klik turning to face him and allowing the Seeker to hit him with the tip of his weapon. It was a curious weapon at that -- or at least curious for a nomad. Optimus had seen plenty of young nobles practicing with foils back in Iacon when himself had undergone some martial training, but here in the Badlands? It seemed entirely out of place.

Jazz thought so as well. “A foil? Here? Seriously? Wow, mech got steel bolts to use that in a fight! It ain’t no weapon suited for hunting or the type of fights those nomads get in. Then again… He is tall and lithe, and that’s a good frame type to pick up fencing with a foil. Though I don’t see why he would… ” he tilted his head as he continued to mumble to himself, suddenly paying way more attention to the fight.

Optimus gently bounced Smokescreen to calm him down, though he still refused to let him out of it. Sparklings had no business witnessing fights -- or Smokey didn’t have, so long Optimus had his word to say about it. “Do you think he truly use it to hunt?” he wondered aloud.

Jazz hummed, observed the fight a little longer then shook his head. “Naw, mech. There is no way he does; foils aren’t good for piercing armor, and those Pneuma-Lion, Cougaraiders or Beryllium-Boars they go against? Thick hides, those. A foil is made to pierce with a single, precise poke and touch the circuits and energon lines underneath, either scratching them or puncturing them enough to cause malfunctions; one touch isn’t enough to bring someone down, and a mechanimal will never get down with a single one -- unless it’s small. Now, given his silhouette and the way he uses that foil though? He’s used to thin blades; probably use rapiers on the field when he can,” Jazz decided. “Rapiers are thicker, pierce better. Not very suited for hunting either, but it’s not a hunt isn’t it? That’s a duel, and foils and rapiers make for good duel weapons, provided you want something elegant. Only, what that mech is doing? It’s pure posturing. Foil against broadsword? I wouldn’t call that smart, but as far as shows goes? It takes some serious bearing.”

“Shouldn’t he have stuck with a rapier for a fight then?” Optimus wondered, fascinated by his friend’s analysis.

“That would have been logical, especially in a fight like this one,” Jazz barely nodded, still following the Seeker’s every move as well as the red Minibot’s clumsy answers to what the black and white was starting to recognize as a war of attrition. The Seeker’s constant evasion were slowly eroding his opponent’s patience, making him angry -- and if angry mechs could hit harder, they were also less prone to think a fight through and open themselves to fatal mistakes. “But that mech? He’s not just aiming to win -- he’s aiming to humiliate the competition. Look around, OP my mech,” he gestured. “Those big though mechs? They’ll get a good laugh of seeing someone bested by what amount for them to a toothpick. And something tell me it’s going to be absolutely mortifying for the poor guy.”

“But you said the foil wasn’t suited here…” Optimus couldn’t help but wonder.

“Normal ones, sure. But look closely at the tip,” Jazz pointed out with a finger as below, the red Minibot roared. “It’s not standard foil, it’s an electrified one. Give you a little jolt when it touches you -- not enough to truly hurt at first. Eck, you barely feel it sting! But little touches by little touches, those stings end up sapping your strength and wearing you down. And that’s when you augment the strength, then knock out your opponent. All in one, it’s not a bad weapon per se, especially if you actually want to drag things out because that’s when you score the biggest chance of winning.”

Optimus’ optics narrowed. “So he’s toying with his adversary, just like Airachnid?”

Jazz shrugged. “Kinda? Sort of? At least he’s not out to kill, only to taunt the competition. But I’d be careful if I were him; a foil is still fragile, one good hit from his opponent and… Oooh, see what I mean?” he giggled as the Seeker yelped and dodged under a sudden blow of the Minibot’s sword, barely managing to keep his foil out of range. “Yep, one good hit, and it’s going to shatter and ruin his strategy,” Jazz resumed. “Sure, there is nothing against using hand to hand in those fights, but he’s not the type.”

“You don’t know that,” Optimus argued. “I have know small ‘bots and two-wheelers who were true Masters in Circuit Su and Diffusion and everyone say those style are more suited for heavy frame-types…”

“Oh, I know, I practice Diffusion myself,” Jazz nodded, surprising the red and blue mech who had ignored that fact. “And I don’t say our Seeker wouldn’t be good at hand-to-hand if he ever got into it, but he doesn’t practice any. He doesn’t move right for a hand-to-hand fighter. My best guess? Outside of foils and rapiers, he’s a ranged fighter.”

Optimus had to pause, frowning as he observed the Seeker again. “That… would make sense,” he finally let out. A lot of sense, even. He knew appearances could be deceiving, as he had let Jazz know, but the thin grey Seeker just didn’t seem the type to dirty his hands from up close if he could strike from afar. He didn’t know why he thought so; it was just a fleeting impression, one that he didn’t seem able to shake off. “But if he’s a ranged fighter, why did his tribe choose him to represent them? Since the ultimate goal of those Games is to secure or choose a good hunting ground for themselves, you would think they’d send their best close-ranged fighters.”

Jazz just shrugged again. “Who knows, Optimus? Perhaps they have a strategy, as weird as it is? Or perhaps he decided to enter to impress someone and forced his tribe’s hand, hmm? From what Prowl told me, it’s not unusual.”

“That’s weird,” Optimus just commented, gently shushing Smokescreen who wasn’t an happy Sparkling.

The black and white mech just let out a dry, humor-filled chuckle as he raised his hands in surrender. “They’re nomads; weirdness is practically their official surname. Don’t tell Prowl I’ve said, that,” he added quickly with a wink behind his visor. “Mech is so stuffy sometimes, and I lost the count of the number of times we debated over who was the weirdest.”

Optimus smiled briefly before he tilted his head, looking at his friend with concern. “If you don’t mind me asking, Jazz… How are things going with Prowl?” He didn’t really expect Jazz to answer, because it was a private matter -- no noble ever asked things so rudely, it just wasn’t done. But Jazz wasn’t a noble and he was usually very open on any issue pertaining to, well, ‘romance’, as Optimus had learned early on in their friendship. Besides, the red and blue mech could readily admit he was curious about his friend’s well-being -- and the well-being of Ricochet by extension. Had Jazz gotten other news about his brother?

And… was he still entertaining the thought of escaping the nomads?

Jazz must have seen something in his optics, because he smiled teasingly and moved to pat his head; Optimus blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected gesture. “Aww, no need to be worried for me, my mech. His Stuffiness isn’t half bad, and he’s far more mellow in private.” He paused, humming. “Well, kinda. That mech just doesn’t seem to know how to relax and be chill unless he’s exhausted from or in the middle of… Okay, bad subject, you don’t like hearing about crude things especially when the Bitlet is around,” he chuckled to himself as he poked at the bulge Smokescreen made under Optimus’ poncho, eliciting a giggle out of the Sparkling. Optimus was very unimpressed. The teasing glint in Jazz’s visor decreased.

“Seriously, my mech, it’s fine. Prowl is… Prowl,” he said lamely, as if it explained everything. And perhaps it did for nomads who knew the doorwinged mech, but it certainly didn’t for Optimus, and so Jazz sighed.. “I’m starting to get a better feel of the mech and his personality but mech, he doesn’t make it easy. Prowl is… very businesslike, and he can come across as cold because of it… Okay, he can be cold as the Pit,” he sighed. “Mech is very logic-oriented in his decisions, and he tends to select the most logical outcome -- which isn’t always the nicest or the warmest; got the feeling he didn’t make many friends with his personality, though mechs respect him,” he added ruefully.

“Dreadwing told me as much,” Optimus nodded. “Prowl was apparently considered as the tribe’s Heir.”

That made Jazz rise an optic ridge. “Oh? He hadn’t told me that. Would make sense though; from what I saw and overheard, he’s one Pit of a fighter. You know, my mech was ringing for solar cycles after he knocked me out at the caravan.” He made a show of rubbing the back of his helm, which made Optimus’ lips twitch in a brief smile despite himself. Then Jazz sobered up again.

“He’s a smart, crafty one, I’ll tell you that. Prowl tends to overthink things and make plans on the long term. I have yet to see if the nomads have a version of Tri-D Chess, but if they do, I bet that mech is cleaning the floor with his opponents. He’s just… well, it’s like he always has four or fives moves in advance on everyone, including me.” And he sounded vexed by it.

Optimus paused, remembering his own conversation with Prowl and its content -- the possibility of matching Smokescreen with one of the doorwinged mech’s own future Creation. Yes, that fit with Jazz’s comment about the long-term planning -- and it was very unnerving, because Smokescreen was just a mechling and because, well, that implied Prowl had no doubt Jazz would give him Sparklings. Optimus briefly thought about warning Jazz, but already the black and white mech was speaking again.

“He’s dedicated, that mech. In everything he does, be it weaving a rope, carving up objects or cleaning his weapons or skinning a prey or sparring or doing those weird knots they use to count their stuff. By the way, never bothers him when he’s working on them,” Jazz warned. “He doesn’t mind interruptions every now and then, but when he’s playing accountant? Better not to take the risk.”

“Duly noted,” Optimus nodded with an involuntary smirk, wondering what Jazz might have done to discover this. Knowing the other mech, it must have been either spectacular or stupid -- or both. “So… he’s not a bad mech?” he tried again. Prowl hadn’t struck him as one anyway, but since they hadn’t really talked since that first, weird conversation by the fire…

“Hmm? Oh, no, he’s not,” Jazz answered absentmindedly as he looked at the fight again after a roar from the crowd. The Seeker had managed to hit his opponent in the throat with the tip of his foil, and from the look of it the touch had drawn energon.

“I think he can be quite gentle, in fact. I saw him once during the trek, back when I was still tried to trick him into releasing my bonds… It was early morning, the camp was still mostly asleep, and I was tied to the central mast of his tent, and he was outside, lying flat on the ground with his chin in his hands. He had left the tent open so I could get some fresh air. I was angry at him, and I was glad he didn’t come inside to pester me further but, as time passed, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by his stillness. The only thing moving about him were his doorwings; they twitched every now and then, as if they sensed something. He had that expression on his face…” Jazz’s lips twitched. “I was starting to think he had fallen in recharge with his optics open when it happened. The ground just shifted before him -- little rocks moved asides, and suddenly there was that tiny head peaking out of a hole so well hidden it was almost invisible. The tiny Glitch-mouse tilted his head, confused at Prowl’s presence and Prowl… he just tilted his head too, and he smiled. Dropped crumbles of something on the ground, and the Glitch-mouse just grabbed them. Eat them quick, and Prowl just looked with that smile still plastered on his face. The Glitch-mouse disappeared in its burrow right after he finished the last crumble, but Prowl kept smiling. And I couldn’t help but think it was adorable.”

“It sounds like it,” Optimus agreed, fighting down a smile of his own at the tale -- and at the look on Jazz’s face.

“I think it helped me decide to give him a chance, even if I have no intention of sticking around if I can”, Jazz confessed in a low voice as to not be overheard. Then he changed tactics. “Seriously, a mech who just wait patiently for a cute rodent to peak out so he could feed him? How could I resist him?” he bemoaned, putting a hand over his Spark chamber and looking like he was swooning, gathering a few questioning glances from other seated nomads. Optimus couldn’t help it; he giggled and, from under the poncho, Smokescreen made a questioning sound.

Jazz’s theatrics were quickly over, though. “Granted, he’s not all fun and sunshine. From what I was able to observe, Prowl almost never takes a break, he’s always on the move from one task to the next and the storms are sometimes driving him barmy because he can’t go out and do things he thinks he needs to do right away. He’s patient, mind you, at least when it comes to hunting. But everyday tasks? Which might be why he’s so, well, ‘amorous’ when it’s storming outside,” the black and white mech coughed and Optimus’ couldn’t help the heat pooling in his cheeks as he tried NOT to imagine what Prowl and Jazz had been up to during the previous storms. Probably the same thing as Megatron and himself, but still…

“It gives him something to do. Seriously, I’m thinking he chooses to take a mate only because teaching me and making me share his nest of blankets give him another thing to do. But it doesn’t make him trust me more -- then again, he’s perfectly right not to,” Jazz concluded with a smile that was equally wistful and amused.

“So you’re still planning to…?” Optimus murmured. Jazz shrugged noncommittally and gave him a look, and Optimus decided it was probably better to drop that line of questioning.

“He knows me well -- or at least he thinks he does, and it scares me how accurate his guesses can be,” Jazz murmured, his demeanour suddenly stiffer. “He’ll let me walk with everyone during the trek, but never far from him or from Racer-type nomads who can keep up with me if I try to make a run for it. He let me have access to everything in the tent, except weapons -- and he’ll recount everything he owns before going to recharge and upon waking up, just in case. He lets me participate in chores around the camp and even here, but he won’t let him handle a knife or a dagger. Suffice to say, my cooking skills still suck,” the black and white mech shrugged.

“Does he think you’ll try to stab him?” Optimus couldn’t help but ask, appealed.

“Hmm, perhaps. Ricochet did try to stab Barricade, after all,” Jazz commented, shrugging while Optimus startled. “Not that I plan to; it’d serve no purpose especially here, surrounded by so many nomads. Personally, I think he picked on the fact I’m trying to filch potentially helpful items for a solo trek, and he’s taking no risk I take his knifes.”

Optimus just stared. “Your brother tried to…? Is he insane?!” he choked, astounded Ricochet could have done something so… so stupid! And Jazz who was so calm about it!

The black and white mech just waved. “Naw, just mad from having remained tied up for so long. Mind you, Barricade eventually freed him, the jerk, and him and Prowl finally allowed me to meet with my bro. I had to whine and pester Prowl for two decacycles, but it worked,” he nodded to himself in satisfaction.

“How is he?” Optimus asked anxiously. “Did Barricade hurt him or…?”

Jazz just shook his head. “Oh, it’s mostly his pride who got bruised. His pride, and his wrists and ankles, but that’s what you get when you keep fighting against your bonds. Ricochet disappoints me; I thought I had taught him better than that.” He sounded vaguely regretful, but one had to wonder if he was even serious. “Joking asides, Barricade hasn’t treated him too badly; rough-housed him, unnerved him, mocked him, sure. But Ricky had it worse with previous partners before, so it just slide over him and he barked back -- and bite too while he was at it; Barricade spotted an impressive bandage to the hand once when he came to see us one night during the trek. I found it hillaring; Prowl and Barricade less so.”

“I can’t understand why,” Optimus said dryly.

“You neither, hmm? Anyway, Barricade and my brother? It’s kinda like an unstable energon mix, the kind you find in refineries before they stabilize the formula for safe consommation. They mix, but they must fight in order to do so. The situation isn’t helping any.” Jazz sighed while his optics continued to follow the fight below. Optimus had long since abandoned, just looking down from time to time when the crowd made noise. “Anyway, now we’re in New Kolkular and the Storm Season is upon us, the situation has changed. My little bro finally managed to ‘see reason’ and Barricade unshackled him, no longer afraid he’ll run. Of course, he’s keeping him under house-arrests until further notice, but that’s a progress, and I got the right to visit every now and then -- but they certainly aren’t about to let the two of us alone together, Prowl and Barricade.”

“At least you can see your brother,” Optimus tried to cheer him up, but Jazz didn’t seem sad about it.

“Oh, I don’t mind much, don’t worry. I’ve got other subjects of preoccupation -- and so does Ricochet.” At Optimus’ raised optic ridge, Jazz grinned, leaned against him and whispered to his audio receptor. “Loud, rough, angry interfacing.”

Optimus leaned back, red and sputtering, his arms tightening reflexively against a protesting Smokescreen. “Jazz!!!” His friend’s booming laughter was his only answer.

“What? It’s true! The last time I tried to visit, I had to stay outside and leave quickly because they were at it like Petro-Rabbits. Ricochet was howling…”

“Jazz. Stop. Please.” Optimus let out, mortified. He coughed into his fist to calm himself. “So, Ricochet and Barricade are… official?” he squeaked, failing to keep his voice steady.

Jazz actually had to pause and nibbled on his lower lips. His fingers came to play with the collar that marked him as Prowl’s mate, rubbing an upside-down black claw absentmindedly. “Well, if you mean official in the sense Ricochet agreed to wear a pretty trinket of his own, then no, they aren’t at this stage yet; Last I knew, they were still exchanging pet names such as ‘Arrogant Slagger’ and ‘Stubborn Son of a Glitch’ -- and those are the most polite,” he pointed out quickly before the noble could chastise him again on his language. “But there is definitely something going on between those two. Not sure it’s healthy and not sure how steady it is, but…” he shook his head. “For what it’s worth, Ricochet has a temper, and Barricade has one too; they’ll either both crash and burn or get along like an energon stock on fire -- including the pretty explosions.”

“But if you think it’s not healthy, should you intervene? Or someone else?” Optimus asked worriedly. “Ratchet told me… people who ultimately refuses the mating can walk out to the desert. I know that I wouldn’t have stood a chance if I had tried, but you and your brother were already used to trekking the desert before, with the caravans. Ricochet…”

“Ricochet will not,” Jazz stated calmly, “if only because I’m here and he won’t leave without me, just like I wouldn’t have left without him. And I don’t intend to get away too fast. I told you I wouldn’t leave you behind, after all,” he added ruefully at Optimus’ surprised expression. The red and blue mech’s face softened.

“Jazz, if you don’t want to be here, you shouldn’t…” he was immediately cut off.

“Plus, I accepted Prowl’s necklace, in case you forgot; there is a binding agreement here. Of course, if I ever get across a real, golden opportunity…” Jazz trailed off, shrugging and sighing.

Silence reigned between them for a moment as Optimus tried to focus back on the match, which was proving to be harder than planned. It had held little interest to him before, and it still didn’t hold any now, even if it was clear the Minibot was wearing out, the swing of his sword costing him too much energy compared to the Seeker’s quick but frequent touches with his foil. Even Smokescreen’s fussing calmed down eventually, especially when Optimus started to feed him.

“Ricochet never had healthy relationships before,” Jazz let out so brutally and out of the blue that Optimus startled. “You never talked with him, so you don’t know him but let me tell you, he’s not an easy mech to get with, my brother. Even I want to strangle him from time to time, and I love him to pieces. Quick-tempered, easily provoked,... it played tricks on him in his previous relationships. Barricade, as I told you, he’s just as bad as him from what I saw, but… Prowl has this look when he sees them together. He grins when he hears them insult each other as if they were exchanging lovey-dovey words of affection. He chuckles when he sees them glare at each other. And when I got back to our own dugout, after I almost walked on them going at it, he had that knowing smirk on his face like you wouldn’t believe.”

He looked briefly at Optimus. “I don’t know what Ricky is thinking, because I didn’t have the chance to have an honest conversation with him about that, but Barricade? That mech is in love, and very bad at showing it. He’s rough and a total slagger, but I don’t think he’d purposely hurt Ricochet… at least I hope so,” he sighed. “Primus, that’s a mess. But Optimus,” he added looking at his friend, “you should stop fretting, it’s no use. Don’t worry too much about Ricochet; he’s my brother and my problem. You, you have enough on your plate already with Smokey and the future Sparkling. Oh, and that mate of yours,” he added as an afterthought with a snort.

Optimus just gave him a look. “I hardly worry about Megatron; he knows how to take care of himself -- though I admit the idea of seeing fight against someone like Airachnid is rattling me. If he does,” he added in a low voice, “I hope he will kill her.”

Jazz had to do a double-check. “Wow, seriously? The death of a sentient being is the last thing I thought I heard you pray for, Optimus!”

“You saw her,” the mech said simply. “And I trust you heard the rumors. Don’t lie, please. Back in Iacon, you always had an audio out for gossip, no matter the kind; I doubt you changed that much.”

“Touché,” the black and white mech chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, I’ve heard. Hard not to and after seeing her in action, I get why people are worried. Prowl may not trust me enough to hand me a weapon, but I think he won’t have any scrupule grounding me if he thinks I’m in danger. Grounded, me, can you believe it? Oh, speaking of weapon, did Megatron give you a nice Bonding gift?” he added as an afterthought betrayed by his cheeky grin.

Optimus facepalmed. “Oh, Jazz… Why did you even tell him?”

The other mech raised his hands. “Oh, nothing much, nothing much; I may have mentioned you were too nice a mech to say ‘no’ to a gift if he presented it right, that’s all. And it was clear that axe was for you, it was a tad too small for a mech his size. By the way, you should be proud of me; I didn’t even punch him in the dental plates and Primus knows I was tempted,” he pouted.

“Mostly because I had told you it was a bad idea,” the young noble pointed out. “And I’m certain you did more than just talk.”

“Ah, but if we did, it’s between him and I, isn’t it?” Jazz replied smoothly and Optimus deflated. Jazz patted his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not out to get him. I don’t especially like him, but he seems to treat you right and really care about your well-being and your safety, so I’m not going to harass him. Well, except is he makes you miserable.”

Optimus smiled softly. “He won’t, Jazz, don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried, I’m just covering all angles -- need to catch up with Prowl’s sharp-as-a-knife mind, after all,” the other mech waved. “Though you’ll probably be able to kick his aft yourself given some time to shake the rust out of your fighting training.”

Optimus shook his head. “I don’t think I’m that good or that I ever will be, but thank you for the vote of confidence. Besides, I don’t care about being a great fighter; so long I know how to defend myself and my Creations, I’m not asking for more,” he stated calmly.

Jazz hummed noncommittally. “So you say for now, but once you have tasted to true freedom and gotten all friendly with that axe of yours, you’ll change your tune.”

“Is that a bet, Jazz?” Optimus asked with a playful smirk, making the black and white mech chuckle.

“Naw my mech, it’s a premonition.”

Jazz chuckled again as in the arena, the red Minibot yelped as the foil hit him right in the modesty panel and, as Jazz had guessed, produced a jolt that went through his circuits. “Ouch. That one really had to hurt; poor guy is probably going to feel that for a couple of solar cycles. Mech, after a hit like that, he’s going to be furious and… yep, going to get down pretty quickly if he keeps making mistakes like that,” he commented as the red mech bellowed and charged at the Seeker, who jumped above him leapfrog style, making the crowd roar with laughter.

Optimus himself had to hide a smile behind his hand. “I have to admit, it is amusing. Though perhaps not very well-thought. Even if the other makes obvious mistakes, if he lands just a single hit with that sword of his, the Seeker will be down for the count.”

“He won’t,” Jazz affirmed calmly. “He already brought him right where he wanted; just wait for it and… yes! That!” Jazz pointed out as the foil easily slide under the red Minibot’s guard and zapped him in the right knee, making the red ‘bot howl and put a knee to the ground. “He has won,” Jazz nodded to himself. “He just needs to land a last hit, and it’s done with. Gotta admit, it was well-played. Risky, but well-played. However, if he had come across an adversary who had more endurance than him, that Seeker would have been toasted.”

“Agreed,” Optimus nodded as the aforementioned Seeker landed that last it, right in the Minibot’s other knee, immobilizing him. The foil’s tip came to rest just under the chin of the red ‘bot and, after a few tense kliks, he grunted and lowered his head in defeat. The crowd roared. Optimus and Jazz applauded politely and looked at each other.

“So… sure you don’t want to get out?” Jazz tried again.

Optimus shook his head again. “It’s time for Megatron’s match and I must show support. Once it’s over though, I’ll accept your invitation with pleasure.”

Jazz sighed. “Well, let’s wait it out then. Though for your mate’s sake, I truly hope his fight will be spectacular.”

Chapter Text

“Okay, I have to admit, it was impressing,” Jazz conceided as him and Optimus made their way down a flight of stairs to join the arena’s floor through the tunnels. A quiet Smokescreen was pressing his little hands against his Carrier’s chest, making grabby motion toward his neck from time to time and huffing when Optimus wasn’t willing to change his hold. “I mean, it’s not every day you see a mech pick his opponents by the feet to throw him away like he would a frisbee -- and with as much ease as if it was a true frisbee. The look on that poor mech’s face,” he snickered despite himself.

Optimus just gave him a look as he navigated past a couple of mechs who were climbing the stairs, exchanging a nod of greeting with them. One of them even risked a coo toward Smokescreen before his partner tugged him along. Fighters who had finished their own matches and took the time to clean themselves, Optimus remembered. One of them still had a flexible metal bandage around his wrist and the other had a collection of fresh soldering marks running from his left hip to his knee. “Aren’t you happy not to have picked a fight with him now?” he asked dryly to his friend as the two mechs disappeared at a corner.

That made Jazz pause in the middle of a step, his foot hanging high above the step. “Well, when you present it like it… I suppose I am. That mech packs a punch, that’s for sure. Ratchet and the other healers aren’t going to be happy with him.”

“To be honest, I think unhappy with all potential patients and whoever sent them to him is Ratchet’s default mode,” Optimus pointed out with a faint smile, “and I’m certain the other healers share his mindset. Can you blame them though?”

“After seeing Megatron in action? Nope,” Jazz agreed, elegantly sidestepping another mech who was going the opposite way. “You know, I think he loves to show off just as much as that Seeker from before.” Optimus made a face and a questioning sound. “Come on, you must have noticed as well. The whole throwing your opponent away asides, he did show off. His very entry in the arena, raising his fist high to the sky? The way he broke that sword in two between his hands at the end of the match? Totally unnecessary, plain old posturing,” Jazz insisted.

“I hear you,” Optimus said calmly, “and I don’t really care. He wasn’t injured, and that’s all that counts for me. Whatever he enjoys doing in the arena, I’m ill placed to criticize him.” He made a pause while Jazz looked at him as if he had never saw him before. “However, if he ever does that against Airachnid, provided he fights her, I reserve myself the right to tear his head off.”

“... Wow. I hadn’t noticed you had it so bad,” Jazz murmured looking at Optimus up and down. The red and blue mech’s felt his cheeks heat. “So, is it the true reason for you to have dragged me down there? So you can give him a victory kiss?” the black and white mech asked casually.

Optimus sputtered. “That… that’s preprosperous! I already told you, I just want to let him know I’ll be with you back at yours and Prowl’s shelter if he ever seeks me out”

“And you didn’t ask him by comm because…?” Jazz prompted.

Now Optimus’ cheeks took a definite darker shade, making Smokescreen giggle as he noticed the change, and he tried without success to put a hand over his Carrier’s face. “... because surprisingly, I never asked for his frequency,” Optimus admitted. “It never seemed to come up. We… haven’t been apart that much and even when we were, he always found me quickly. Come to think,” he added quickly as an afterthought as Jazz snickered, “I never saw the nomads use comm link, or at least I don’t think so.”

“Because they don’t,” Jazz chuckled to Optimus’ surprise. “Or at least not in the wild, much like they don’t transform to drive. The radio frequencies can be felt by mechanimals, so using them while they’re trying to hunt make the game flee. Very counterproductive. At least that’s what Prowl told me when I asked him,” he whistled innocently. “Here in New Kolkular, there aren’t any restriction I was able to pick, but I guess they’re so used to go without that most nomads don’t think to use them anyway. Guess you are going more local than you first thought, eh, Optimus?”

Optimus frowned. Something about Jazz’s whistle and the way he had phrased things bothered him. “Jazz… did you keep in contact with Ricochet through comm links?” he asked suspiciously after a moment of reflexion.

“Hmmm, maybeeee?” the black and white mech singsonged. Optimus gave him a look and he sighed in defeat. “Alright, yes, we tried at the beginning, and it even worked for a bit -- that’s it, until the Hellhounds Barricade keeps around started to whine and Prowl immediately had Ratchet come in to put a block on my comms, then on Ricky’s. Still a bit miffed about it, to be honest, even if Ratchet mumbled excuses all the way. That’s kinda how I started to pick on the fact mechanimals or at least, Badlands’ mechanimals were sensitive to frequencies. Never saw that happen back in Iacon or Kaon or Polyhex or even on the caravans, but I guess living in or near cities with close proximity with mechs who use them all the time dulled the sensitivity of pets,” he mused, stroking his chin.

Optimus blinked. “I… see. They’re still blocked?”

“Mine aren’t anymore, Prowl has me on parole,” Jazz shrugged with a small grin. “Ricochet is still not playing nice enough in Barricade’s datapad to get it back. Too bad; playing tic-tac-toe or ‘I spy’ over comms would have been a nice way to spend time. Eh, perhaps we can do that the two of us? You still got my frequency, right?”

“Well, yes, of course,” Optimus smiled, shaking his head. “Anyway, let’s find Megatron, and Smokescreen and I will be yours for the rest of the day.”

“Unless he whisks you away to ‘celebrate’, hmm? If he does, I can babysit Smokescreen,” Jazz teased and Optimus choked.

“Jazz! That’s not funny! Megatron and I will not… Oh.” Optimus stilled utterly as a familiar shape came into view at the bottom of the stairs, right in front of them. “Hello, Soundwave,” he saluted politely. “I… How are you?” he asked awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. He had never personally spoken with the mech before, only seeing him from times to times as he strolled slowly through the camp, one or several of the Cryo-Falcons he was in charge of perched on his shoulders.

Soundwave, according to Dreadwing, Ratchet and Strika, was a formidable warrior in his own rights who was also incredibly loyal toward Megatron. As he had never seen them interact personally, Optimus could only take their word for it. From what he had observed, Soundwave rarely joined his fellow nomads for meals or parties or well, anything. Oh, he did his share of the chores, going to hunt and foraging, and tended to his specific duties with celerity, but he remained discreet and aloof, very much unlike the rest of the tribe. He was just… well, Optimus didn’t know how to describe Soundwave. There was just something about him that put him on edge, despite the mech never doing anything threatening toward anyone. Perhaps it came from his unusual aspect (reflecting mirror as a facemask, and such long arms!), or perhaps it came from his intense quietness, it was hard to say. Optimus had yet to hear the sound of his voice.

“Are you… are you participating in the Games?” Optimus offered again, as Soundwave stayed silent.

The tall, thin mech just stood there, looking at him -- and his lack of visible face made it all the more creepy. Optimus felt Jazz shift uneasily behind him. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one unnerved by Soundwave’s presence. Smokescreen was the only one seemingly unbothered. Still pressed against his Carrier’s chest, he was looking at the new arrival with a questioning look on his face, chirping. Soundwave didn’t move, but Optimus had the sudden feeling his optics had shifted to better look at Smokey, and he fought down the impulse to hide the Sparkling under his poncho.

But Soundwave stayed still and silent, and Smokescreen didn’t seem bothered by the attention -- had the little one even noticed? After a moment, he seemed to lost interest in the new mech and just snuggled against his Carrier, uncaring for the rest of the world. The silence was almost crushing.

“Is Megatron still down there?” Optimus found himself asking, trying to sound casual. “I needed to see him.”

He hadn’t expected an answer but, to his surprise, Soundwave nodded, moving so the path was clear and stretching an arm toward the direction he had come from. Optimus blinked. “Oh… thank you, Soundwave,” he said as he gingerly came down the last stairs, Jazz coming close behind.

“Airachnid… left,” a strange voice let out, making both Jazz and Optimus jump at the unexpected comment. Soundwave just looked at them passively, arms dangling at his side. Had it been his voice, Optimus wondered frantically? No, it had sounded like two different ones at once…

“Danger to… Sparkling… inexistent. Megatron will… be happy to see… you.” A femme voice, high and scratching. A mech’s, sounding happy. An older voice, wavering. Megazarak’s own voice, startling in its clarity. A Sparkling’s, so clear and pure. And Optimus’ own voice at the end, calm and carrying a hint of resignation.

It was a mix of recordings, Optimus realized suddenly at the same time Jazz whistled, though it wasn’t in a very appreciative way. Recordings of the voices of tribe’s mechs, put together to form coherent sentences. That was… Primus, he didn’t know what to say, though it raised new questions about Soundwave; did the mech only had a vocalizer of his own? Or was he mute, like Bumblebee, and compensating for it like he could?

Then his mind caught up on the words Airachnid left and a tension he didn’t know he still held left his shoulders. “Thank you, Soundwave,” Optimus said far more truthfully than before.

The silent mech just nodded, then went his way, moving up the stairs at the same lazy pace he tended to favor. Jazz watched him go from over his shoulder and whistled once the nomad was out of sight. “Wow. That mech is… something,” he muttered.

“Indeed,” Optimus murmured faintly in turn, his previous good mood dampered. “Let’s find Megatron and get out of here,” he shook his head, speeding up a little. There might have been other mechs like Soundwave and even if the silent mech’s warning about Airachnid having left the premises already was reassuring, he wasn’t in the mood to have more unsettling meetings today.

In hindsight, it was pretty obvious he had jinxed it, Optimus thought later.

Things had been going so well after their meeting with Soundwave! Navigating the corridors surrounding the arena’s floor had proved to not be as hard as Optimus had feared for if the levels above were slightly labyrinthic in design, the ‘ground floor’ had a simple layout, being made of an unique corridor with little side rooms every few meters. To his surprise and delight, the red and blue mech found out the walls were adorned with ancient frescos -- badly damaged ones, with faded colors and whole parts missing, but still ancient frescos.

“I wonder if this place wasn’t a theater at some point,” Jazz murmured after he inspected one. “That guy looks like he’s holding a stringed instrument -- then again, it could be a bow, the paint is too damaged to be able to tell. But that’d made a lot of sense.”

“Why do you think so?” Optimus asked as he tried not to get too absorbed in his own contemplation -- he still needed to find Megatron, after all.

“Those rooms? They remind me of lodges for artists,” Jazz explained as they passed by one where a mech was receiving treatment from a healer for a dent to his helmet. Jazz gave a friendly wave and the mech just blinked stupidly at them. “Must have been a good hit,” he chuckled as he joined Optimus and walked by his side.

“I don’t find this particularly funny,” Optimus frowned in disapproval as he continued to look around, sharing his attention between the rooms in the hope to see Megatron recuperating from his fight in one of them and the damaged fresco, still marvelling interiorly at the details. “What would you say if it was Prowl in his position?”

“Oh, I think Prowl got enough sense and planning to avoid hits to the head,” Jazz shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like he’s here today. Got called by Megazarak, I dunno why,” he clarified in answer to Optimus’ puzzled look. Even if it hadn’t been mentioned before, the young noble had thought he’d see Prowl down there as well; he was one of the tribe’s strongest fighters, was he not? He expressed so at Jazz, who shrugged.

“I honestly can’t help you here, my mech. Prowler doesn’t tell me about everything he does or what he plans to do. Oh, I know he intends to fight -- he spent pretty much a whole day cleaning and sharpening all his blades in preparation, though he didn’t tell me what he wanted to use in definitive -- but given how long he has been gone already? I doubt it’s for today.”

“So you don’t know why Megazarak would need him?” Optimus inquired worriedly. The tribe leader seemed to have accepted him and Smokescreen, but Optimus couldn’t perfectly relax whenever the older mech was brought up in a conversation.

“Nope,” Jazz confirmed, “but I wouldn’t worry if I were you. About Megazarak. Old mech doesn’t look like it, but from what I saw? He likes you -- or at least he likes those Sparklings-bearing hips of yours,” he winked in Optimus’ direction. The red and blue mech blushed and was about to retort when Smokescreen suddenly started to thrill loudly, wriggling into his Carrier’s arms.

Looking up, Optimus had to sigh in relief as he saw Megatron coming their way.

Optimus quickly looked at him up and down, privately relieved the nomad’s spotted no sign of injuries. His paint was a little chipped over the arms where he had parried bows and his finish was definitely scruffed by the fighting, but there was no sign of weld marks or bandages or tarp coverings -- which just cemented his earlier, impressive victory. A rag was hanging from his shoulder, wet and filthy with dirt he must have caked off of his frame after the fight. The grey mech walked stiffly and didn’t look particularly happy, but the moment he heard and saw Smokescreen and his mate, his expression softened.

“My mate,” he rumbled pleasantly at Optimus, nodding at him while reaching out to take Smokescreen in his arms. The Sparkling was simply giddy, babbling non-stop and giggling happily as Optimus let him go and he was lifted high in Megatron’s sturdy hands, above the grey mech’s helm. “Hello, my Creation,” he rumbled again, lips twitching at Smokescreen’s display of happiness. “Aren’t you in a good mood today?”

Calmly, he lowered Smokescreen and installed him on his shoulder, holding him still with one hand firmly holding the mechling’s hip while tiny hands grabbed the side of his helm to steady himself. Smokescreen made a few sounds of inquiry, surprised by this new position he had never taken before, but eased quickly. In fact, after a moment, he even grew bold enough to precautiously lift a hand away from Megatron and wave at his Carrier. Optimus could almost feel his Spark melt at the cuteness while Jazz had no qualm about snickering.

“Brave little mechlet,” he let out while Optimus shook his head and came closer, letting Megatron pass a protective arm around his waist.

“I hadn’t expected to see you here, my mate. Come to congratulate me on my victory?”

Optimus didn’t have time to open his mouth to answer, because a shrill, high-pitched voice suddenly shrieked. The sound was so unexpected that it made Optimus wince -- and behind him, Jazz put his hands over his audio receptors (which Optimus could sympathize about; Jazz didn’t advertise the fact to everyone, but he happened to know his friend had been born with already sensitive audios that, as a fan of music, he had later modded to be able to pick even more frequencies and wavelength and optimize his sense of hearing). Smokescreen, startled, started to cry.

Megatron… Megatron cringed. Optimus had to blink at that, for he had never seen the grey mech do that. Well, not after the mess that had been their first ‘meeting’ and Ratchet’s incensed talk. Megatron briefly shuttered his optics and the look on his face felt very familiar to the young noble. It all but shouted ‘Primus, give me strength’, which was highly curious.

“MY MATE!!!!!!!!! Megatron, what is the meaning of that?!”

Optimus looked around Megatron’s shoulder, curious about the speaker. He wasn’t the only ones; head had peeked out of various little rooms along the corridors, alerted by the noise -- though a few of them were already disappearing, some with moans as they understood the situation with a single glance. Informed nomads could have told you it was coming ever since they had noticed Megatron’s discreet mating markings and the presence of a Carrying mech and a Sparkling by his side in the marketplace. Some were surprised the whole thing hadn’t blown up in their face sooner.

Optimus, being new and uninformed about his mate’s life prior to their meeting asides of a few tribe-related facts, had no way to knowing, and such he looked at the new arrival whose Megatron’s bulk had previous masked.

A few steps away from Megatron, the thin, grey Seeker who had earlier fought in the arena with the foil was trembling, his hands in fists. His weapon was resting by his side, tapping lightly against his leg. His wings were raised high and taut at a brisk angle, his posture was rigid, betraying his anger. Despite his earlier fight, his armor was pristine and Optimus could smell the faint scent of newly, freshly applied wax. Red, narrowed optics were looking at Megatron but also at his companions with an expression of fury.

Red and blue optics crossed and gazes held for a moment. Then the red optics looked down until they reached Optimus’ neck and the lion-head necklace. A light of shock and deep hatred passed briefly in the red glass before the Seeker’s optics narrowed even further. Optimus didn’t take a step back but it was a near thing. Unseen by the Seeker, Megatron sighed, briefly squeezed Optimus’ shoulder as if to encourage him (or give himself strength perhaps) and turned, Smokescreen still perched on his shoulder.

“Starscream,” he said neutrally.

“Don’t ‘Starscream’ me you fragger! Since when do you have a mate?! And why is there a Sparkling on your shoulder?!” the Seeker screeched, and Optimus pained to keep a neutral face and not wince again. Jazz, who had come nearer, had no such compulsion, just holding his hands even tighter over his audio receptors.

::Mech’s got one Pit of a voice; you think it’s 100% natural?:: the white and black mech let out on Optimus’ comm link. Optimus didn’t bother answering, though he entertained similar questions. He was too busy watching Megatron stand his ground with a passive expression and trying to refrain the urge to snatch Smokescreen down to comfort him; startled and bothered by the shrill screams of the Seeker -- Starscream, Optimus corrected, thinking the name was aptly named -- the Sparkling’s sobs had become louder.

But Megatron was still holding him firmly, and his fingers had started to rhythmically pat over Smokescreen’s plating in comfort, creating a diversion which made the Sparkling calm down slightly.

“There is a Sparkling on my shoulder because I was greeting my Creation,” Megatron said calmly. As he did so, he turned slightly, giving the Seeker a good look at his free shoulder and its paldron, where the tiny series of glyphs was visible. The Seeker visibly flinched as he took notice of them, jaw dropping in shock before he gritted his dental plates and his shaking became more intense. Smokescreen sniffed and Megatron hummed gently at him. “I would suggest you tone down, Starscream. You’re upsetting him.”

“He’s uspset? He’s upset?” the Seeker screeched again, his agitation growing. “What about me?! You swore to me…!” His voice gave the impression it was about to break on the last words, and Optimus wondered what it was all about. What kind of promise could Megatron have done to the other mech?

“I,” Megatron retorted coldly and forcefully, “made no promise of any sort. You’re the one who read too deep into the situation.”

Optimus tilted his head. For some reason, he knew, he just knew what it was about, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. The situation felt very familiar, he just knew he had witnessed something similar once, but he couldn’t seem to remember what and when. Jazz had moved closer and was looking at Megatron and Starscream alternatively. “Oooooh boy,” he mouthed as he reached the right conclusion a moment before Optimus did. ::OP? Wanna bet those two were an item some time in the past?:: he ventured over the comm link.

… that was what his CPU has been trying to remind him about, Optimus realized. A long time ago, when he had still been a Youngling himself, he had assisted to a tragic spat at a ball -- a pair of young nobles who had been seeing each other in secret, having hoped to Bond later on with their family’s approval only for one of them to accept a Bonding contract with another mech in order to fill a political alliance. The whole thing had become public and provoked a huge scandal his Creators’ guests had loved to gossip about for vorns.

The expression of rage on the Seeker’s face, tinged with disbelief and desperation, reminded strongly Optimus of the face of the betrayed noble femme, and he felt his Spark sink.

Primus, let’s not his existence have caused a similar situation between Megatron and the mech who was obviously his lover!

Except… Except Megatron didn’t seem upset the slightest. Starscream was a true ball of rage and, if Optimus had to guess, pain, but Megatron remained perfectly calm. Irritated, but far calmer than he would have expected from him. He slightly tilted his head in consideration. ::One-sided love?:: he sent over Jazz’s comm link, and received a ping of confirmation.

::You bet it is. My best bet? One time swing that had that Seeker fall head over thrusters while Old Megs’ just considered it good fun or, hmm, warmth sharing? Anyway, better grab Smokey, take a step back and watch out for the pretty explosions, what you think?::

Said explosions were thankfully only metaphorical, but Optimus was only too happy to get Smokescreen back as safe in his arms while Megatron and Starscream started to snark -- well, scream at each other.

“... and I never said that I would make you my mate!” Megatron’s chest was puffed and his optics were narrowed angrily, but it didn’t seem to bother the Seeker the slightest. If anything, it seemed too make Starscream even more agitated.

“Are you trying to say all those nights we spent fragging over the last ten vorns meant nothing to you?! Look at me in the optics and say it, I dare you! Are you going to pretend you never had any feeling for me?! That I was just a convenient hole for you to bury your slagging spike in until you found something better?!”

Optimus’ cheeks reddened at hearing such crude terms and he tried to cover Smokescreen’s optics -- though at this rate, he was starting to doubt his ability to keep his Creation in a swear-word free environment -- while Jazz just cackled. Megatron for his part cringed, though the cause was debatable; was it from true, lingering feeling for the mech berating him or from embarrassment at having a previous tryst presented before his new mate, it was hard to say.

Megatron huffed, averting his optics. That made the Seeker wail brokenly -- though the broken part sounded overdone. Optimus bit his lips, uncomfortable, while Megatron tried to retake control of the situation. “Starscream, stop being so…!”

“So what?” the Seeker snapped, his tone even higher than before and his wings twitching in agitation. He started pacing angrily in front of Megatron. “Well, Mighty Megatron, tell me; what should I stop to be? Stop being such an idiot, to even think you’d finally do the HONORABLE thing and regularize things between us?!”

Megatron sighed and put his face in his hand, looking vaguely exhausted. “Starscream, I don’t know what you had imagined, but I never intended for us to…”

By this point, though, it was clear Starscream wasn’t listening to him anymore, too busy ranting. “But nooooo, not the Glorious Megatron! He’d never condescend to take anyone but his equal in fighting and cunning as a mate,” the Seeker sneered, and his optics glossed over Optimus in contempt. It was clear that in his optics, Optimus was neither strong nor cunning, and Optimus would have probably agreed if the Seeker had said it aloud. He wasn’t blind to the fact he had still much to learn in order to be a nomad, and Megatron really was the tribe’s best fighter.

Starscream wasn’t finished. “To think I even took part in those ridiculous Games to try and impress you so you’d FINALLY decide to try and sweep me off my feet! Do you know how long it took me to learn how to use that ridiculous weapon so you would notice me and how great a warrior I am, no matter the fighting style?!” He tapped angrily at the foil hanging at his side.

Optimus cringed. Ah; so Jazz had been right. The Seeker had truly been out to impress someone by using a non-standard weapon for nomads. The black and white mech always knew what was going on in other people’s head. Of course, neither of them could have guessed MEGATRON was the mech the Seeker had been trying to impress.

Speaking of Jazz, the black and white mech wasn’t helping the slightest, just mouthing silently at Optimus ‘totally called it’ while grinning like an idiot and rubbing his hands at the impromptu ‘show’. If he hadn’t been so well-educated and if he hadn’t had Smokescreen in his arms, Optimus would have hit him. Starscream, thankfully, wasn’t paying attention to anyone but Megatron and occasionally Optimus and the fussy Smokescreen else he would probably attacked already, despite New Kolkular supposedly being a sacred place where fighting was prohibited except in the ring.

“I should have ambushed you and dragged you under my tent before we parted last wintering, but noooooooo,” the Seeker bemoaned, throwing his arms in the air. “I had to be talked out of it by mechs who said now wasn’t the time, that to hold you I should be better prepared! Ah! I should tell them to the Pit with caution and acted on it!”

Optimus and Jazz exchanged a look. From a common, silent agreement, they both watched Megatron, broad and powerful and dangerous-looking and whom weight they couldn’t try to even guess. Then they looked at the Seeker, all thinness and elegance and deadly claws, but fragile and probably very light in order to be able to fly. Then Megatron again, and Starscream again, then Megatron.

The same thought came spontaneously to their mind as they contemplated the idea of the thin Starscream dragging a bound and/or unconscious Megatron behind him, as it was traditional of nomads bringing their newly acquired mate under their tent. They looked at each other again, and they could easily guess what the other thought. Giggles threatened to escape them, and Optimus quickly masked his by a fit of coughing which made Smokescreen chirp at him worriedly.

‘Seriously?’

They probably hadn’t been as discreet as they had hoped, because Megatron shuffled uneasily after giving them a glance, cheeks heating. Optimus felt a twinge of pity for him; getting your previous love life thrown in your face in front of the mech you were mated with had to be the most embarrassing thing Megatron had had to live through so far. Him himself would have felt uneasy if Megatron had ever asked about what his marital life with Flame had been. Thankfully, the grey mech had always been too kind or too discreet to ever ask…

Then Starscream levelled a glare at him that made Optimus’ amusement wilt and die as quickly as it had blossomed. It made Optimus want to step back. Rarely had the red and blue mech been the object of such thinly-veiled animosity or, to be more precise, such hatred.

Then Megatron moved, placing himself between the two mechs, back to Starscream as he gently put the slightly fussy Smokescreen in the arms of his Carrier with a shushing sound. Smokescreen just looked up at him with a moody chirp before disinteresting himself from Megatron and burying his hands in the folds of Optimus’ poncho. Obviously, he wasn’t impressed with Megatron’s inability to make the shrill voice that bothered his sensitive audios cease.

Megatron gave the Sparkling a sheepish smile as he caressed his little helm. “Sorry, little one,” he mouthed silently so only Optimus and Jazz could see it. Jazz kept a good poker face, but he was literally cooing over his and Optimus’ shared comm link;

::Alright, I admit, he isn’t half-bad with the Bitlet. Isn’t the big brute playing good Sire just adorable?::

::He’s not a brute,:: Optimus send back, trying to keep his face neutral even as Megatron turned to face Starscream again. The Seeker was seething, wings fluttering erratically.

“Don’t ignore me Megatron!”

“I’m not ignoring you, Starscream,” the grey mech replied, optics slightly narrowed. “I’m just waiting for you to calm down and start to behave like a reasonable mech. You’re making a spectacle out of yourself. Doesn’t it mean anything for you?” As he spoke, he nodded and gestured at the handful of mechs who had emerged from the rooms adjacents to the corridors. Most were watching in fascination, some were looking stoic and a handful of others tried not to snicker.

Starscream’s wings stood ramrod as he seemed to finally notice the bystanders. “You… they… Argggh!!!” He shouted, and Optimus winced as he tried to protect Smokescreen’s from the noise. A clawed digit was aimed at Megatron. “Don’t you think it’s over, Megatron!” Starscream warned before turning and walking away with long, quick steps as his wings rattled. Various mechs watched him go before shrugging and going back to the rooms they had emerged from. A couple were already chattering with enthusiasm, probably commenting on what they had seen.

Megatron, for his part, sighed in relief as the other mech disappeared from sight. “Thank the Spirits.”

“Let me guess,” Jazz pipped in, “our screechy friend is not a fan of humiliating himself in front of witnesses?”

“No, he’s not,” Megatron replied grumpily, rubbing the side of his helm. “Normally he doesn’t make a scene where there are unknown mechs to see him, but I suppose he was too furious to care before I pointed out we weren’t alone -- alone asides of you,” he amended as he looked up at Optimus. “I’m sorry for the disagreement, my mate. I hadn’t thought Starscream would try to seek me out so soon after his own match, nor did I think he would make a scene.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Jazz said cheerfully, “it was rather entertaining. Besides, if you had been avoiding him -- and I’m sure you did,” he added more sharply, giving Megatron a look, “then you must have known he would ‘make a scene’ sooner or later. You’re just sorry Optimus learned you had an interface life before he came along.”

Megatron’s whole frame stiffened and he glared at Jazz even as Optimus choked. Smokescreen just chirped innocently and snuggled closer to his Carrier. “Jazz!”

“What? You didn’t think he was a virgin, did you? And even if you did, I think that Starscream fellow just shredded your innocence into tiny ‘lil pieces,” the black and white mech shrugged before raising an optic ridge at Megatron. “‘Seems to me you’ve got some explaining to do, and not just at your winged, high-tempered friend.”

“I don’t own you anything,” Megatron growled.

Jazz put a hand over his chest, affecting to be injured. “Oh, don’t worry about me, my mech, I’m good -- and even if I wasn’t, you’d be surprised what a mech can learn if he let his audio close to the ground. There are so many rumors flying around, and that little scene? ‘S going to make a few mechs sing sweetly for the foreseeable future. Naw, it’s Optimus you own an explanation to, and you better make it a good one,” he warned.

Megatron deflated. Optimus just sighed, bouncing Smokescreen in his arms. “Jazz, he isn’t forced to…”

He was surprised when Megatron put a hand over his shoulder. Optimus paused and looked up at him. “Prowl’s mate is right,” the grey mech sighed. “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to and I would settle things in private, but since you met Starscream, well, I suppose it can’t be helped anymore. However, whatever I’ll say to my mate will be private,” he added, giving Jazz a look.

The black and white mech just raised his hands. “Sure, don’t mind me, I don’t care. I’m just going to go my way, see? And you go yours, and back to that cozy little shelter of yours, and Optimus and I will catch up some other time. By the way, Optimus, my invitation’s still open, you know,” he winked at the red and blue mech.

“Thank Jazz,” Optimus started to say as the other mech saluted and started to walk away with a bouncy step. Optimus shook his head indulgently at his friend as he rounded a corner -- in a direction opposed to the one Starscream had taken, Optimus was happy to note. At least Jazz had enough good sense not to try and follow the Seeker. “Jazz is a great mech but sometimes, he’s a little too flippant,” he said to Smokescreen in all seriousness as the Sparkling waved ‘bye’ to the black and white mech. He was answered by an happy chirp.

“Hmph. Flippant is a way to see it,” Megatron mumbled. “Will you allow me to walk you back to our shelter, Optimus? We’ll be more comfortable to speak there.”

“You don’t have to ask for permission, I’ll be happy to have you with me either way. Don’t you have any other obligation, however?” the red and blue asked worriedly.

“None that are more important than to talk with my mate,” Megatron shook his head. “Shall we?”

Optimus nodded. “Let’s go. And perhaps we can use the opportunity to finish cleaning up your frame? You certainly look like you need some cleanser…”

Much later, once Smokescreen had been fed and put down for his nap and Optimus had teasingly helped Megatron clean away the rest of the grim marring his frame (“Why, there is one spot left just here, let me get it for you?”, the two mechs sat together, Optimus patiently waiting for Megatron to make the first step and explain himself.

It was proving to be more complicated than previously thought, however, because Megatron kept trying to avoid the subject, first when he had insisted to play with Smokescreen before the Sparkling fell in recharge, then when he had mumbled he couldn’t have a serious conversation while cleaning himself.

In the end, it was Optimus who pressed on, unwilling to let the subject fester any longer.

“So that mech was…?” the red and blue mech prompted, keeping his voice firm and steady and making sure to look at Megatron in the optics.

“Starscream, of the Shatterstar tribe. The tribe’s Heir,” Megatron added gruffly.

Optimus startled. “Heir? And you courted him anyway?” As far as Optimus knew, there were little rules applied to courting and getting a mate among the nomads asides of making sure the mech you wished to mate with was of age according to their tribe’s standards, but two Heirs together still sounded very unusual. What happened when one ended kidnapping the other? Could the tribe missing its Heir select a new one immediately? Or were there some hidden political manoeuvring Optimus had yet to hear about?

Megatron’s shoulders were stiff. “Courting is a big word…” he started, sounding unwilling to speak about the subject. Normally, Optimus would have respected the grey mech’s unvoiced wishes and let the matter drop, but in his mind he kept seeing Starscream’s hateful glare.

Megatron had shared the tale of Airachnid and the danger she represented, he had spoken little but still mentioned the trouble with his Sire, and Optimus wanted to learn about the potential problems Megatron’s scorned ex-lover could spurn -- because Starscream would be trouble in some way or shape, Optimus had no doubt about it.

“But you still saw him on and off over the course of ten vorns,” Optimus pointed out, having gathered as much from Starscream’s rant.

“At wintering only, and he wasn’t my only…” Megatron stopped himself and coughed in his fist, shuffling awkwardly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak of such things.”

Optimus’ cheeks felt a little red, reflecting how uncomfortable he himself felt about learning anymore details of Megatron’s love life, but he pressed on anyway. “Let’s only focus on Starscream, yes? So, he was your… wintering companion?”

“... of a sort. We met in the arena. We fought. I won. He sought me out to talk. It evolved.”

“And you and him were…?”

“Not in love,” Megatron declared categorically, not even bothered by the optic ridge Optimus raised in his direction. “... I wasn’t in love. Not to the point I truly considered taking him as a mate,” the grey mech amended grudgingly after a moment, when it became clear Optimus’ optic ridge wasn’t going to lower anytime soon. “I thought my feelings over the matter were clear to him but apparently, I was mistaken.”

“Love is hard to control,” Optimus murmured sadly. “He’s a handsome mech.”

Megatron gritted his dental plates and Optimus chuckled briefly. “Oh, I’m just saying. It’s obvious, don’t you think? Everybody must have noticed.” He was being sincere. As far as Seekers went, Starscream was indeed good looking, though thinner than most Seeker models Optimus had met in Iacon.

“... I admit he’s esthetically pleasant.”

“So why didn’t you take him as a mate? Even if you weren’t in love,” Optimus added insistently. “I wasn’t with you, and you still took me as a mate.”

“Those were different circumstances.”

“True, but you didn’t seem bothered by the possibility I never would love you back when I first told you I couldn’t.”

“Does it mean you love me now, my mate?”

Optimus blushed. “I… don’t change subject, Megatron! Why didn’t you take him as your mate, since it’s obvious he was infatuated with you? You could have learned to love him back. I did, and more than once,” he murmured softly, thinking about Flame and Megatron both.

Megatron’s shoulders sagged. “Perhaps I could have. But while Starscream is easy on the optics -- if you like the lightweight type, that’s it,” he added hastily, as if he was committing an offense toward Optimus by confirming he found the Seeker good-looking, “his personality is…” he trailed off, letting Optimus to complete the sentence for him.

“Lacking?” he proposed diplomatically. “Less than stellar?”

Megatron nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “By certain points, he reminds me of my Sire. It was a massive turn off when I realized how much alike they could think.” He made a face; obviously, the revelation still stung. Not having a good enough grasp of the personality of either mech, Optimus politely refused to comment and held his glossa. “Starscream is certainly more ambitious and scheming than I’m comfortable with, especially if I have to share my tent with such a mech. Plus, you have heard how high pitched his voice is whenever he gets… emotional.”

Megatron and Optimus shared a grimace. Oh yes, Starscream's voice was clearly something. “Yes, I did hear. But surely he doesn’t…?”

“He is very emotional,” Megatron said between gritted dental plates. “Starscream loves to make a show of his feelings, no matter what they are -- though he does keep his temper tantrum for when he’s around known mecha, his own tribe or his friends.”

“You don’t appreciate his showiness?”

“Not when I have to wonder wherever those feelings are sincere or not, and not when I have to tune down my audio receptors to make certain I still have a sense of hearing left,” the grey mech deadpanned. It made Optimus smile a little before he shook his head to try and clear his thoughts.

“He sounded sincere enough to me.”

“Maybe he is. But if he read too much into our relationship, then it is his fault, not mine. Even if I had started to consider him as a potential, serious mate, he should have realized I would have dropped all ideas to follow through once he was confirmed as his Tribe’s own Heir. It would have been bad form to steal him away, and I wasn’t about to let myself get caught,” he informed Optimus.

“How can it be bad form? Is is… unlawful?”

“Neither unlawful nor dishonorable,” Megatron assured his mate. “Depriving a tribe of their strongest, best warrior might be considered acceptable by some tribes, especially ones who want to grow in strength themselves, but I don’t personally agree with the idea. Besides, Starscream is actually much closer to get leadership of his tribe than I am -- Shatterstar’s leader had been rumored to be in poorer and poorer health over the last vorn, though she stills holds herself steady,” he let Optimus know. “Starscream is volatile, but having him taken by some other tribe would thrown Shatterstar into a crisis, and if we want them to continue to contribute to the wintering as they do, we can’t afford one.”

“Which is why he was making plans to kidnap you instead?” Optimus asked.

Megatron snorted. “Most likely. But I’m not one who would have let himself be taken, even if I had been head over heels for that mech.”

Optimus looked at Megatron for a long while in silence. “I know we never spoke about it, and perhaps I shouldn’t ask, but if you allow me this one question… You had no plan to find yourself a mate before I came along, did you?”

Megatron rubbed the back of his helm, avoiding his gaze. “... not really,” he finally admitted after the silence stretched for too long and Optimus coughed discreetly to try and prompt an answer out of him. “I wasn’t in any hurry, unlike some other Heirs such as Starscream. We live a harsh life, true, but I don’t like to feel rushed into choosing. I figured there would always be time to find what I considered to be a fitting mate later.”

Optimus hadn’t meant to keen, but he did it anyway. “... I’m sorry.” Megatron looked at him, startled. “I pretty much ruined all your plans, even if you didn’t have any about Starscream, didn’t I?”

“Never say such things again, my mate. Optimus. I don’t regret having taken you as my mate -- though I do deplore the conditions under which I did,” he added, sliding a finger under Optimus’ chin and making him look up at him. “True, I hadn’t made any plan for having a mate, no so soon and not under such circumstances, but I love Sparklings and I did know I wanted one or several of my own someday. That I wouldn’t mind, in the long term, to share my tent with a mech or a femme I would respect and feel to be my equal. And somehow, I now have both, far ahead of schedule, but I still have them. You’re giving me two already, and perhaps more when the time is right. And you… you have a beautiful Spark, Optimus, and I’m proud to be able to claim it belongs to my mate,” he murmured before catching Optimus’ lips with his owns.

Optimus didn’t answer to the kiss right away, but when he did, he moved to snuggle against Megatron’s frame. A grey arm circled his waist and pressed him further against the other mech.

“Thank you,” Optimus whispered as they broke their kiss. “Megatron? Do I need to worry about Starscream?”

The other mech harrumphed; obviously, he had hoped to have suitably distracted his mate from pursuing the matter. “I don’t think so. You’re my mate, and nothing he can say or do will change that. Starscream will need to let go and see reason.”

Optimus hummed noncommittally. He wasn’t as sure as Megatron Starscream would do what the nomads considered ‘sensible’ and stop pinning for a mech he couldn’t claim anymore. The look in his optics at least showed he wouldn’t forgive. “You should speak with him again, in private,” he suggested to a scowling Megatron.

“It won’t change the way things are.”

“Perhaps not,” Optimus acknowledged, “but you own him that much, if you ever want him to get closure. And Starscream needs it, even if you don’t think he needs it. He loves you, remember?”

“So he says,” Megatron grumbled. “But since it’s you who are asking, then I shall try and settle matters in a satisfying way.”

“Good,” Optimus murmured. He glanced at Smokescreen’s recharging form before looking at Megatron again. Slowly, he removed his poncho and threw it asides, shifting to lean closer to Megatron. “Now, where were we again?”

Megatron’s optics lighted.

Chapter Text

“You’re a hard mech to find, mate of my Creation.”

Running away very fast wouldn’t have been dignified and would have drawn out a few risen optic ridges, Optimus mused silently, but it certainly would have felt safer than just standing there near what he just knew was a potential danger to him and to his Creations.

Still mentally debating what he should do, Optimus shifted Smokescreen in his arms and eyed the hand which had seized the crystal fruit he had been about to take like one would eye a coiled Razorviper.

Decision, decision.

Of course, they were in an open place, there were dozens of nomads mingling around, including the trader who was keeping his distances but whose sharp optics were on Optimus and the mech who had briskly appeared at his side. There were little to no chance Optimus would be attacked here. Still, the red and blue mech couldn’t help but remember Ratchet’s warning about Megatron’s Sire having ‘a few crossed wires’...

The fruit was waved in front of his face and Optimus made a small jump back. Galvatron just looked at him and huffed.

“They told me you were skittish, but I hadn’t thought it was that much,” the purple mech stated. A few steps behind him, a tall and lithe mech with a brighter purple paintjob and long horns coughed into his hand, making Galvatron look at him over his shoulder with an unhappy expression. “I’m merely stating the truth!”

“The truth as you see it,” the other mech nodded. “However, is your truth the only one?” he looked straight at Optimus with a raised optic ridge.

“Ah?” Optimus blinked, unsure of what he should do or say. The horned mech was unfamiliar to him, but Optimus was certain he had seen him before. Cyclonus, if he remembered right. One of ‘powers behind the throne’, according to Ratchet’s explanation about the Decepticons sister-tribe. Megatron had added a few things about him when Optimus had asked. Sharp, intelligent, honorable, strong fighter, officially Galvatron’s devoted bodyguard… and unofficially, one of the mechs charged to keep him out of trouble.

His presence made Optimus relax a fraction. He wasn’t too sure about who Cyclonus truly supported in the tribe’s ‘succession order’ but the red and blue mech doubted a mech Megatron himself called ‘honorable’ would allow harm to come to Smokescreen, even if he was less certain he would stand up for Optimus should Galvatron tried anything untoward.

Which, he kept repeating to himself, wouldn’t happen in public.

He looked at Cyclonus, then at the scowling Galvatron. That wasn’t how he had imagined any meeting with Megatron’s Sire would go if they ever happened to come face to face outside of Megazarak’s tent. Come to think, he had never imagined he would meet with him alone, without the comforting presence of Megatron by his side or that of another mech of the tribe who knew how to tread around Galvatron and his shifting moods.

Which, come to think, was probably no accident. Optimus rarely went anywhere alone; there was always someone to meet with like Bulkhead, fellow tribemechs who wanted to show him their favorite stalls to trade for or invited him to come join them to craft whatever items they were working on, Megatron himself who made sure to spend time with him and Smokescreen when he wasn’t off to go mine ores for new weapons, down in the arena or attending chieftains reunions,... Optimus was practically never alone.

And for one he was, Galvatron mysteriously materialized next to him? Optimus knew he could be naive but honestly? A blind mech would have spotted a set-up.

It left Optimus at a conundrum. Should he play the meek, subservient mech Galvatron obviously thought him to be? Or show him Optimus had a steely backstrut after all? He couldn’t afford to ostracize him, though, because he had no idea of how Galvatron could and would react. Briefly, he cursed Megatron and Ratchet’s lack of details when it came to the lack of details they had provided him with about Megatron’s Sire. The display in Megazarak’s tent hadn’t been enough to really give the red and blue mech a good feel of how to work with, against or around Galvatron.

In his arms, Smokescreen made a small sound as he started to suckle on his thumb. Galvatron spared the Sparkling a look that Optimus couldn’t identify, although it wasn’t hostile.

Optimus breathed. Well, let’s aim for something honest and a slight reminder about manners and work from there. “While I know I’m considered skittish by some, I would like to point out that seizing an item it was clear I was about to pick up was startling. And very rude,” he added as an afterthought, keeping his voice even and making a small, respectful bow in Galvatron’s direction.

The purple mech did a funny face, various expressions warring without much success. Surprise, disapproval, amusement, loathing, grudging acknowledgement and perhaps many more Optimus wasn’t quick enough to identify. In the end, Galvatron scowled fiercely, optics narrowed. Perhaps it was a trick born of Optimus nervousness but for a moment, Galvatron seemed to grow bigger and loom over him.

“I see.” The purple mech’s voice was frosty. “In that case, I suppose I should present you with excuses for my behavior.”

Optimus stayed impassible. “It would be the polite thing to do,” he acknowledged. “However, there was no harm done and I see no point into forcing an excuse out of you if you don’t think you need to. You were only trying to be helpful and hand me the item I wished, were you not?” he added while smiling slightly, trying to appear naive and sweet (which Jazz had always pretended he had no need to try and appear so, because he really was a naive and sweet mech).

Internally, he was praying he was doing the right thing. He didn’t want to start an argument with Galvatron over rudeness, and he was giving him an out. There was no way he hadn’t meant to startle Optimus but the purple mech couldn’t just acknowledge it, could he? So if they both pretended to agree it was a simple mistake…

There was a small light in Galvatron’s optics that quickly disappeared. “Of course. So do you want that fruit or not?” he said gruffly, waving the fruit in front of Optimus’ face again.

“I was thinking half a dozen, but yes, I…” Optimus started to say before Galvatron turned his back to him and harangued the stall’s owner over what could be considered an honest trade for the fruits he was proposing. Optimus shook his head in disbelief and opened his mouth to protest, only to close it as he saw Cyclonus look at him and subtly move his head to indicate that he shouldn’t intervene.

The lanky purple mech made his way and stood by his shoulder, his optics never leaving Galvatron as the larger mech started to move his arms energetically while the other nomad stood his ground. Obviously, they weren’t in agreement over what consisted a fair trade. “No worry, they won’t come to blow,” Cyclonus murmured in a low voice that Optimus barely heard. Outwardly, the horned mech didn’t even seem to have moved his lips.

Optimus very carefully didn’t look at him, optics still on Galvatron, but he dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Should I worry?” he murmured back.

Cyclonus didn’t answer right away. “Tread carefully,” he finally whispered, which wasn’t nearly as helpful as Optimus would have wished. Was it too hard to just give him a clear idea of what to do or say to or about Galvatron? Or to just tell him why the mech had sought him out? Optimus wished he could just excuse himself and flee, but he doubted he would be allowed to by Megatron’s Sire. Not before he had what he had come for, whatever it was.

In front of them, the haranguing had died down. Galvatron and the other nomad were talking more quietly and the trader was already gathering a bunch of fruits in a colorful little bag Galvatron had handed to him. Cyclonus nodded, his EM field tinged with contentment and relief, and he spared Optimus a quick glance. “Nicely parried, by the way.”

Optimus didn’t have time to ask Cyclonus to elaborate; his transaction completed, Galvatron made his way back to them, optics narrowing at Cyclonus’ new position by Optimus’ side though he didn’t comment on it. The fabric bag was thrust in Optimus face, the handle hanging loosely from Galvatron’s fist. “Here,” he said gruffly. “For you.”

It made Optimus sorely tempted to use the line about rudeness again, but he refrained to. Instead, he smiled politely but didn’t reach for the bag. “Oh, this is very generous of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept...” Optimus realized it was a mistake as soon as he spoke. He felt more than he saw Cyclonus tense even before he became aware of the narrowing expression on Megatron’s Sire’s face and corrected himself quickly. “I mean, I was about to trade for them, and surely you wanted some of your own, if you came to this very stall? I wouldn’t want to deprive you.” Cyclonus minute tenseness disappeared at the same time as Galvatron’s expression grew less pinched.

“Deprive me? Ah! As if I couldn’t trade for more! And why the Pit would you refuse?” Galvatron groused unhappily, crossing his arms over his chest, the bag still dangling from his hand. “Isn’t it my right to give a gift to my Creation’s mate and my GrandCreation?” He reached out, taking one of the gleaming spheric fruits out of the bag and handing it toward Smokescreen, who was chirping curiously at the unknown adult and made a grabbing gesture toward the offered item. “See, he wants it.”

Optimus tutted and shifted Smokescreen to keep him away from the fruit. “Ah, Smokescreen is still too young to process anything but filtered energon,” Optimus declined politely with a smile of excuse, hugging his son close. “He’s still at the ‘suckling only’ stage. Nonetheless, it’s very kind of you to offer him...”

“Still only suckling? How old is he exactly?” Galvatron interrupted him, peering at Smokescreen intensively. The sudden interest didn’t sit well with Optimus, but the red and blue mech knew better than to remark on it.

“A little under three vorns now…”

Galvatron harrumphed, one of his optic ridges rising slightly as he considered Smokescreen again then glanced at Optimus with an expression the red and blue mech couldn’t identify. “Is he? And you’re Sparked anew?”

“I am,” Optimus answered neutrally while looking at Galvatron straight in the optics and wondering if the purple mech saw Optimus’ state in a positive or negative manner. Nobody in the tribe had commented negatively on his state so far… but of course, nobody in the tribe seemed to entertain such a hostile and complex relationship as Megatron and his Sire, and the mechs and femmes Optimus often affiliated himself with were self-professed friends or allies of his mate.

Did it gall Galvatron to know Megatron had constructed a family unit, even if the way it had happened was unorthodox to say the least?

“So he’s too young, but you certainly aren’t.” Galvatron’s voice drew him out of his musings before he could dwell further on them. The bag was thrust in his direction once more and after glancing at annoyed red optics, Optimus decided it was probably wiser to just accept the ‘gift’.

“You’re most kind,” he murmured as he shifted Smokescreen in his arms to take a hold of the bag. Smokescreen’s tiny hands gripped at his shoulder as he giggled, playing peek-a-boo over his Carrier’s shoulders with the passersby, mindless of the latent tension between Optimus and Galvatron.

With slow, careful gestures in order not to bother his precious charge, Optimus picked one of the fruits out of the bag and held it up for examination.

Optimus eyed the gleaming spheric fruit carefully. He didn’t know if it had a specific name, as it was the first time he could remember seeing one with this shape or color, but it had looked interesting and tasty even from asides. It wasn’t as if he was risking anything, he reminded himself. The bronze-colored fruit came straight from the stall and between Cyclonus and his vigilance and having to haggle with the traders, it wasn’t as if Galvatron would have had any occasion to temper with them. And Optimus had been aiming to take some to taste and bring to Megatron as a possible treat for when the grey mech returned to their dugout, he reminded himself.

So really, there was no reason to refuse to eat one just now. It would have been rude otherwise, something Galvatron was probably fully aware of, and it would have reflected poorly on Optimus to call him on his rudeness but being just as rude in turn.

So, forcefully squashing down his hesitations, Optimus brought the fruit to his lips and bite down. The outer shell was harder than he had first thought and it cracked under his dental plates as he applied a little more force to his bite but it still shattered, revealing a tender, juicy inside. Juice dribbled down Optimus’ chin as he chewed, but he paid it little mind as he savored the taste. It was bitter than he would have thought but it felt refreshing.

“Delicious,” he said as he finished it and wiped his chin clean with a hand, smiling at Megatron’s Sire as he did so and making sure Smokescreen didn’t try and reach for the bag. “I don’t think I ever tasted anything similar before.”

Galvatron waved dismissively. “Hmph. Of course you didn’t. City dwellers don’t know what good stuff are.” He eyed Optimus silently for a moment, as if silently passing judgement. The red and blue mech stayed utterly still.

It was a key moment, he realized dimly.

“What does my Creation see in you?” Galvatron finally growled, making Optimus rise an optic ridge. “And for that matter, what do you see in that arrogant glitch I was unfortunate to Sire?”

Optimus stared despite himself. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me just fine.” Galvatron looked right and left, but nobody came close and Cyclonus stood like a vigilant guard a few feet away. “Look at you,” he said dismissively. “City dweller. Not one of us. You’re soft. Fragile. Do you even know how to use that weapon?” he gestured at the handle of the axe emerging from behind Optimus’ back.

By reflex, Optimus started to move his hand to touch it before forcing himself to abort the motion, vents working hard as he fought to remain still. Smokescreen made a small sound of protest as the tension in Optimus’ frame had forced him to shift him, but was content with burying in face against his Carrier’s ponchon again after giving him a look of reproach. To be honest, Optimus had almost forgotten he was still carrying the axe around; by this point, the weight of the weapon had become a familiar element, just like the softness of the poncho he kept wearing, or the sling in which he carried Smokescreen when the Sparkling was recharging or when Optimus needed to keep his hands free.

Strapping the weapon to his back every time he headed outside his and Megatron’s shelter had become a routine, a part of the new normal the red and blue mech was living in, and never mind Airachnid. Optimus might have started to walk armed because she existed and she was clearly a threat if not to himself and Smokescreen, then because she was dangerous and different from the other nomads (dishonorable, his CPU provided helpfully), but now it had become something natural to the point he didn’t question it anymore.

Besides, almost every nomads he knew kept weapons on their person, even if concealed. New Kolkular was a sacred place where the tribes all held a truce and fighting was forbidden outside of the arena and the Games, but nomads loved their weapons. You couldn’t spent whole seasons in the Badlands foraging for food and defending yourself from predators and get rid of the habit of walking armed just by snapping your digits, after all. Granted, when prowling the markets, most only carried short swords or knives, but it was always easy to spot the handles emerging from under a poncho or a cloak. Even those unharmed weren’t defenseless -- Optimus had seen enough matches by now to see several mechs were skilled in hand-to-hand fighting.

Megatron had even proposed to teach him, when circumstances would allow for it, even as he cradled Optimus in his arms and rubbed the swell in the red and blue mech’s abdomen.

In the meanwhile, Megatron was still giving him ‘lessons’ on how to properly hold and use the axe which, sadly, clashed with the way Optimus had been taught; Megatron kept trying to correct a footing Optimus knew was correct already and kept trying to modify the way Optimus held the handle. Nevermind the fact the grey mech didn’t allow him to try and actually swing the axe blade, for fear Optimus would injure himself. Suffice to say, it was leading to many moments of tension and back-to-back recharging as Optimus, unnerved, tried to ignore Megatron’s presence.

Moments like that made the red and blue mech doubly glad he never spoke of his own personal practice times to Megatron; his mate would have fussed needlessly.

Hum. Perhaps he should have considered the option to fight when Galvatron had first confronted him -- even if flighting would have preferable for a number of reasons, Smokescreen’s safety not even being the main one.

No, that honor went to the warning Megatron had given him the very day they had arrived to New Kolkular and visited the market for the first time:

“New Kolkular is sacred to us. We can’t fight in its halls, unless in formal setting. Nobody will attack someone else on the market -- not if he doesn’t wish to be put to death for the offense.”

It hadn’t struck Optimus at first because there had been other, more important things to worry about first, but as time went and as Airachnid became a recurring subject of conversations between the nomads, Optimus had remembered the warning and decided to learn more about it.

And from what Optimus had gathered from his conversations with various tribe members (Dreadwing, who was very knowledgeable about the tribe’s justice system and what was considered ‘honorable reparation’ and punishment, young Bumblebee who had been less knowledgeable but had heard of many tales since Younglings apparently had a weird fascination for morbids stories, Ratchet himself, who had nasty things about stupid laws and the violence of some nomads, nevermind the fact he wasn’t what you’d call a pacifist either,...), Megatron hadn’t been kidding or exaggerating. There had indeed been many executions performed in New Kolkular over time, most of them concerning mechs who had started a fight into the rotunda or the Halls and injured or even killed fellow nomads during their rampage.

The nomads’ conception of justice toward those who disturbed the peace in their sacred city was swift, lethal and implacable.

Even those who had avoided executions had been harshly punished. In many cases, it led to the guilty party losing one or several limbs (usually the one with which he had brandished a weapon or those he had used to cause harm) when it wasn’t torn-off optics or crushed internal parts. In the city, it could have been more easily corrected, provided you had the budget to buy new limbs and get expensive repairs done to you but among the nomads, such damages could hardly be repaired (well, in most tribe; Ratchet could probably repair it all, provided he had the time and materials at his disposition, but not everyone had his talents and medical knowledges) and in some case, were forbidden to be repaired so the victim would be forced to go through penance.

It was cruel, more so because any mech who wasn’t fit to hunt and fight or contribute in some way or shape to the daily life of the tribe became a burden for their tribe, both physically and spiritually. To lose a limb could always happen when hunting but it was understood and excusable, but to lose a limb as punishment for fighting in New Kolkular was considered shameful, a proof of your lack of honor. It harmed the tribe’s very reputation, and there had been examples of mechs cast off by their tribe for this very reason.

The ‘lighter’ sentences weren’t much better in Optimus’ opinion. They usually ended with an extended, violent manhunt lead by the Tribes Justice Division where the guilty party took the role of prey to be hunted down. Granted, in this case, you at least had a chance of survival if you met some crazy requirement, like outpacing them for a whole decacycle or orn, defeating all your pursuers in one-to-one combat or reaching first a specific landmark in the deepest part of the Badland which acted as a ‘safe-place’ where you could ask for forgiveness.

The one sentence that didn’t involve death or grievous bodily harm involved plain old banishment, your name being forever erased from your tribe’s archives as if you had never existed, an absolute interdiction to come back to New Kolkular or to come to contact with ‘honorable people’ -- which included your family and friends, unless you wanted them to be disgraced themselves.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it never happened to my Sire,” Megatron had commented one night. “Spirits know he’s violent and unstable. If anyone had to draw a sword in the rotunda and start hacking people, it would probably be him.”

Come to think, it certainly explained why Megazarak had decided Galvatron needed someone to both ‘guard him’ and keep him out of trouble. Being disrespectful with members of his tribe or perfect strangers was one thing; hacking those perfect strangers in little pieces in a fit of rage in the middle of the market was another entirely. It would be bad publicity at the very least, something the tribe couldn’t afford…

Optimus’ optics narrowed brutally in thought.

Could it be Galvatron’s plan? To try and rile Optimus up so much he would finally lose his processor and throw himself at Galvatron to try and strike him, thus giving the purple mech either a good excuse to strike down Optimus in turn, or put Optimus in trouble with the rest of the nomads for disobeying the laws of New Kolkular?

If Optimus was cast in an unfavorable light, it would certainly reflect badly on Megatron. But it would also reflect badly on the tribe as a whole, which was risky and double edged blade. Surely, Galvatron had foreseen that? Or perhaps he had not; Optimus had no way to know. Perhaps he was getting needlessly paranoid.

Well, Galvatron was going to be surprised, Optimus thought unhappily as he straightened himself. Optimus wasn’t so easily manipulated and he wasn’t the kind of mech who lost his nerves over a slight.

“I know to use it just fine,” he said in a polite if slightly clipped voice, trying not to frown or show any displeasure as he briefly bounced Smokescreen in his arms. It wasn’t quite the truth, but he wasn’t about to tell Galvatron that. “As for what Megatron sees in me…” he paused, as if searching his words while Galvatron leaned forward slightly, eager to hear his words. “Well, I suppose he sees me as a worthy mate.”

Galvatron frowned and scoffed. Optimus tried not to look amused. “Worthy? I was lead to believe you were an accident, weren’t you?” Optimus stiffened as Galvatron pressed forward.
“Well, you were! He killed your mate, didn’t he? He killed your mate, orphaned your Creation. And still you share his tent and let him touch you; don’t you have any pride?”

Optimus shuttered his optics and lowered his head with a heavy vent. “Yes, he did kill him, to my great regret and to his deepest shame. But I can’t hate him for what he did, for I know he didn’t act out of malice but because slaying his opponent seemed the only logical thing to do without knowing he was only trying to protect their mate and Creations.”

And Megatron truly had had no way to know, nor any of the other nomads. It was pure dumb luck if it was megatron personally who had felled Optimus’ Bonded. Any other member of the raiding party could have done that. They had been on a mission, a quest of vengeance, and they hadn’t considered the innocents travelling alongside the guilties. Optimus could have pointed out to Galvatron that technically, at least half the blame for Flame’s death laid at Galvatron’s own pedes, but what would have been the point, asides of antagonizing the purple mech further? He didn’t need Galvatron to bristle and fly into a rage nor did he want to make an enemy out of the other mech if he could avoid it. Of course, being Megatron’s mate seemed sufficient to be resented already…

“Megatron is an attentive mate,” he enunciated carefully. “He shows me love and respect and he’s caring and protective toward Smokescreen and toward the unborn Bitlet. I won’t lie and say we didn’t have a rocky start, but things have settled down. Your Creation is an honorable mech, Galvatron. Surely you must be proud he obeyed your laws and customs by doing the right thing toward a widowed mech and their young Creations?”

The sneer on Galvatron’s face told him quickly enough that no, the purple mech wasn’t proud. At all. Nor was it happy with Optimus’ answer and his calmness which betrayed no hint of resentment toward Megatron. But he couldn’t exactly say it aloud, could he? It wouldn’t have been… honorable.

Oh.

Of course.

Jealousy. It was so simple, so easy to see Optimus felt like a fool for not having realized it sooner.

Galvatron was jealous of Megatron, because he had been passed over for his Creation -- and never mind the fact the nomads used a meritocracy system, even if leaders often came from the same lineage. Megazarak was clearly disappointed with and dismissive toward Galvatron, while he definitely approved of Megatron’s skills, and it was Megatron who held the status of Heir to the tribe, not his more experimented Sire. It certainly had to sting… and it could lead to much resentment and an habit to blame the one you were jealous of… or be quick to point out his faults whenever he faltered and failed to uphold honor, even if one didn’t believe in honor themselves.

Killing a mech who had a young offspring and a Carrying mech relying on him was possibly one of the most dishonorable thing a nomad could have done. No doubt, Galvatron would have be giddy to learn his Creation had committed such a crime, for it was the perfect occasion to shame Megatron, knock him off the metaphorical pedestal on which the tribe held him and challenge him for his title of Heir.

But Megatron had quickly and swiftly corrected the situation, claiming the mate of the felled mech for himself, ‘adopting’ the orphaned Sparklings and swearing to protect them from all harm, thus immediately regaining his honor. He had faltered, but he had held strong and if Megatron’s prestige had been tarnished, then it wasn’t nearly as much as Galvatron could have hoped.

And he, Galvatron, had seen his own honor tarnished because while he had upheld the customs and laws of his people -- customs and laws he was apparently dismissive of or held in comptent -- by greeting and offering hospitality to travellers, he had accidentally endangered his tribe by forgetting that outsiders who weren’t nomads themselves could be dangerous too.

Of course, if the mechs they had offered shelter to had been honorable themselves, nothing would have happened, but…

In a way, Optimus felt sorry for Galvatron.

Unstable or not, unwilling to follow all the laws of his people (and it was clear in Optimus’ optics and remembering the conversation under Megazarak’s tent that Galvatron hadn’t wanted to greet lost ‘trekkers’ but had done so anyway because it was what was honorable and expected of him), he still went through with them and ended vilified for that. Wherever Megatron, who had committed a grave offense, had ended with not even a slap on the wrist. Worse, he had gained a mate who wasn’t speaking against him and Creations of his own to bolster the tribe’s ranks.

No wonder he was being passively/outwardly aggressive toward Optimus and, at the same time, dismissive and fascinated by him and Smokescreen both.

Optimus could have been the unwilling instrument of Megatron’s fall from grace or even a potential ally of Galvatron against his Creation, if Optimus had resented Megatron and hated him for his actions (and it would have been so easy, given Flame’s death and their first… coupling. Hatred wouldn’t have needed much to be sowed and slowly poison every interaction Optimus would have had with the nomads in general and Megatron in particular).

Instead, Optimus was starting to shape up as a quiet, steady presence by Megatron’s side. He was adding to Megatron’s status despite being an outsider, a ‘city dweller’ and his Creations were now Megatron’s Creations, which was yet another thing of great importance for the nomads. Instead of making Megatron a revilled individual, Optimus was met with approval. Worse yet, Optimus had Megazarak’s approbation (or seemed to, at any rate.

Optimus had had very little contact with the tribe leader outside of the formal meeting following the sister-tribe’s arrival to their meeting point before reaching New Kolkular, but the older mech had never been unkind. Instead, he had enquired about Optimus’ health, about the unborn Bitlet’s development, and about Smokescreen’s daily routine before going on his way.

As far as Megatron was concerned when Optimus had related the encounter to him, it was approval. Megazarak just kept his distances and didn’t show his feelings much. If he had disapproved of Megatron’s mate, he wouldn’t have bothered enquiring about his health to begin with.)

Galvatron would probably have felt animosity toward Megatron’s eventual mate, whoever it ended up to be, just because that person would have been Megatron’s. But the special circumstances surrounding the acquisition of said mate were sure to sting the purple mech more than a ‘traditional courtship’ ever would have.

As such, Optimus realized with an internal wince, even if Galvatron had nothing against Optimus and Smokescreen as individuals, they would still receive his animosity in some way or shape just because of what they represented. Unless Galvatron came to better feelings, they would still be collateral of the purple mech’s growing restlessness and hatred toward his Creation.

“How quickly you come to his defense,” Galvatron drawled, forcing Optimus to cut out of his thoughts. “I’ve known many mechs in your case who weren’t as forgiving. One would think you to be soft atop of skittish.”

“Perhaps I am,” Optimus acknowledged with a short nod, “but I like to think it is a virtue and not a fault. It takes softness to soothe the aches and to round the angles, to appease minds and to mediate strifes which is a necessary part of living in a community like our own, don’t you think?”

Galvatron made an interesting grimace and he muttered something under his breath Optimus didn’t catch. Cyclonus’ face remained impassible when Optimus glanced at him, so it probably wasn’t important or dangerous.

But Galvatron’s next reaction almost throw Optimus out of a loop.

“Softness… Blah! I swear it’s a Carrier thing! Why don’t you show me what you’re really worth, little mech? Come on! Fight me!”

Optimus stared, long and hard. Surely, he must have misheard. Surely Galvatron had not just proposed they’d actually have a fight? Not when it was obvious Optimus couldn’t risk himself into one? When the very laws of New Kolkular forbade fights under threat of death?

So Optimus had been right; Galvatron was truly hoping to push him into doing something outrageous, dangerous or dishonorable in order to either harm Megatron or get rid of Optimus himself. Optimus wished he could be surprised. “Fight… you?” he asked dubiously, as if he hadn’t understood the words -- and he wasn’t sure he really had.

Galvatron sneered. “Too afraid to face me and fight? Is that axe of yours for show only, Optimus mate of Megatron?” he said, nodding again toward the part of the weapon which emerged from behind Optimus’ back.

The red and blue mech slowly started to sha ke his head. So he hadn’t misheard. “Are you serious?” he asked flatly, looking straight at the sneering Galvatron.

Galvatron’s optics flashed. “Are you doubting me? Come on, Optimus, show me what the mech my Creation picked for a mate can do with a weapon in his hands! Show me you’re worth being a member of my tribe!”

Optimus’ optics were cold as he looked at Galvatron. There was only one answer he could give him. “It is easy to see you are no Carrier, Galvatron, Creation of Megazarak, but I am. The Sparkling I hold in my arms and the one who nest in my chamber are the most precious things in the whole universe to me. For them, I wouldn’t hesitate to kill -- even you if I had to,” he warned, optics flashing.

Optimus could have told him he was perfectly aware drawing a weapon in New Kolkular had serious consequences, but for now, he saw no point letting Galvatron know he knew more about nomads laws and customs than what the purple mech thought. Better let him think Optimus’ refusal to answer his challenge were motivated only by his drive to protect his Creations -- which was equally true.

“But because I’m their Carrier, my priority is and will always be to protect them first and foremost. And as much as I’d like to show you that being born and raised in a city don’t make me a lesser mech than you or any of the warriors gathered here, I won’t put my Creations’ lives on the line only to indulge you, Sire of my mate,” he continued in tune, giving a slight, respectful bow to Galvatron before walking away at a slow, calm pace. He felt like raging and screaming, but he didn’t show it. Bystanders parted before him with nods of approval and murmurs and whispers were already rapidly exchanged between them.

Optimus didn’t need to look behind his shoulders to know Galvatron’s optics were on him and that the purple mech had to be seething internally -- and perhaps even outwardly. Perhaps Optimus should have added something, asked for his permission to retire but… no. Level-headed as he was and unwilling to make an enemy out of Megatron’s Sire, there had just been no way Optimus would stay with him any longer given his agitation. So it really was a surprise when Galvatron called out his name.

“Optimus. You transmit my regards to that Creation of mine, will you?”

Optimus paused and finally looked behind him. Cyclonus had come closer to Galvatron and was holding a hand to the stockier mech’s shoulder, but Galvatron didn’t seem to notice. His optics, which were burning brightly, were only focused on the red and blue mech walking away as he smirked. “You’re interesting. For a city dweller,” he added as his smirk widened.

Optimus just gave him a terse nod before resuming his walk.

Only once he was certain he was out of sight of Galvatron and his escort did he look down at his son and smiled softly as tired, blinking optics looked up at him as Smokescreen made a small sound of query.

“How about we go find your Sire, little one?” he asked as Smokescreen yawned and stuffed two digits in his mouths. Optimus chuckled. “Though I think you’ll be fast asleep before we manage to come across him, will you not?”

Chapter Text

Optimus inclined his head in a respectful motion, carefully changing his grip on Smokescreen as the Sparkling moved a little in his recharge.

“Thank you again for your hospitality, Strika.”

Opposing him, the large femme snorted as she put down an empty mug of fuel -- some kind of artisanal brand of high-grade, if Optimus had to judge by the smell. “Thank you nothing, Optimus. I wasn’t about to let you make your way outside with a storm like that.”

“My shelter wasn’t that far, you know; I could have easily reached it before the rain intensified,” he pointed out politely, eyeing the larger frame of his hostess warily. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, there were more polite ways to invite me inside than to grab my arm and drag me inside without warning.” He had almost punched her on reflex before noticing who exactly had managed to bodily lift him off the ground and yank him in the open shelter.

Oh, that would have gone famously. A fist fight against two trained hunters almost twice as massive as he was -- because of course Lugnut had been there too -- while having to deal with protecting Smokescreen. Thankfully Optimus had quick processor and Lugnut’s booming voice as been as unmistakable as his mate’s frame.

“One could almost call it ‘kidnapping’,” he added as Strika just looked at him blankly, wondering if she even understood she had done something wrong. Kind of? Almost?

That didn’t seem to bother the nomad, who just shrugged. “My mistake, I’ll be sure to ask next time.” By the glint in her optics, Optimus knew she would do nothing of the sort. “Besides, you won’t make me believe you’re going to regret spending the last storm in good company rather than alone with your Sparkling.”

Well, she had a point there, Optimus had to grudgingly admit. While he loved his Creation and didn’t mind playing with him for long periods of time, Smokescreen’s conversation skills were sadly lacking. Being able to converse with an adult while the wind howled outside and the rain hit the roof was reassuring and helped the pass the time more easily. Normally he would have done so with Megatron, but his mate had remained elusive all day.

Optimus had been searching for him while milling around on the market when he had noticed the dark clouds gathering on the horizon and decided to get back to his shelter before the storm broke. Sadly, he had miscalculated how fast the wind was pushing the clouds in New Kolkular’s direction and by the time he had reached the area where the tribe had its quarters, the rain had already started to fall. He had been running, protecting Smokescreen under his poncho (which now showed several discolored spots) when he had been yanked off his pedes and dragged in by Strika.

“I do admit it was nice to have company,” he acknowledged aloud. “Though I would have prefered company that didn’t drink themselves to recharge,” he added as he gave Lugnut’s snoring form a pointed look.

The larger mech had drunk a lot of the same strong-smelling fuel that had previously filled Strika’s mug, which was leading more and more credence to the fact it was indeed a kind of high-grade. That would also explain why they hadn’t offered any to Optimus; while high-grade in itself wasn’t dangerous to Carrier, it was still better to advert the most potent grades less you’d perturbe your systems with the energy boost and the inevitable hangover. An unborn Sparkling’s developing systems dealt badly with both.

Strika just laughed in a booming way and Optimus gave her a pointed look as well to show his disapprobation; she was going to wake Smokescreen if she kept it up. “Eh, Lugnut can’t hold his fuel,” she snorted as Optimus raised an optic ridge.

“And you let him drink large amount anyway?”

Strika shrugged. “A mech needs to indulge himself when and where he can. Besides, Lugnut isn’t an angry or violent drunk so it’s not like there is any risk in letting him down liquors to his Spark’s content.”

Privately, Optimus didn’t find them to be very good reasons to let Lugnut abuse his intake of potent fuel, but he gave Strika an understanding nod. “Now you’ll just have to deal with his processor ache and upset tank.”

The femme gave a booming laugh. “If I wasn’t able to, I wouldn’t have Bonded the big fool and gone for Megatron instead.” She gave Lugnut a fond look. “He always worried that he wasn’t enough of a mech for me when compared with Megatron. I had to reassure him for the longest time that what he was lacking in skill next to Megatron, he certainly made it up in passion and size. I can understand why he felt so insecure thought; Megatron is a very skillful lover, as you know.”

There was laughter in her voice and optics as she looked at Optimus in the face.

His cheeks burned red with embarrassment. “Why,” Optimus whined, “does everyone in the tribe see fit to talk about Megatron’s ‘berth prowess’ whenever my Carrying cycle or our relationship come up?”

“Probably because most of us have a good idea of what Megatron is like when it comes to interfacing as well as what he’s packing behind that panel of his,” the big femme said primly, though her large smile betrayed her amusement.

Optimus didn’t choke, but it was near. He looked at Strika long and hard with round, wide optics, wondering if he had understood it right. “You and Megatron…?” he finally let out in a small voice.

Now Strika chuckled. “Megatron and I,” she nodded in confirmation. “And Prowl and Megatron. Dreadwing and Megatron, Skyquake and Megatron -- both together, actually, that was memorable apparently -- Megatron and Knock Out,... Most of our age group had dalliances together and Megatron went around a lot when he was a younger, more foolish mech. Eck, even Lugnut ended sharing a blanket nest with him once or twice,” she nodded in the direction of her recharging mate. “There is a reason he’s such a loyal, adoring follower after all.”

“...You must be kidding,” Optimus said flatly.

“Just a little,” Strika smirked. “He was already a loyal follower before Megatron and him had some fun; he just become even more devoted to our Lord after they tumbled in a tent together. I had a hard time breaking him up off his dreamy look whenever Megatron came up after that and Megatron himself spent a few orns staying the further away from Lugnut as he could. He hadn't expected the new adoration either. I don’t think he was ever more relieved than the day I asked Lord Megazarak to grant a formal hunt for Lugnut and I.”

“Why? Because Lugnut asked him to be his mate?”

Optimus was joking, albeit while grimacing. He certainly hadn’t expected Strika’s answer.

“He did. Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she chuckled at Optimus’ look. “We were all young and experimenting and many of us developed crushes on each other at some point. But where would we go if we only Bonded other members of our tribe?” she asked rhetorically. Not far, Optimus had to admit; bringing in a mate was, he had come to realize after wandering through New Kolkular, a way to increase the tribe’s size by adding to the existing number. If you only mated with members of your tribe, you took a risk of decreasing that number as time went on.

Strika shook her head. “Megatron was always my strongest rival for Lugnut’s Spark; I estimate myself lucky he never was interested and that was able to make Lugnut notices me in the end -- even if I had to bash his head against a few rocks to do that before he started to realize I was what he needed. Megatron never even had a proper crush, just an itch he needed scratched in good fun, which we all understood. Well, everyone understood except Lugnut,” she smiled fondly. “Most of those Younglinghood crushes wanned as we met new people or found ourselves attracted to outsiders -- like Drift did with Ratchet, though none of us understood the appeal at first. He was so much older,” she made a face.

“Ratchet is a good mech,” Optimus said defensively.

“I never said he wasn’t,” Strika shrugged. “But it certainly was a surprise to see Drift coming back to camp with an older mech thrown over his shoulder and cursing at him in a language we couldn’t understand. Especially since not even a vorn earlier, he was still making Dioptase-Doe optics at Megatron. Yes, they laid together too,” she added for Optimus’ benefit.

“Is there anyone who didn’t… with him?” he squeaked uncomfortably.

Strika just gave him an amused look. “I told you, many of us had dalliances together. It’s pretty common in all tribes. What do you think happen between young mechs and femmes discovering they have a working interface array when they end up stuck together during a storm, hum?”

“Well…” The red and blue mech hesitated. It wasn’t Iacon, he reminded himself. The nomads had a different way of life and a different thought pattern when it came to life and death and to everyday life; why would it be different when it came to interfacing? “Don’t you, I don’t know, think about saving yourself for your future mate?” he asked lamely.

Strika harrumphed, crossing her arms on her chest. “Why would we? Showing your new mate you’re a good lover can help you win them over more quickly, so any experience is considered good experience. And Megatron certainly gathered plenty of experience,” she winked. “He was caring and intense and everything perfect once he learned how to stop fumbling around.” She gave Optimus a measuring look. “Not the same thing in that city of yours, I take?”

Optimus hesitated, then shook his head. “No… not exactly. I mean, it probably wouldn’t bother common folks, but among //nobles//, it was considered scandalous to arrive in your Bonded’s berth as anything but sealed.”

“//Nobles//,” Strika repeated aloud, seeming to taste the word. With a startle, Optimus realized he had slipped into modern Cybertronian. But it was logic, he realized at the same time. Just like citizens from the various city-states didn’t have any word for //tents//, nomads didn’t have any word for ‘noble’ and ‘nobility’ since they didn’t have any asides of the Chieftains, and those weren’t nobles but ‘honored responsible warriors’ and ‘leaders’, which wasn’t nearly the same thing.

“And what exactly is a //noble//, Optimus?” Strika asked, optic ridges furrowed in deep concentration.

“That’s, uh…” How to correctly explain the concept? “//Nobles/// are a, a //social caste//?” he tried, but Strika looked at him blankly. Optimus thought for a moment, trying to draw parallel with the nomadic life that the large femme would understand. “It’s like… the Chieftains have advisers, haven’t they? Mechs and femmes they listen to when it comes to make decisions, even if they’re the ones who will ultimately decide?”

“They do,” Strika nodded gravely. “Though those advisers tend to be Elders, mechs and femmes who lived many, many seasons and have much experience in a variety of fields and Lore Masters, who know all our legends and laws. Are //nobles// Elders or Lore Masters, then?”

“Kind of?” Optimus hesitated. Not all nobles were advisers to the Prime, that was the role of the Senators but there were definitely a number of nobles the Prime listened to because he owned them favors. It wasn’t the same, but… “The first ones might have been. Others were great warriors who became famous. They started advising the Prime--” and how curious that despite having no word for ‘nobility’, the nomads knew the word ‘Prime’ “-- then their Creations inherited the position, then their Creations after then and so on. The position became hereditary -- which means only descendants of the first advisers became Elders and Lore Masters in turn.”

Not quite right, but that was the closest way to explain he could use. And he wasn’t about to start explaining higher social status and privileges, Strika would never had understood that. Nomads gave special care to Sparklings, Younglings and elderlies, but not to adult mechs who were able to take care of themselves. They might respect good hunters, but being a good hunter didn’t make you automatically superior to your brethren. You had to fight to show you were the best, as showed by the way the tribe’s leadership and its inheritance worked.

“Even if those descendants weren’t qualified to advise? That sounds very impractical,” Strika groused, unimpressed. “And what of their Chieftain? Is it an hereditary position for city dwellers?”

“It is,” Optimus nodded. “Generally it’s the oldest Creation who becomes leader after the precedent Chieftain, the Prime, die. The younger Creations tend to become advisers themselves or Bond with other advisers. Like my family,” he found himself adding.

Strika raised an optic ridge. “You’re of a Chieftain lineage?” She eyed Optimus up and down. “Hmm. If so, you don’t look much like it.”

“Distantly,” Optimus said evenly with a faint smile. He probably should have felt insulted; many would have been. But instead, Optimus just felt amusement. It was true he didn’t look much like a leader, let alone a nomad Chieftain. Megazarak and the few he had managed to see during the Games were all tall, massive mechs next to whom the young noble looked small and lithe. Of course, looks could be deceiving, something he was certain Strika knew about. “I certainly wasn’t an Heir and would never have been. But to //nobles//, lineages are important and they make a big deal of the links they have with other high ranked mechs.”

“And you don’t?”

“I couldn’t have cared less,” he replied truthfully. Against his chest, Smokescreen made a little sound that indicated he would be waking up soon. Outside, the wind which had mostly died down gave a surprising loud wail before it cut off just as quickly. “I am me, and that’s all I need to know.”

Now Strika smiled. “A good answer. To be honest, it reassures me you have such a background. As strange as city dwellers are, the fact you have Chieftains ancestors can be a good thing. One day will come where Megatron will lead the Decepticon Tribe and as his mate, you will have to assist him,” she explained as she noticed the startled look on the red and blue mech’s face. “So it’s good to know you come from honorable lineage and may have the habit of leading.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Optimus mumbled. “And I have never lead anyone.” More like he had always been lead around instead, he realized. That was the downside of never seeking personal power among the nobility; if you weren’t playing games of power, you were a docile pawn in them, even to your own family.

It was probably unkind of him to think it so -- his Creators had loved him, even if they weren’t always demonstrative -- and Optimus felt vaguely ashamed for a moment. Still, it didn’t make it any less true.

The nomads were strangely refreshing on that front, even if Optimus was starting to realize that the nomads’ simpler lifestyle wasn’t devoid of intrigues and power plays. They just were less subtles and more violents, displays of strength and sharp words instead of wits and secret plots.

“Not yet you haven’t,” Strika replied evenly. “But the moment your second Creation is born and you are free to come hunting? You’ll learn. I’m looking forward to see what kind of mech you can be in the field.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be very good,” Optimus said dryly. He held no illusion about that part of his ‘nomad education’.

“So? No one is good on his first hunt, even if they have a natural talent for tracking,” Strika replied gruffly. “Even Megatron struggled in the beginning, and look at him now!”

“You’ll be reminded that I never saw Megatron hunting,” Optimus said. “Fighting, yes, but not hunting.” And it wasn’t the same thing at all.

Strika blinked, muttering something under her breath. “True, true. He’ll impress you, though. Just you wait.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt he will,” the red and blue mech commented absently as he looked down at the recharging Sparking in his lap. “He already did more than once.” Smokescreen shifted a little and his tiny face broke into a frown. One small blue optics lighted briefly, heralding the fact the Sparkling’s nap would soon be over.

Coincidently, the storm was reaching its end as well. Well, not quite; the storm proper had ended way earlier, the howling winds having gradually decreased while Optimus and Strika chatted until being barely audible. The biggest source of noise outside was the rain hitting the roof of the dugout and even that had become sparser now. It certainly would be nothing his poncho wouldn’t be able to handle, especially since his own shelter was so close.

For Optimus, it was as good a moment to leave as any. If Smokescreen followed his usual schedule, he would want to play and crawl everywhere and unlike his and Megatron’s shelter, Strika and Lugnut’s was far from being Sparkling-proofed. Optimus made a point not to glance at the row of knives aligned on the floor by the wall and the gigantic axes that had been laid to rest against the wall, not even properly secured. At least Optimus had had the good sense to put his own above Smokescreen’s reach.

Granted, Lugnut and Strika had apparently been in the process of cleaning their blades before they had dragged Optimus and Smokescreen in, but still…

He mentally thanked Megatron’s foresight into storing all weapons away from where Smokescreen could see them or even reach them. Smokescreen was growing incredibly fast for a mechling and if you took your optics off him for a klik, you’d be surprised to find him at the other end of the shelter without knowing how he had come so far.

No, Strika and Lugnut’s place was definitely not a good place to let Smokescreen play and wander to his Spark’s content, Optimus mused as he rose up and awkwardly paid his respects to the large femme who had hosted them.

“You’re sure you don’t want to stay longer?” she asked stubbornly as she peered into Smokescreen’s waking face while Optimus reattached his weapon, opting to let it hang from a belt rather than strap it to his back; given he was going to have to undo the straps again in a short while, it would be too time consuming. The bitlet was yawning, tiny fist half-hiding his mouth as he blinked sleepily. Strika cooed and Optimus had to fight the desire to grin.

“Quite certain. Once he’s more awake, he’ll want his toys and if he doesn’t have them he’ll turn fussy.” Strika said nothing, but Optimus caught her look and thought that he wouldn’t be surprised if the next time he was ‘invited’, Smokescreen would have all the entertainment he could wish for.

Convincing Strika that no, he didn’t need an escort for the short way to his own shelter took a bit longer. Lugnut barely stirred as Optimus tried to also give him his farewells but given how much he had drunk, it was probably no surprise.

The rain still hadn’t fully stopped, Optimus noticed as he finally stepped outside. It wasn’t more than a drizzle by now, but he still tucked Smokescreen safely under his poncho and walked at a fast pace toward his own shelter, carefully sidestepping the puddles left by the earlier heavy rains. The breeze made his poncho and hood ruffle while under the safety of the fabric, Smokescreen chirped animatedly.

“Soon, little one,” Optimus murmured, bouncing his Creation lightly in his arms. “Soon you’ll be free to move as you wish.”

The Sparkling just burrowed against him with a beep.

Optimus smiled as he reached their shelter. Perhaps, he mused as he pushed aside the ‘door’ to the shelter, he could start preparing some stew for tonight refueling. It would be a nice surprise for Megatron if he came home and discovered everything was ready and that Optimus had managed to cook something edible without any help whatsoever. Yes, optimus decided as he started to walk down the steps, they would be able to enjoy a quiet evening together and...

Optimus stilled, his foot on the next to last step.

Something was wrong.

He couldn’t have explained what exactly but something wasn’t right in the shelter. He shifted Smokescreen in his arms instinctively and reached for his axe, unstrapping it from his belt. He shushed softly when Smokescreen made a whimper, picking on his Carrier’s nervousness.

“Hush, little one,” he murmured.

His optics scanned the interior the dugout carefully, searching something, anything that could have explained his sudden uneasiness. At first glance, everything looked normal if a little dark -- but between the night starting to fall and the extra roof panels Megatron had added in prevision to a coming storm a few solar cycles ago and they hadn’t removed yet, it was to be expected.

The foldable screen was like Optimus had left it, pushed to the side and leaving the various jars and chests holding Megatron’s stuff in plain sight. One of them was slightly ajar, the corner of Smokescreen’s swaddling cloth picking out of the chest. The bowls Megatron and him had used to refuel in the morning were exactly where he had left them, right next to the covered pot holding the rest of the stew. Smokescreen’s toys were still scattered around, cubes and dolls mixed up with balls and a few pieces from a chess-variant game Optimus and Megatron had started before the Sparkling had decided they were his newest, favorite toys ever. The firepit…

The firepit looked like it had recently been used. Even in the semi darkness, Optimus could have sworn there were more ashes inside the circle and under the grill than when they had left earlier.

Cautiously, he walked down the last step and advanced further inside, his back to the stairs, the curtain swatted asides behind him by small, infrequent gales of wind, the last leftovers from the storm.

Now, the used firepit could have been his imagination, or it could have been the act of some random nomad who had taken shelter in Megatron’s dugout during their absence -- it wasn’t unusual for people to take the first shelter they could when the storms grew bad, as far as Optimus had been lead to understand. Of course, in those cases, the polite thing to do was to wait until the owners’ return to thank them for the hospitality even if they hadn’t been here. And if someone had stayed, then surely they would have moved Optimus and Megatron’s things to make place for themselves…

Optimus would never know what exactly warned him.

Did he sense the air displacement when a long, too long limb moved? Did he hear the low, subtle noise of an air intake between two bursts of wind? Did he somehow see the shadows shift when the intruder moved?

The only thing he was certain of was that, one moment he was watching the firepit with furrowed optics and the next, he was darting to the side, Smokescreen held protectively against his chest and hand gripping his axe hard to the point it hurt as a limb ending with a pincer shot up at him from the ceiling.

Smokescreen shrieked. Optimus cursed. And a creepy, feminine laugh resonated in the dugout as something, no, someone lowered herself from the ceiling where she had been lying in wait like a spider, purple optics focused on him as her extra limbs spread high above her.

“Why, hello there, Optimus, mate of Megatron. Do you know you’re late? It’s very impolite to leave a lady waiting, you know,” Airachnid purred, a smirk spread wide over her lips.

Chapter Text

OhPrimusohPrimusohPrimusohPrimus! Smokescreen was wailing and Optimus felt very much like imitating him for a brief instant. His processor was racing, his thought process erratic as he analyzed the femme’s greeting.

Airachnid. Airachnid the killer. Airachnid the sadist. Airachnid, who loved to play with her preys and take grisly trophies out of them. Airachnid, who everyone agreed was a monster, in his shelter. Airachnid, who had been lying in wait and had been trying to attack him if not kill him! She had been aiming for his neck, and if she had touched him… if she had touched one of the main energon lines…! He was going to be sick.

What did she want with him?

No, scratch that; there were more pressing questions that came to mind before he wondered about her motivations. Like, since when was she here? And most importantly, why had she come here in the first place? She had greeted him by name, so she knew who he was. That also meant that she knew to whom the shelter belonged to, and if she had only come in when the storm started by accident while seeking a place to wait it out, she wouldn’t have known who the owners were. Megatron and Optimus’ shelter was similar to dozens of others in appearance and nothing inside hinted strongly at their identity.

Which meant… Optimus swallowed dryly. Airachnid had know exactly where she was doing and she had purposely came in while both Megatron and him had been out so she had been lying in wait for their return.

But… why?

“You know my name,” Optimus breathed as evenly as he could, trying not to let his nervousness show as his hold on Smokescreen tightened briefly. He wished he could hide him under his poncho, but that wouldn’t work. Worse, it could be a hindrance if he had to dodge quickly. “But I don’t we had the pleasure of getting acquainted, my lady.” So perhaps it wasn’t wise of him to use an ironic tone with her, but he couldn’t help himself.

He had to repress a shudder when Airachnid laughed; it wasn’t a nice sound and it put him even more on edge. “Silly mech,” she chided as she was speaking to a small Sparkling, “we would have had plenty of time to get acquainted if you had showed up on time. Now I’m afraid I have to rush my visit.”

And it really took all of Optimus’ willpower not to just bolt. She had been waiting for him to come back before the storm broke. If Strika hadn’t grabbed him when she had, then he would have spent the whole storm locked in close quarter with a dangerous femme who clearly wished to harm him. Smokescreen would have been locked in close quarter with a monster.

Merciful Primus… Optimus wasn’t stupid, even if right now, he would have prefered to be. There weren’t many reasons someone as dangerous as Airachnid would have wanted to be alone with a ‘helpless mech’ (which Optimus could as well be as far as most nomads knew) and a Sparkling.

In fact, there was only one which made sense.

She intended to kill them.

And she probably knew Optimus knew, if he had to judge by her too-sharp smile. Smokescreen whimpered and Optimus took a step back when those purple, hellish optics focused on his Bitlet.

Why she would do that, Optimus had no idea. It wasn’t as if he had personally offended her, had he? He had never met her face-to-face before now! Was it a vengeance against Megatron? An attempt at destabilising him with grief over such close losses? It was plausible. Megatron had mentioned having fought and beaten her in the arena before, so perhaps she wanted to find a subtle way to unhinge and get rid of the competition?

Well, if that was the reason Airachnid had come here, Optimus wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction to just keel over and die. Not when there was also two Sparklings’ lives on the line -- Smokescreen, and the unborn Bitlet.

… If she made the slightest move towards Smokescreen, he was going to kill her, even if it was the last thing he did.

“If it Megatron you wish to see,” he said as calmly as possible while slowly moving the further away from her as he could -- and trying not to panic at the thought she was between him and the only exit, damnit, he shouldn’t have dodged toward the other end of the dugout! -- while refusing to let his optics off her, “then I’m afraid you’ll have to visit some other time. My mate isn’t with me, as you can see, and I’m unsure he’ll find your company pleasant.”

Megatron…

For a moment, sudden, brutal and quickly dismissed, Optimus was struck by the familiarity of the scene: it was the caravan attack all over again. Really, the similarities were strong: here he was, alone and cornered, holding his son to protect him while raising a weapon to try and defend himself against the intruder.

But the similarities ended there.

It wasn’t Megatron who was facing him, terrifying but easily swayed from whatever he would have done to the wagon’s occupants the moment he saw Smokescreen and an expecting Carrier; instead, it was Airachnid, a monster in femme frame, wicked and delighted by the pain she could cause and who wouldn’t spare a young Spark like Smokescreen.

And there were also two major differences to consider: one, Optimus had a proper weapon this time instead of the makeshift club from last time and two, there was more than his and Smokescreen’s lives on the line; there was also the life of a Bitlet he wasn’t about to let die, not so long his Spark still burned.

Besides… he could call in backup. He couldn’t take the risk to scream aloud to get the attention of passerbys, it would only force Airachnid’s hand and endanger both himself and Smokescreen further and he couldn’t be sure someone would hear him given the way the wind was still whistling every now and then. There was, however, another mean for him to call help.

Carefully as to not let his EM field betray his intentions, Optimus opened a comm channel to his mate, blessing the fact he had finally asked for it. If he could get a call through, he would only need to stall until Megatron arrived. And if she wanted to toy with Optimus -- and she longed to, if not why would she have bothered with this charade they were playing? -- then he could definitely do it. He felt Smokescreen hiding his face against his armor, a familiar gesture meaning he wanted comfort, but his whimpers of distress didn’t decreased. He was sensing the danger too.

::Megatron?:: he tried, but there was no answer. Primus, let him be in a part of the city where he could hear and feel the call, he started to pray fervently. There were part of the rotunda that acted like natural dampers on comm arrays, as Optimus had found out while testing out the comm link, but surely Megatron was already on his way back?

Unaware of his attempts at contacting reinforcement (or at least Optimus hoped so), Airachnid waved a hand in a casual way, showing off her claws. “Oh, yes, yes, I know dear Megatron’s feelings toward me. They’re mostly mutual, which is actually a bonus. However, it’s not for him I’m here today.” Her smile showed fangs. “You,” she added with a purr, “are exactly the person I wished to see. Both of you,” she added with a pointed glance at the Sparkling in his arms.

“I’m afraid I don’t see why,” Optimus replied, amazed at the steadiness of his voice. “Surely, you must have better things to do than come gawk at the mate and Sparkling of one of your rivals?”

Now her smirk turned nasty. “Oh, I can definitely think of a lot of better things to do than just gawk at you!”

She lunged.

::MEGATRON!!!!:: he shouted on the comm link, but if there was a reply, Optimus never heard it nor had the time to reply. He could only hope the sudden use of the comm and the panic conveyed in his message would sway his mate into rushing back to the shelter as fast as he could.

Everything went too fast. Cursing, Optimus dodged the first strike and managed to avoid the extra limbs of the spiderbot, although one grazed his cheek. They tangled in the semi darkness, she striking and him dodging, hesitating to use his axe in a too broad swipe that would leave him open to a potentially fatal blow. He could only stay on the defensive and hope for an opening which wasn’t coming. If only he had been alone, he would have gone on the offensive in a blink even if he wasn’t the best fighter there was -- not that his skill level mattered much in a life-or-death situation like this one.

But he wasn’t alone, and every move he made reflected that. He couldn’t left himself open, but he could left his Creation open to blows even less. Smokescreen shrieked in his arms and flailed, making it hard for Optimus to keep him safe against him. He didn’t even have time to adjust his grip, too busy dodging sharp limbs aimed at vital systems -- and, to his horror, at his swollen abdominal plating.

He rolled on himself as he saw one of her pincers move to strike and yelped as he felt it graze her back. Too close! He couldn’t stay inside, he needed to head out! He thought frantically as he tried to go back to his feet and make a dash for the door.

Two things happened at once.

First, something weird, sticky and gluing hit him near the ankle and he sprawled forward with a shout, losing his grip on the handle of his axe which slide to the side. Second, even as he fell, Smokescreen finally squirmed one time too many and, helped by the momentum of the fall, escaped his grip and fell forward as well. The little Sparkling’s frame rolled on the ground, Smokescreen’s panicked shrieks briefly halted by his surprise before he started to cry again. He didn’t roll far and Optimus raised a hand to grab him back when the same sticky substance hit the wrist he had extended toward his Creation and pinned it to the ground.

“Wh…?!” he moved, trying to lift his hand off the ground but to no avail. It just seemed to stretch the unknown substance without breaking it apart. Airachnid’s pedes appeared before him, standing between him and Smokescreen and his Spark almost failed him as he looked up at the femme’s delighted face.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she tutted. “No tearing my web, Optimus dear. That would be very impolite.”

The red and blue mech snarled, optics darkening in rage. “I’ll show you impolite, you…!” A shot of webbing struck him to the cheek, partially closing his mouth and he desperately started to tear at it with his free hand, praying it wouldn’t stay glue to the sticky mess.

“You talk too much,” Airachnid turned away from him and crouched low, making Optimus’ Spark flare in panic.

“Smeen!” he shouted -- or attempted to, forsaking the webbing on his mouth to tear at the one on his wrist -- damnit, tear up!

He could easily see Smokescreen between Airachnid’s legs. The Sparkling had pushed himself in a sitting position and was rubbing at his optics while wailing, fat, oily drops pooling at the corner of his optics as he did so. He didn’t look injured but that didn’t meant anything, especially not with a predator ready to scoop him up any moment now. The webbing started to give away under Optimus’ desperate assaults.

“Why, hello there, little thing. Why are you crying?”

Airachnid’s shadow fell over Smokescreen, who instantly went quiet. The Sparkling looked up and stared curiously at the unknown, scary looking femme, sniffing at he did so. He didn’t really understood what was happening, but he had already come up to the conclusion the unknown grown up wasn’t nice. His lower lip quivered, wondering what the mean ‘bot wanted with him.

“Aww, are you sad? Do you want your Carrier? See, Carrier is just there.”

She moved, and Smokescreen looked indeed at his Carrier. Why wasn’t he coming to scoop him up? Smokescreen keened, but Carrier didn’t move. He continued to lay on the ground, looking up at Smokey with big, large optics. Tentatively, Smokescreen went to his hands and knees, ready to crawl forward. If Carrier wasn’t coming to get him to reassure him, then he would be the one to go to Carrier to get hugs and kisses to make his owies go away.

Luckily, the mean lady moved out of his way, so there was no obstacle between Smokescreen and his Carrier.

Optimus’ gaze alternated between his crawling, sniffing Creation and Airachnid, who was smirking. Her extra limbs rose high above her, pincers ready to strike. Optimus shook his head slowly, hoping it was a nightmare.

“My, isn’t he a brave little Spark, Optimus?” the femme with purple optics asked, showing her fangs. “For all their crying, Sparklings are quite resistant at his age.” Unaware of the danger, Smokescreen crawled closer. Optimus tore at the webbing more frantically. “They have such good motor relays in their hands and pedes,” Airachnid continued casually. “But I wonder… will he still be able to crawl if he had one less hand?”

Optimus shouted and yanked his free hand forward while the other finally tore free. He was too late. Smokescreen was just out of his reach, and Airachnid was fast.

One of her pincers struck down, impaling Smokescreen’s hand and pinning it down. Optimus didn’t think he would ever forget the sound it made when the tip buried itself in the ground. Smokescreen’s energon flew, blue and pink fluids seeping out of the ground. Smokey was silent for perhaps a klik before he looked at his hand and screamed.

Optimus had thought his Creation’s cries had been awful before. Nothing could have prepared him for Smokescreen’s sounds of agony as Airachnid seemed to twist her limb just so and the wounds widened.

Optimus screamed with his son. His leg kicked, trying to get rid of the webbing maintaining him stuck to the ground. He needed to move, he needed to grab Smokescreen!

“Don’t they do the cutest sounds?” the sick femme asked as if she was discussing the weather. Her pincer moved, her limb retracted. “How sad I don’t have the time to show you just how sweet they can be. But it’s your fault too; honestly, I wanted to play longer. If you have come home according to schedule, there is so much fun we would have had together. I could have pierced all his limbs before cutting off those tiny doorwings of his,” she confided with a tilt of the head, as if she was contemplating doing so anyway. “Now, wouldn’t that have been fun? Then I would have cut you open to extract his sibling, so the two could properly meet before they went into a permanent recharge. And you… Oh you, I would have let you bleed out after making sure you watched it all. But there is no time for that anymore,” she added as if she was regretful.

And she was, Optimus realized, feeling sick. She truly regretted not being able to properly torture a Carrying mech and a three vorns old Sparkling to death.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll make it quick, and I’m even going to be merciful; you’ll be the first, and I’ll finish your brat right after, isn’t that nice of me?” she cooed as she moved, using her extra limbs as if she was a spider. She passed over Smokescreen, who had curled into a little ball, holding his injured hand to his chest and crying for his Carrier, for anyone to pick him up and make the pain go away. Optimus scrambled back, optics frantically searching for his axe. It was right next to Smokescreen, he realized with an heavy Spark. He could make a grab for it if he lunged at the right angle and managed to unstick his ankle from Airachnid’s webbing but if he did so, then he’d let his back completely open and vulnerable.

And she wouldn’t waste the opportunity. He was trapped, Optimus realized. He looked up at her as she lowered herself to her pedes and readied her pincers. Sharp and lethal, they would easily tear through his plating. Where would she strike? In the distended plating of his abdomen, where his second Creation was growing? Straight through his Spark chamber? Or would she try to destroy his head and his processor instead?

::MEGATRON!!!:: he sent again on his comm link.

There was an answer this time. ::OPTIMUS! WHAT…?::

::AIRACHNID!!:: he sent again as he looked at the femme in the optics. He didn’t know where Megatron was and Optimus didn’t fool himself into believing he would arrive in a klik to save them. But at least he would know who to blame, and who to kill in order to avenge them. That was something at least.

I should have taken the risk and scream, Optimus thought dimly.

The wicked grin on the spiderbot grew as her pincers clicked ominously. “Goodbye, Optimus mate of Megatron.”

She didn’t have the time to shot them at Optimus, however.

There was a whizz, a rapid flash as a blade split the air and Airachnid roared in pain, her hand immediately going to her shoulder and tearing out the knife that was buried to the hilt in her shoulder. She glared hatefully at the mech who had appeared in the doorway, tearing the curtain apart.

“You…!”

“Surprise, you bitch!” Jazz’s smile could only be described as vicious and demented as he threw another knife at the spiderbot, who dodged and cursed. Even as she did, Optimus used the opportunity to lunge. It wasn’t elegant and he stumbled as he did so, the webbing around his ankle not fulling giving way, but he still managed to scramble forward and to make a beeline for Smokescreen, scooping him up against his chest with one hand while the other grabbed his axe.

Airachnid was paying not more attention now, having thrown herself at Jazz, whose surprise arrival and wound on her at angered. The two were literally dancing, there was no better word to explain what they were doing. Jazz stayed carefully out of the angered femme’s reach, dodging gracefully the pincers and claws aimed at him while avoiding any obstacle on the floor while Airachnid frothed and tried her best to corner him or strike him down while dodging thrown knives or slashes aimed at her limbs. Not her midsection or throat, though, because Jazz would have had to come too close to her and the black and white mech wasn’t about to risk it.

It was clear that Airachnid asides, Jazz was the most dangerous person in the room. Optimus had completely slipped the femme’s mind and it was easy for the blue and red mech to understand why. Optimus was bigger, but he was handicapped by having to watch out for his son, while Jazz was an accomplished fighter, a brawler and street-fighter more than a classically trained warrior but who, unlike Optimus, had practiced fighting regularly as part of his duties as a caravan guard.

There, was however, one thing Airachnid had forgotten in her haze of rage; Optimus was a pissed off Carrier, whose precious Creation was injured and wailing. Each piercing wail of Smokescreen, each little drop of energon dripping out of his wound and against his Carrier’s plating felt like a stab to the Spark to Optimus. Primus, and if Airachnid had torn up a major energon line? What if she had damaged Smokescreen’s hand so badly they had no choice but to amputate him? The history of Ultra Magnus and his claw flashed briefly in his processor and he squashed it ruthlessly. No! Not his Creation! But Smokescreen was injured, and each klik he spent not being treated could worsen his wound. And if Jazz hadn’t come in when he did…

Optimus would have died. Smokescreen would have died.

He saw red.

Howling, he threw himself at the fighting pair, his armed arm raised high as he swung the axe around. The howl was probably a mistake, because it gave Airachnid due warning and she brought up her extra limbs to protect herself, making Optimus fail to take her head off like he had been hoping for.

The swing had carried enough force, however, to cleanly cut through the first limb and nick the other. A primed pincer fell to the ground with a ‘thud’ as Airachnid screamed in pain and anger. Optimus’ Spark flared in dark satisfaction and contentment as his optics caught the colour of the liquid now soiling his blade, than lowered ever so slightly to catch sight of the severed limb. A hand for hand, his processor whispered slyly. Jazz lost no time and slashed at her in close distance, perhaps aiming for the delite throat cabling, but Airachnid threw herself back to avoid the blow. Even as she did so, she kicked at Optimus with all her strength, catching him in the abdomen.

“Optimus!”

Optimus choked and fell back on his aft after stumbling uneasily, almost dropping Smokescreen again as his free hand (and the other ever so slightly) went uneasily to his bruised abdomen. Primus, no, not that, don’t let her have harmed his unborn Bitlet Optimus thought frantically as the word seemed to buzz. He barely heard Jazz’s scream of rage as he jumped on Airachnid’s back to try and stab her.

He was much more aware of the familiar roar of Megatron as another shadow barged in the shelter and was it the clutter of many pedes he heard on the ground and shouts of alarm outside?

Jazz went over Airachnid’s shoulder, yelping, as the femme threw him off her and barely managed to avoid the broad swipe of Megatron’s axe. Optimus curled on himself, Smokescreen held securely in his arms and against his chest as he tried to form a protective ball around his middle and his Bitlet. As such, he didn’t see Megatron as he forced the spiderbot on the defensive, nor did he see Airachnid as she made her escape. He heard, however, the insults hurled at her by Megatron, he heard her answering hiss and promise it wasn’t over, and he heard the sounds of drilling and the startled gasps outside.

“Optimus? Optimus, do you hear me?”

The red and blue mech blinked as he lighted his optics and looked at the worried but angered face of Megatron; he could make out Jazz’s silhouette hanging behind him and the pink and orange he saw further could only be Strika. “Megatron,” he whispered with an empty voice as he uncurled a little to look at his mate. The grey mech’s face and shoulders were stained with Airachnid’s trademark webbing and, if he looked closer, it was easy to notice Jazz was in the same state; half of his visor was still obscured by the same sticky fabric. There was an hole in the roof above their heads. Ah. So that was how she had gotten away from them.

Smokescreen continued to wail in pain and fright.

Megatron’s voice was a gently, soothing murmur. “There, there, little one. It’s alright. The bad ‘bot is gone.”

Optimus let himself be gently roused by his mate’s large hands and brought to his feet. His legs felt wobbly. Smokescreen’s pained wail took a higher pitch as Megatron tried to pry his small hand open and see the damages. The grey mech hissed angrily, and he swore as he noted the faint print of a foot on Optimus’ abdomen.

“Someone call for Ratchet immediately!” he barked furiously.

“Already did, he’s on his way,” that was Strika, angry, curt, to the point. Other people were massing around the entry, but Jazz was barking at them not to enter, to seek out…

“Airachnid,” Optimus hissed and suddenly it was like a switch had been activated. His optics scanned the ground for his axe -- he had dropped it again when Airachnid had kicked him -- and he found it next to the limb he had cut from the intruder. Wordlessly, optics narrowed in rage, he bypassed Megatron and put the crying Smokescreen in a surprised Strika’s hands before he made his way outside, pushing and shoving all bystanders out of his way (including a startled Lugnut he actually made stumble, which was no small feat considering their differences in size and mass).

“Airachnid!” he roared, axe at the ready as he scanned the crowd which had gathered around the damaged shelter. Warriors with their weapons in hand, no Younglings and Sparklings or elderlies, who had probably been dragged to safety. No cruel looking femme with purple optics which made his Spark surge with loathing and rage.

“She run,” Dreadwing said curtly.

“And you didn’t catch her?” Optimus snapped.

“Some of our number are already after her,” the flyer replied evenly; If he was surprised by the usually gentle Optimus barking at him, he didn’t show it. “She’s fast, and she has some kind of flying altmode. She won’t get far, however; whatever damages she took seem to have affected her speed.” He eyed Optimus’ stained axe thoughtfully but didn’t comment further.

“No, she won’t get far,” Megatron agreed as he came behind Optimus. He didn’t try to touch him, which was just as well, because Optimus would have swung his axe at him by reflex. “Airachnid tried to kill my mate and my Sparklings,” he announced to the gathered crowd coldy, arms crossed over his chest. Angry mutterings rose as optics narrowed. Firsts rose in the air, weapons were drawn out. “For vorns, Airachnid had lived without honor. We knew it, and we tried to act in accordance. While her tribe decided to give her a chance to make amends and our laws say she is to be protected by her status of champion of her tribe, I, Megatron, says: Airachnid went too far. By attempting to murder a Sparkling in its Carrier chamber and a little one who can’t even properly walk yet, she forsaked herself. Any who understand honor will not shelter her anymore. Any who understand honor will join me as I track her down and take revenge for the damages she dealt my mate and little ones with. Any who want her gone shall join the hunt!”

The howling he got from the crowd in answer was almost thundering. Optimus turned and looked at Megatron, turning off the sound of the crowd as mechs prepared themselves to hunt the most dangerous and elusive of prey: a fellow nomad with a taste for killing members of her own species. Even as they did, other backed toward their own shelters or took position around Megatron’s. Sentinels and guards, Optimus thought distantly. Of course they wouldn’t all leave after her and leave the younger and frailer members of the tribe unprotected. A few even run toward the rotunda; messengers, perhaps? Would someone tell the Minibots? Were they going to go seek reinforcements?

Optimus couldn’t care less. Megatron turned toward him and opened his mouth but Optimus cut him off before he could say anything.

“Megatron.” He looked calmly at his mate in the optics, deaf to Smokescreen’s wailings from inside the shelter and to Jazz’s attempts at soothing the upset, injured Bitlet or at gathering his attention, to the loud orders barked by Strika (she had gotten out, it was probably Jazz who was holding Smokescreen now, or perhaps it was Ratchet? Optimus had seen a white form enters the shelter just before) and other members of the tribe as they armed themselves. Megatron’s optics were on him, his back straight and stiff.

“Kill her.”

The words left Optimus’ lips components easily. His voice was cold and hard, far colder and harder than it had ever been before. Optimus had always been reputed to be a nice person, a soft-Sparked mech who would never wish anyone harm.

But even nice people had their breaking point.

Megatron nodded stiffly and turned, several tribemechs following his footsteps. Optimus watched they go dispassionately, satisfaction warring with fear in his Spark; satisfaction to see his mate so ready to kill the threat to him and their Sparkling and fear Megatron would find himself injured during the hunt.

Injured… or worse.

The stress finally went over his processor and Optimus’ frame sagged. Primus. It was a nightmare.

Jazz walked to him and put a hand over his shoulder. “Hey, my mech,” he murmured. Optimus tried to smile at him but his attempt felt weak and he wasn’t even sure he managed something that could even pass as a smile. Jazz just shook his head and, without a word more, took his hand in his and gently tugged him along to go back to the shelter.

Chapter Text

Five megacycles later, the hole in the ceiling had been patched, courtesy of a few nomads lending in several metal sheets to cover it up and reinforce the roof against further intrusions and Optimus laid wrapped in several layers of blankets and curled into a tense, rattling ball in Jazz’s arms. His old friend’s hands were rubbing his back in small circles at random intervals, whenever the shaking increased. It was ridiculous for a grown mech to be so shaky, but Optimus couldn’t help it; his CPU was too frayed for him to stay still, and he couldn’t pace the shelter endlessly. He had tried, but after he had stumbled due to stress, tiredness and nervousness, Ratchet had tackled him down and forced him to drink some kind of homemade remedy (supposedly to help him relax, which wasn’t working -- or at least not enough) before ordering him to stay down if not for his own sake, then the sake of the Sparkling he was expecting.

It had worked… mostly. Optimus hadn’t really managed to stay still until Ratchet had finished to examine him and swore to Primus that the Sparkling was fine, though the earlier Optimus’ systems stopped being so high-strung, the better it would be for both their health.

Ending in Jazz’s arms hadn’t been planned. It had just… happened. Optimus had immediately gravitated toward the nearest source of comfort he could find. If Megatron had been there, it probably would have been him. In his absence, however, Jazz was the safest person he could hope to find, even if he was dangerous. Scratch that, Optimus found him safe especially because he was dangerous; dangerous and familiar and as ready to defend Smokescreen as Optimus was.

Primus, Smokescreen… Optimus longed to have his Sparkling in his arms, to reassure himself that Smokey was fine, but Optimus hadn’t been the only one Ratchet had dosed with a ‘calming draught’. Currently, Smokescreen was fast recharging in his basket, wrapped in as many layers of blankets as his Carrier, said basket having been installed in the ‘storage room’ to dissimulate it from the prying optics of anyone entering the shelter -- Jazz’s idea, because several tribe members had poked their heads in at various points to see if everything was alright and while well-intentioned, the sudden apparitions kept rattling Creator and Creation both. Once out of sight and dosed, however, his fear and pain eased by the care he had received from Ratchet and his Creator, Smokescreen hadn’t been long in succumbing to recharge.

It was probably just as well; Smokescreen had been fidgety and crying all the way while Ratchet saw to his repairs and it had taken all of Optimus’ persuasion to make him stop to try and pull at the flexible steel bandage the medic had wrapped over his injury.

Thankfully, the damage to the Bitlet’s hand had been less extensive than Optimus had first feared. While ugly looking thank to the sharp, twisted edges and deeper than Ratchet would have liked (his swearing fit upon checking the damages had been impressive, not that Optimus had been in any state of mind to admire it or scowl the Healer for swearing so much around his Creation), Airachnid had failed to tear up any of the sensitive, hard-to-repair motor relays. True, she had actually pierced Smokescreen’s hand -- straight through the palm. However, while the hand’s wiring had been torn up and several minor energon lines pierced, the hand’s articulations were still in good state, which had been Ratchet’s biggest concern. From the white and red mech’s professional advice, Smokescreen would heal fine, though he would probably kept flexible metal bandages for a long time while his outer layer of plating healed. Ratchet had soldered the cut back shut, but not as deeply as he would have for an adult for fear to accidentally damage or destroy sensors, which tended to be more numerous in a Sparkling’s frame.

Smokescreen would be fine, and he needed his rest, Optimus kept repeating to himself. Even so, it was taking all of his willpower not to just get up, rush behind the metal folding screen that divided the dugout in two and take Smokescreen back in his arms to make sure he was safe.

“Calm, my mech, calm,” Jazz murmured soothingly, his fingers running gently over Optimus’ back. “Don’t want to have to tell Ratchet you blew a gasket than stress.”

Optimus glared, uncurling. “How can you even ask me to be calm?!”

“Because I can,” Jazz replied simply. “Your Creation is alright, you’re alright, and Ratchet pretty much confirmed that the Bitlet you are Carrying is perfectly fine, so I’ve no reason to stress out and you neither.”

“She’s still out there…”

“Yeah, with your pissed off, lethally efficient and armed second Bondmate on her heels, not to mention half the tribe’s warriors who are loyal to him and, oh, my own pissed off, angry on your behalf and protective mate?” he tilted his head to the side. “I can call back Ratchet if you want; he could give you more of this calming draught stuff, ‘cause I fear you’re burning through it far too easily.”

“He won’t give me more, he doesn’t like to give more than standard to mid doses to expectant Carriers,” Optimus replied mechanically. “And I don’t want to make him come back when he has so much work on his hands already.”

The ‘work’ Optimus alluded to was the result of a group of Zap-Horses stampeding out of their enclosure and right into a populated sector of New Kolkular. It was Ratchet himself who had given them the news as he examined Optimus and treated Smokescreen. The circumstances surrounding the stampede were unclear but the results were painfully clear. Several shelters had been damaged, many mechs and femmes (and possibly Younglings and Sparklings, but Ratchet stayed tight-lipped on the subject) had been injured, from debris fall and projections to having been caught under the hooves of the frightened beasts. As far as Optimus and Jazz knew, all Healers that could be spared had been called to help deal with the victims, mechs and mechanimals alike.

If he hadn’t been summoned to treat Optimus and Smokescreen (and Jazz, even if the black and white mech kept insisting he was fine) and come running to check on them, then Ratchet would never have left the chaotic scene in New Kolkular behind. And, once he had been satisfied with the state of his patients and assured himself they weren’t about to offline on him, he had run back to treat the stampede’s victims.

The timing of the stampede, which seemed to loosely correspond with Airachnid’s attack on Optimus, was highly suspicious. If someone came to tell him Airachnid’s herself was responsible in some way or shape for the stampede, the red and blue mech wouldn’t have been surprised. Even if she wasn’t involved, Airachnid had known how to use the event to her advantage. New Kolkular was a safe place for the nomads or was supposed to be, so there was no need for patrol duty. Airachnid’s presence in the city had however changed things and while there were no official sentry, mechs tended to keep a close look on who wandered in their part of the city.

However, the rush of people who had gone to help or see what was going on with the stampede had drew attention away from the Decepticon tribe’s corner of New Kolkular -- the stampede had happened on the opposite side of the city -- and with the panic, people hadn’t paid much attention to the Insecticon femme as she run around.

Nobody had seen her slip in, but many had seen her rush out; it was hard to see some kind of giant spider running around and limping thank to a damaged limb. Vocalizer to audio and comm links had spread the word on what had happened and suddenly, Megatron and the tribe’s hunters weren’t the only one chasing her. Accepted back by her tribe or not, the moment it was known she had tried to kill an expecting Carrier and a young Sparkling, any protection she might have been granted for the duration of the Games had become void. Nomads didn’t allow their owns to stray so far without consequences, and there was no way the spiderbot could have made amends for such a dire act.

She was now prey and the hunt was on, and any who wished to join in would be welcome, the rumors said. Arcee’s designation had been thrown around as well as her sister’s, Chromia, and many, many others. But no matter the number after her, Airachnid was a slippery, canny being; she hadn’t survived on her lonesome for vorns for nothing. Last Optimus and Jazz had heard, Airachnid had managed to make her way out of the nomads’ city, her pursuers hot on her heels.

It was not reassuring at all.

“If you call, he’ll come anyway,” Jazz noted quietly.

But Optimus shook his head. “He has already enough to worry about without adding my lack of nerves to his burden. Besides,” he added as an afterthought, given how twitchy you are yourself, I don’t think he’d appreciate seeing a knife fly his way.”

“I wouldn’t throw it at Ratchet!” Jazz protested.

Optimus raised an optic ridge, uncurled a little more and gave a nod toward the shelter's ‘door’ -- or rather, slightly to the right of the currently closed and hidden opening. The hilt of a dagger and an inch of the blade were emerging from the dugout’s wall. Considering the density of the mix of earth, metal and debris, it was no small feat and it could make one wonder how Jazz had managed to burrow the blade so much with a thrown.

Others would have been more concerned with where the Pit had Jazz managed to get his hands on knives, considering his mate didn’t want to hand him any weapon yet and was making sure he didn’t get access to one.

“You threw it at Dreadwing.” The winged mech was one of the tribe hunters who had taken on themselves to stay on guard in front of Optimus and Megatron’s shelter in case Airachnid came back.

“And he shouldn’t have passed his head through the door so briskly; I was on edge!” Jazz defended himself, throwing his hands in the air.

“He wasn’t ‘brisk’, he opened the door quite normally,” Optimus pointed out. Which was perfectly true. The winged mech had even knocked -- though neither Jazz nor Optimus had heard him, too caught up in their own worries. Or at least Optimus was; he wasn’t so sure about Jazz’s own excuse.

“He startled me; he’s lucky I missed!”

“I’m sure he is. And I’m sure this near miss had nothing to do with the fact you don’t like him.” Jazz pouted but didn’t try to defend himself further, and Optimus asked himself if he should have laughed or cried. Prowl and anyone of Youngling age and under asides, there weren’t that many mechs Jazz seemed to truly like in the tribe and he wondered if other incidents of this type would come up again.

Despite himself, Optimus raised his arms and hugged himself. The wait was killing him and he wished for nothing more than news of Megatron and his party. The temptation to send the grey mech a message on his comm link was growing, but Optimus didn’t dare. What if his call came at a wrong time, like during a fight, and it distracted Megatron enough for the grey nomad to make a fatal mistake? He would never forgive himself if that was the case. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but imagine Airachnid smiling viciously about Megatron’s still, greying body and it just renewed his fears.

“Hey.” Jazz shifted, his hand landing on Optimus’ shoulder and squeezing. “They’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that,” Optimus argued back. “Airachnid is dangerous. Aren’t you worried the slightest for Prowl?”

Jazz chuckled lowly. “Oh, Optimus, have some faith. Sure, that femme is as vicious and dangerous as a coiled razorviper, but in case you forgot, she’s short one limb thank to you and even if I didn’t manage to damage any important system myself, that knife I logged in her shoulder certainly didn’t help run as fast as she would have liked -- and I’d pay good credits to see her try to fight with her joint out of alignment like it was when she rushed out.” He grinned in dark satisfaction. “I’m not worried about Prowl, he’s a big mech and he knows how to take care of himself. Plus, I know he will adapt his plans to make sure they take her down hard and fast.”

“You don’t think anger will cloud his processor?”

Jazz had to pause and looked thoughtful before replying. “Not really. He’s not the kind to let his personal feelings get in the way of a hunt, even when he has recently acquired a grudge against the prey he’s after. And I don’t Megatron is either,” he added for Optimus’ benefit, though the admission was done grudgingly. “He’s a smart mech, even if he doesn’t always look or act like it. He won’t let himself be trapped by her.”

“You can’t know it.” Optimus said quietly after a moment of silence.

“Not for sure, no,” the black and white mech acknowledged with a nod. “But like the Pit I’m going to let that spider-freak win over me, even if it’s only mental.”

Optimus tried to smile at the vehemence with which Jazz spoke of the Insecticon-descended femme, but the result was pale. No matter how much Jazz tried, his mind wouldn’t allow him to relax.

“Want me to lend you a knife or two?” Jazz proposed, his visor dark as he took in Optimus’ posture and the nervous tingling in his energy field. “It’d be easier to use in there than that axe of yours.”

Optimus’ optics immediately went to his weapon; which was lying against the nearest wall with its handle up. Ratchet had literally torn it from his hands the moment he had come in, snarling about the way Optimus was going to injure himself with it if he didn’t stop shaking; Optimus hadn’t even noticed he was. Mechanically, he reached for it. The weight of the weapon in his hand felt soothing, something he would have never thought possible until today.

“The axe will be fine,” he replied toward his friend. “I don’t know how to properly throw a knife anyway. It was never covered in my education, believe it or not.”

Jazz’s lips quipped. “Too uncouth for nobles, eh? Don’t you worry, the moment we get out, I’m teaching you how.”

The makeshift curtain hiding the exit of the shelter was part and a well-known grey frame made his way inside with a dark chuckle. “A generous offer, but one that he’ll have to refuse, for if someone has to teach my mate knife-throwing, then it will be me.”

“Megatron!” Optimus dropped the axe and jumped to his feet, quickly running to the other mech and checking him out with worried optics. His mate was dirty and there were plenty of small gashes littering his frame but none that seemed dangerous or life threatening. One of the swords that had been strapped to his back when he left was missing, and he had made the acquisition of a bag that was hanging heavily at his side. Mindless of the grim, Optimus hugged him briefly, a hug that was answered with more force than his.

“Peace, my mate. Smokescreen?” he asked, optics looking right and left for the Sparkling.

Jazz rose up in turn and tucked the folding screen just enough so that Megatron could have a glimpse of the basket and its precious content. “Just here. Fast asleep. Ratchet says he’ll be fine,” the black and white mech added, knowing what the next question would be. Megatron gave a thankful nod.

“That’s just as well. I have a gift for you, my mate,” Megatron said calmly as he unclipped the bag hanging from a belt tied around his waist. A colorful sash would have suited him better, Optimus couldn’t help but think, though the dark grey strap of supple metalhide didn’t look back either. Then Megatron opened the bag and all thoughts related to fashion and threads disappeared.

Jazz swore. “Wow! Give a mech a warning, will you?”

“Why? Are you squeamish, o mate of Prowl?”

“I got a name, remember? And no, I saw worse, but Optimus certainly didn’t!”

“It’s alright, Jazz.” Was it him who had just spoken so casually, a small, amazed part of Optimus CPU asked to itself as the black and white mech next to him stilled and gave him a double-check. It was just as well Smokescreen wasn’t awake, Optimus thought dispassionately as Megatron raised his hand higher; if he had been, the sight would have given him nightmares. Eck, it would probably come back to haunt Optimus himself at some point but right now, all he could feel was a burgeoning feeling of relief and, should he say it…? Satisfaction.

Airachnid’s gray, dead optics weren’t looking at him, unseeing as they were, but they were aimed in his general direction. Death hadn’t made her look any kinder, he noted despite himself. Her face was frozen in a grimace of pain and fear, mostly pain though. The right side of her helm was half-crushed, as if someone with very, very large hands had taken a handful of it and squeezed -- which was probably the case. Optimus’ optics darted to Megatron’s hands, wondering if this was his mate’s work or not. Not that he cared.

Airachnid’s whole head had turned grey, and one of the markings under her optics had been scratched so deeply it had damaged the protoform. Megatron’s claws were too big to have done that, but Arcee’s hands… now, that could have been the right size, Optimus mused. He didn’t know if the decapitation had taken effect when she had still been alive or not, but wherever it had or not, it hadn’t been a clean business; from the way cables were dangling from what once was her neck, it seemed like someone had properly torn her head off her shoulders rather than cleanly cut it. Her end had been everything but kind from the look of it, but Optimus couldn’t bother himself to care. If anything, his satisfaction grew to the point he felt a genuine, savage glee at her demise.

He never thought he’d felt happy to see a decapitated helm, but here he was. He looked from the head to Megatron and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, and it probably showed a lot of his teeth (which, sadly, weren’t as sharp as Megatron and so couldn’t hope to make him look as dangerous) but Optimus didn’t care.

“A most unusual trophy, my mate.” He WASN’T purring, but it was close. He could almost hear Jazz gape, because that was very unlike Optimus at all.

“But a fine one to go with the one you won of your own, my mate,” Megatron replied with the same near-purr, tilting his head forward in a discreet bow. Optimus’ mind drew a blank before he remembered that yes, he had taken a trophy of his own, hadn’t he?

Airachnid’s hand… claw… pincer? Whatever that additional limb was called was still lying around somewhere in the dugout, probably behind that series of tall jars Jazz had reorganized in the corner while Optimus had been distracted. The black and white mech had probably thought the sight would upset him -- and he wasn’t exactly wrong. Any other time, seeing the dismembered hand would have provoked a wave of nausea at best and a bad freak out at worse. However, right now, Optimus probably wouldn’t have minded the sight.

He had done it, hadn’t he? He truly had managed to cut off the crazy, dangerous femme’s limb with a swing of his axe and forced her to back off. It was probably more luck than skill, but he had done it.

His chest puffed a little. “That I did, though I’m not sure I’d call anything coming from this bitch a good trophy.” He looked at the severed head again. “I’m surprised they allowed you to keep her helm, though. Wasn’t Arcee staking a bigger claim to her head?”

“I don’t know if I should find you hot or creepy,” Jazz muttered, but Optimus paid him no mind, optics focused on Megatron alone as he waited for his answer.

A dangerous, dark light danced in Megatron’s optics. “That thing attacked my Carrying mate and tried to harm my Sparkling; I would have liked to see them try and say me ‘no’ when I picked up her helm. But you’re right, Arcee is quite entitled to this trophy as well. I… may have promised that I would hand it to her once I had ensured you that Airachnid was no more.”

“And honor you promise you shall, my mate,” Optimus replied easily and steadily, arms crossed over his chest. “With my thanks to her for partaking in the hunt which ended that threat.”

“It shall be done.”

“Oooookay, you’re not creepy at all,” Jazz muttered. “Can you actually do that? Keep people’s heads, I mean?” He didn’t flinch when Megatron glared at him. “It’s an honest question!”

Megatron harrumphed. “No, we normally don’t,” he allowed. “But Airachnid hardly counts as a person. I however doubt Arcee will keep the head for long. She will probably hand it to a shaman to cleanse it from lingering evil before she burns it. That’s what we do with monsters, no matter their form.”

“How nice it is to know.” Optimus just gave Jazz a look, unhappy with the sarcasm, and the white and black mech deflated. “Though I can’t say I blame you; she was a nasty piece of work, that femme.”

“She was,” Megatron nodded. “The news of her passing isn’t official yet, but I imagine there will be much relief when it’ll be announced before the Council of Chieftains tomorrow.”

“Why wait tomorrow and not do it immediately?”

Megatron raised an optic ridge. “At this hour?” With a startle, Optimus realized what time his internal chrono was marking and he opened wide optics in consternation; surely, it couldn’t be so late, could it? “Besides, dealing the stampede and its results will take priority over the offlining of a known but momentarily tolerated threat.”

“He’s also forgetting to say that any handling of Airachnid’s remains should be done in an official and almost ceremonial manner,” Prowl’s voice cut out from outside and a moment later, he was lowering himself in the shelter, giving Megatron a stern bow before giving Jazz a warm smile at odd with his tense frame. “I took the liberty of sending your mate’s bodyguards back to their shelters now the threat has passed. I trust you won’t mind?”

“Lugnut?” Megatron asked warily.

Doorwings fluttered. “Was most unhappy to have to obey but saw reason after Strika hauled him over her shoulder and forced him to comply. Airachnid or not, the Games still continues and we need every mech and femme fighting tomorrow well rested.”

“Hmmph. Just so you know, they weren’t guarding only my mate.”

“Of that I’m aware, but I doubt many considered Jazz but as an afterthought. Though I was lead to believe Dreadwing promised never to underestimate you,” he added for the visored mech’s benefit, head tilted to the side as he turned around and caught sight of the knife still embedded in the shelter’s wall. He made no further comment, though.

“My, I’m flattered,” Jazz said dryly. Optimus gave him a look before looking up at Megatron in askance.

“So… it’s over and done?” Primus, let it be done...

Chapter Text

“I’m afraid it’s not quite as over as we would like it to be.”

Prowl looked somber. Jazz shifted his weight, looking ready to bolt as he looked at his mate with a blank expression Optimus was familiar with; whenever Jazz looked like that, he was ready for slag to hit the fan. Megatron’s optics had narrowed and he moved to stand next to Optimus, hovering protectively near the smaller mech. Optimus, for his part, just looked at the door-winged mech with an heavy Spark. Of course it couldn’t be over; troubles never ended, be it in Iacon or among the nomads.

“What is it, Prowl?” he asked with a sigh. The Praxian-descended mech hesitated briefly, looking at Megatron as if asking permission or… “Don’t you dare speak on comm link!” Optimus barked, suddenly feeling enraged. “I’m not a fragile Spark who need to be constantly protected! She came after me and she came after SMOKESCREEN!!!! My Creation! I deserve to know the slag she has been up to!”

Prowl’s doorwings stood ramrod against his back. “I know you’re unlikely to need protection once your Carrying cycle is over, Optimus; I think the previous events showed us neither you nor my own mate should be underestimated. It reminds me, I expect those knives back, Jazz.” He raised an optic ridge at Jazz, who smiled sheepishly and showed his empty hands as if to say ‘Knives? Which knives?’. “But nevermind that. I tracked down Airachnid’s lair with Skyquake and Strika, and as per my calculations, we found it.”

Megatron grunted. “And I suppose she kept more macabre trophies of her own?” Airachnid’s fascination for heads was a sadly well-known fact. Hopefully Prowl’s team had disposed of them with proper care and respect, building a pyre to burn away the taint and threw the ashes to the winds.

“That she did,” Prowl nodded, doorwings still stiff, “but it’s not what bring me concern, no. Her… proclivities were accounted for and it was no surprise to find their results. What was more surprising is the amount of ‘trinkets’ she had gathered in her lair.”

“‘Trinkets’?” Jazz asked cautiously. “What are we talking here, Prowl? Jars, pots, carpets, jewelry pieces, the likes? That’s what you’d call trinkets, right?”

Prowl gave a short nod. “Among other things, yes. That’s my first concern. Unless she decided to pick up hobbies while she was lying low, then the chances she produced most of the items in her lair by herself on her lonesome are less than 5%. We may be able to practice a lot of trades and develop many skills to help with the day-to-day life of the tribe, but it is incredibly rare for a single mech or femme to become a master in each and every one of those skills. Airachnid never struck me as one of those rare individuals. However, many of the items she had in her possession belied an incredible level of mastery.”

“So… she traded for them?” Optimus asked warily, looking from Prowl’s stern expression to Megatron’s furrowed optics. He didn’t look angry or surprised, so it mustn’t have been as bad as he had feared. “But it’s normal, right? I mean, trading is part of life for the tribes. Even solitary mechs like Wheeljack have to trade, don’t they?”

“True, but there is a big difference between a mech like Wheeljack, who willingly and willfully decide to undertake a solo trek across the Badlands, and a femme like Airachnid, who was declared a pariah and was to be hunted down.” Prowl shook his head. “No honorable mech should have agreed to trade with her; she was the Tribe Justice Division’s prey and the dutiful thing to do if one had spotted her would have been to cast her asides and to warn the Justice Division as soon as possible so they could resume their hunt. The fact people went against honor to, if not shelter her, then at least give her the mean to make her life on the run comfortable, is worrisome in itself.”

Jazz hummed thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps it comes from her own tribe?” he offered, making Prowl turn toward him with a raised optic ridge. “Oh, come on, it’d make sense; they were desperate enough to grant her an amnesty and present her as one of their champions to try and win a bigger territory. However, they cast her out so she mustn’t have been in a forgiving mood,” the black and white mech pointed out, raising his hands defensively at the look Prowl kept giving him. “If I had been in her place, I would have made them pay as much as I could.”

Prowl gave a curt nod. “Your guess is probably spot on. I don’t doubt she effectively pressured her own tribe into giving her many of the things inside her lair. Several tokens are carved in a style unique to Insecticons-descended tribes. However, it can’t account for everything she seems to have owned; there is simply too much and from too many origins. And some of those items are what city dwellers would consider…” he paused, searching for the right word, mouth working silently before he seemed to find the right term to use, “expensive. She had many kind of jewelries in her lair,” he said, turning to look at Megatron in the optics, and his voice dropped and turned darker when he said so.

Megatron’s optics narrowed dangerously as Optimus blinked, taken aback as he too looked up at his mate. “What’s wrong with having jewelries? I know you don’t use much if any, but I saw many for trade on the market.”

“Yup; Prowl even got me a brooch the other day, didn’t you Prowl?” Jazz said, head tilted in contemplation. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t trade it for cheap either,” he added for Optimus’ benefit.

“Jewelries are never cheap, Jazz,” Megatron rumbled. “They are but trinkets we don’t have use for, since they serve little to no purpose for hunting.”

“But you still make necklaces for your mates,” Jazz pointed out.

“True, but those we do ourselves and with materials we collected ourselves and thought would reflect our talents and qualities as a mate for the one we choose,” Megatron nodded toward Optimus, who started to mechanically stroke the lion head hanging from his neck. “No self respecting hunter and honorable mech would try to buy a piece of jewelry and try to pass it off as a suitable Bonding necklace. However, they may choose to spoil their mate with another jewel to adorn themselves with, for we acknowledge that jewelries are hard to do and the materials composing them are often rare or precious.”

“Due to how much one as to trade but for a single piece and how unusual it is, one gifting a jewelry piece to a mate, a Creator or a Creation is considered a sign of deep affection and love instead of a sign of wealth like it goes for city dwellers, I believe?” Prowl continued quietly, his doorwings twitching as he looked intently at Jazz who nodded faintly at him, looking flabbergasted. “It is a proof of the sincerity of our affection and how deep it runs for the other, since we often trade valuable supplies for them. Some can be used as part of formal regalia; precious brooches tend to be used by chieftains to fasten their cloaks during ceremonies, for example, though they’re not allowed to wear jewelry acquired for themselves.”

“... you really shouldn’t have gotten me one,” Jazz mumbled unhappily under his breath. He sounded uncomfortable to Optimus’ audio. Prowl just shook his head.

“They seemed to have caught your fancy and I couldn’t see any better way to show you how much you meant to me.”

Megatron harrumphed. “As fascinating as it is to see you try and reason with and seduce your mate, I think we let ourselves stray. What did you find, Prowl?”

“Fire crystals. A chest worth of them, still rough and yet to be cut,” was the clipped reply, and Megatron’s optics flared.

“Did you? How interesting.”

‘Fire crystals’ threw Optimus out of the loop until he remembered that it was a broad term the nomads used to design non-edible crystals which contained an highly concentrated charge of energy. Once refined, they served as the power-base of many devices the nomads used, from the stasis boxes where they stored energon to the power cells for their energy bows or the energon-daggers Jazz had held against Airachnid.

They weren’t exactly rare, but tribes tended to hoard them and they were almost never traded.

Optimus swallowed dryly; from the low curse Jazz muttered, he had come to the same conclusion as him. Now he understood better why Prowl had been so somber; the implications that Airachnid had so much fire crystals, a true necessity for the nomads, were disturbing.

“You think she got paid to attack me, didn’t you? To kill me. And not just me either; she got paid to kill Smokescreen as well,” he let out in a voice that was surprisingly calm and steady given the state of his processor. All optics turned toward him and he looked back at every mech steadily. Megatron tried to put a hand on his shoulder but Optimus shrugged and threw the hand off, never looking at his mate. All his attention was focused on Prowl. Suddenly, all his nervousness and his fear had dissipated and they slowly being replaced with cold, quiet fury.

“Is it a distinct possibility, yes,” Prowl confirmed, not bothering to sooth the blow.

“You can’t know for sure,” Jazz tried to interject, but Prowl shook his head even as Megatron growled.

“Prowl never states something without proof. I trust his judgement on the likely provenance. There is only one thing I wish to know and that is: Who?” From the glint in his optics, it was obvious what he wished to do to the one (ones?) who had threatened the lives of his mate and Sparklings, and it would be as messy, violent and painful as he could make it.

Now Prowl seemed reluctant. “It is hard to say at this point; I can only draw conjectures and I’m reluctant to throw accusations around without any solid proof. There is nothing to indicate where those fire crystals came from, nor since when she had them in her possession. They may even have come from previous ‘contracts’ she accepted. I have no proof,” he added, stiffening as Megatron gave him a pointed look, “but it would be quite logical for her to have done so previously. We know she never was above murder and while most nomads are honorable, there will always be some who are less so and tempted to take an ‘easier path’ toward their goals.”

“Quite,” Megatron rumbled unhappily. “You don’t think…?”

“As I said, I’m reluctant to throw accusations around,” Prowl stated again plainly.

“But you think Megatron’s Sire might be the driving force behind it, don’t you?” Jazz pipped in.

Both nomads exchanged a look. “It is a distinct possibility, yes,” Prowl allowed slowly, almost reluctantly. “But one I’d be cautious of supporting. It doesn’t really fit Galvatron’s usual modus operandi -- no, Megatron don’t argue, you know I’m right,” he added as Megatron opened his mouth. “Galvatron is scheming, true, and he has proved it in the past. However, there is a large difference between purposely sending hunters on a dangerous hunt by their lonesome, where anything can happen to them, and asking the services of and paying an assassin to take out a Carrier and a young Sparkling. Cyclonus never reported...”

“Cyclonus could very well have missed something,” Megatron bit out. “He’s not behind my Sire every klik of the solar cycle. If Airachnid was offering her… ‘services’ for hire, then he could have contacted her orns previously without anyone the wiser!”

“Naw, Prowl’s right,” Jazz cut in, his voice dropping lower. Optimus gave him a quick look. Jazz rarely stopped smiling but right now, he looked grim. “I admit, I don’t know that Galvatron fellow as well as you two do, but if there is one thing working in the rundown parts of Iacon or on caravans taught me then it’s that people don’t change their style right off the bat and hiring an assassin isn’t nearly as easy as you want to think, my mech. You need either direct contact or a secure contact channel, and given the psycho lady was a fugitive, then whoever hired her must have done it very recently.”

“You can’t know that for sure!”

“No, I don’t,” Jazz approved, “but I’m fairly certain of my guess here. Besides, I think you’re forgetting something. Several somethings, in fact.” He looked around at Optimus, Megatron and Prowl. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but outside of the tribe, nobody knew Megatron had taken a mate before we neared or reached New Kolkular and he showed up on the market with Optimus at his side. It’s a recent development nobody could have guessed about.”

“Which is further proof of my Sire’s involvement if you ask me,” Megatron grunted. “He was in the known before we reached New Kolkular.”

“Not necessarily,” Prowl murmured, doorwings fluttering. “I seriously doubt Galvatron would push foresight to pay someone to kill your mate long before you even took one. It would have been costly, especially for something which might have taken vorns to happen. There was also the chance the assassin-to-be would decide to go back on his promise or die themselves before the deed was done. And that’s the second point you wanted us to notice, isn’t it, Jazz?” he said as he turned toward his mate.

The black and white mech nodded readily. “Yup. Unless I got it wrong when you explained it to me, those fancy crystals you found in her dwellings? They’re precious, right? Not as in, you’ll get good money for them but more like, you need them to make the tech works right, so you better have as many as possibly handy if you want things to run seamlessly or do all the emergency repairs you need at the most inconvenient time. You hoard them like Predacons in those old tales, right?”

“What kind of tales…?” Prowl muttered, doorwings stiff and raised.

“Nevermind them, I can tell you more about them later,” Optimus cut in, earning startled looks. “Continue, Jazz.”

“Right, right,” the other mech said, raising his hands. “I’m no expert, but… Prowl, how long would you say it’d take to gather a whole chest of fire crystals?”

Doorwings twitched. “It depends of many factors, I suppose,” Prowl answered thoughtfully. “Everyone picks fire crystals when they come across one and there is no actual rules about who can keep them or how many they’re allowed to have. Most people entrust them to the whole tribe’s care but everyone also keep several on the side for themselves, usually the biggest and better quality ones. I’ve know mechs who courted potential mates by giving them additional crystals to power their weapons, and Younglings sometimes trade them between them for sweets or toys.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t give you a precise answer. It’d take a long while either way.”

“Okay, so Airachnid’s payment took a long while gathering, so that must meant someone hoarded those crystals for a good while -- but not necessarily because they had planned to use them as payment for Airachnid from the start,” Jazz reasoned, waving a finger in front of Megatron’s face when he opened his mouth to argue. “Ah, ah, no talky; let me finish. We have established fire crystals are handy, you don’t need a reason to start piling them up and nobody pay attention to how many you keep for yourselves -- which means they’re untraceable, unlike jewelries, because everyone is gonna remember someone trading for jewelries and I get the feeling you don’t have that many crafters to begin with.”

“A very good point,” Prowl nodded, eyeing Jazz with an appreciative look. “Though we can’t exclude the idea someone also paid Airachnid in jewelries for going after Optimus and young Smokescreen as well.”

The pair of them started to remember Optimus of Enforcers in an investigation. It would have been amusing if he wasn’t the subject of said investigation.

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so,” Jazz shook his head. “It’s too obvious and you’d have a bigger chance to be identified and caught if something went wrong. Besides, remember that until everyone arrived at New Kolkular, nobody even knew Airachnid would be here -- and nobody knew Megatron had taken a mate and had a Sparkling and half already,” he nodded toward the grey mech, who was frowning, and toward Optimus, who watched him stonily. “Which means that whoever decided to hire her did so at the last minute on an impulse, because there was a possibility, an opening as thin as it was. And this is probably why whoever went to her gave her fire crystals as payment. It was probably the best bargaining tool they had at their disposition. I mean, that psycho-lady was on the run from your equivalent of Enforcers, right? So that meant she wouldn’t have been able to properly forage for a lot of the things you mechs usually go after; fire crystals would have been a good trade-off as far as she was concerned.”

A short moment of silence followed.

“That does sound logical,” Prowl admitted at least after reviewing the discussion in his mind. “It does not innocent your Sire, Megatron, but you have to admit it lengthen considerably the list of potential suspects.”

The grey mech grimaced, obviously dissatisfied with the idea.

“But who if not my Sire?” Megatron asked impatiently. “It’s not like I have enemies bold enough to go against me and mine in such underhanded methods!”

“It’s not so certain,” Optimus murmured as Megatron raised an optic ridge at him. “There are other mechs you didn’t endear yourself so, from what I’ve observed.”

While it was true Galvatron was the most likely suspect and he was know to be quickly angered and unstable, Optimus had to agree with Prowl and Jazz’s assessment. Like them, he wasn’t convinced the older mech would resort to ‘outsiders’ such as Airachnid to get rid of a source of anger and frustration without dirtying his hands. If anything, Optimus thought he’d be more likely to try and stab him himself if he truly went over the edge.

But would he? Galvatron and him had managed a civil conversation and when they had parted, the older mech hadn’t seemed angry enough to plan a murder. Optimus had hoped their meeting on the market had helped smooth the edges and abate whatever rage Megatron’s Sire held toward his Creation and his Creation’s new mate but, who knew? Perhaps it had just unknowingly stoked the fires.

And still, there were others who could have ‘hired’ Airachnid.

Wheeljack, for example, had little love for Megatron -- though it was laughable to think he would ever try to harm his mate for petty revenge, since he was on mild friendly terms with Optimus. Sure, he remained sarcastic and impatient but like Bulkhead, whatever dislike he held for Megatron didn’t seem to apply to the grey mech’s mate and offspring. Plus, Optimus couldn’t picture Wheeljack trying to harm a Sparkling and if Wheeljack truly had a problem with Megatron he would settle it himself with his fists, not by trying to psychologically and mentally scar him by taking out Optimus and Smokescreen (and the future Bitlet).

And then there was Starscream, Megatron’s former lover. Optimus remembered the way he had looked at them, Optimus and Smokescreen both, and that memory was enough to put the Seeker at the top of the suspects list in the red and blue mech’s processor. Granted he didn’t know much about Starscream so he couldn’t swear it, but if the Seeker had a chance to get Megatron back by ‘freeing’ him from any ‘familial obligation’? Optimus had the sneaky feeling he would try to, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Jazz had come up to the same conclusion on his own if he had to judge by his minute tensing and the glare he threw at Megatron.

He didn’t say anything, though, for which Optimus was grateful. Throwing wild accusations around wouldn’t help the situation the slightest.

It wasn’t making Smokescreen any safer -- or his future sibling (Optimus didn’t care about himself that much beyond the fact anything happening to him would end up with his Sparkling deactivating as well, something that was just impossible to even think about).

And… Optimus didn’t want to live in a constant atmosphere of suspicion, to be honest. He had done so already while growing up, and he hadn’t realized just how lighter his Spark at become after leaving Iacon and starting to known the nomads who surrounded him. He had no desire to ever return to the level of political intrigues some of his fellow nobles satisfied themselves with.

In the end, the who wasn’t mattering as much as the why. No. Actually, no. The one question that weighed the most on Optimus’ mind truly was: how can I make sure it never happens again?

Of course, the other smart question a part of his CPU pondered also was: would it happen ever again?

Back in Iacon, one deflected attempt and one dead assassin was never the end if someone had decided your death. Or at least, it wasn’t until you found the guilty party behind the attempts and managed to either get rid of him by way of the Enforcers (the legal way), counter-assassination attempts (the very illegal way) or, and that one left a sour taste in Optimus’ fuel tank, bribes to make him reconsider. Assassination in the city-states was just, well, not part of life, but something that happened and had certain rules about them.

But among the nomads, how frequent was it?

To Optimus’ understanding, it wasn’t -- at least not in the conventional, ‘I’ll pay you to get rid of that bothersome individual for me’ sense. Murders, to the nomads, resumed to ’training accidents’ which really weren’t, to duels that ended badly in the arena despite them not being intended to be to the death, and to ‘hunting accidents’. That was it; life was harsh enough in the Badlands as it was, and murdering the competition was a sure way to get yourself killed in turn should you ever be discovered.

Even Galvatron, considered as unhinged by his own tribe and jealous of Megatron, hadn’t tried to get rid of his Creation’s supporters otherwise than by sending them on dangerous hunts. Something that was ‘socially acceptable’, even if frowned upon, because if the hunter was good or wary, then he would return victorious anyway (and there were tribes out there callous enough to judge that those who weren’t able to handle that kind of solo hunt deserved their fate, or so Megatron had once revealed during one of their late talks while cuddling for warmth).

But then came mechs and femmes like the late Airachnid.

The sadists. The psychopaths. The ones who saw nothing wrong with hunting their fellow mechs and taking grizzly trophies off of them.

Now, Optimus didn’t think the nomads sheltered many among their numbers. If anything, their swift and harsh justice system took care of the ‘black sheepitrons’ quickly enough the moment they put the tip of their pedes out of line. That didn’t meant there weren’t any lurking even now -- and Airachnid had set a dangerous precedent by accepting a bribe to kill a specific person (severals, actually, including an innocent Sparkling).

(Granted, Airachnid had probably not been the first nomad to do such a thing. If Prowl and Megatron had been able to draw the conclusion on their own, then murder for money -- or at least something equivalent to money -- had to have happened at least once before. Still, Optimus didn’t think it was common. Not to kill fellow mechs anyway; bribing someone else to kill a tricky prey secretly and let you present it as your own, now, Optimus wouldn’t have been surprised.)

Precedents couldn’t be allowed to take root. If they did, then it wasn’t one Airachnid the tribe, Optimus’ tribe, could have to deal with, but dozens, hundreds of Airachnid. And if that was the case… how long would it be before someone else tried to get to Smokescreen again? If whoever had ‘paid’ Airachnid found someone else willing to do his bidding...

That, Optimus thought, optics hard, was completely unacceptable. In Optimus’ processor, the logical conclusion imposed itself naturally: as one of the wronged party and on behalf of his Creations, he needed to make a move that would ever dissuade the nomads in general and his tribe in particular to develop the thread Airachnid had set by accepting payment for straight out murder. He was going to nip it in the bud before it could blossom into a real, dangerous outcome.

He was, however, hesitating on the correct way to do so.

The first possible way to answer the threat, the most rational one, and the one part of Optimus’ processor was favoring (and probably Megatron’s, and unless Optimus was missing his guess, Jazz and Prowl’s as well. Optimus wasn’t going to venture into what Megatron’s friends and supporters were probably thinking, but he wouldn’t be surprised if them too wanted to make it bloody) would be to remove the menace entirely. Permanently. Just like Airachnid had been. They just needed to find the mech who had aimed Airachnid in their direction and deal with him.

Sadly, if it was the most rational and the most tempting, it wasn’t necessarily the smartest or the safest. True, the threat would be very, very dead, but Optimus wasn’t so gone he couldn’t think of the potential consequences -- especially the ‘political’ ones.

If whoever had hired Airachnid was part of their own tribe, like Megatron and Prowl seemed to suspect, then the matter could be settled internally with little implications from outsiders, aka the other nomad tribes. Passing judgement and applying the sentence would fall on the tribe leader, Megazarak, who Optimus hoped could be fair in such a matter. There was a risk of infighting, of course, since Galvatron had supporters and allies, perhaps even friends, who wouldn’t abandon him unless his culpability was beyond any doubt. Hopefully, Megazarak’s word would prove to be law and nothing too bad would come out of dealing with what was essentially a traitor.

And if there was, then at least the fallout would be limited to the Decepticon tribe, which was better than a full war breaking out.

If whoever had hired Airachnid came from the outside, however…

Well, it was disaster waiting to happen, Optimus thought grimly. Starscream’s face and optics flashed briefly in Optimus’ CPU. Megatron wouldn’t known, but Optimus had asked around for informations on the Seeker -- discreetly, of course, asking Bulkhead and Wheeljack when he met them on the market rather than asking his tribemates. Megatron remained tight-lipped about his former lover, to the point Optimus didn’t know if he had ended talking with Starscream as Optimus had advised. The red and blue mech knew better than needling his mate, however; it would only make Megatron surly, something Optimus could live without.

But from what Optimus had gathered, Starscream’s tribe was mostly constituted of winged mechs or otherwise flight-capable frames. Optimus hadn’t be raised a warrior or a strategist, but he had read enough and received enough lessons to know that air support could make a huge difference in a fight. Nomads were tough and formidable opponents when they faced each other in proper duel, on the ground, but Optimus didn’t care to find out how his own tribe would fare against a full air attack should they come to face the might of a tribe essentially composed of Seekers. And that’s what was bound to happen should the Decepticon tribe accuse Starscream, Heir to the Shatterstar tribe, to be involved in an attempted murder; it was such a serious accusation it could be considered a war declaration, as far as Optimus understood.

True, if the Decepticon tribe presented proof of Starscream’s involvement, then there would be little the Shatterstar tribe do or say to defend Starscream. Even his most ardent defenders would be hard-pressed to back him up if Optimus, visibly Carrying, came to wave Smokescreen, his hand still bandaged, under their olfactive sensors to show just how close his Sparkling came to be murdered.

The problem was, however, that there was absolutely no proof Starscream had anything to do with hiring Airachnid.

Even Optimus would be hard pressed to give up Starscream’s name and be certain of his guess. It was just a hunch, after all, born of Optimus’ understanding of spurned loves (which was, sadly, very hypothetical and romanticized; he had read quite a few novels in his spare time while growing up, and it had formed the basis of his very understanding of love). A hateful glare was hardly a proof, just like Galvatron’s animosity toward Megatron wasn’t a direct proof either.

It could be anyone, really, and the results would be the same no matter who they accused of the deed; a fight was sure to break out. And even if it didn’t, it would forever sully the relationship between the Decepticons and the rest of the nomads. And in a culture that valued cooperation, if only to survive the harsh Storms Seasons, it was a promise of hardships, perhaps even of slow death.

No, Optimus thought, disappointed but logical. They couldn’t afford to eliminate the one or ones they suspected of having backed Airachnid.

Plenty of mechs could have hired Airachnid, and if Prowl hadn’t found anything conclusive in the spider-bot lair, then Optimus doubted they’d ever find a definite proof. Someone like Airachnid would have known how to keep a secret, and those who would have requested her ‘services’ probably took precautions to avoid being tracked back, just in case she failed or got caught.

A pity they didn’t think to question her before she died, Optimus thought briefly, dispassionately. Oh, well, there was nothing to truly regret. Airachnid had been dangerous and it wasn’t as if they had suspected someone else had been involved before Megatron brought back her head. And even if her testimony or confession would have helped matters, one could have argued she’d lied about who her ‘benefactor’ had been -- Airachnid had been anything but trustworthy, after all -- and had only tried to drag a good mech’s honor in the mud.

The red and blue mech dropped his head, optics narrowing again.

So killing the threat was impossible, not without serious repercussion which might put Smokescreen, the Sparkling and Optimus himself in further danger (or perhaps just Optimus; one could always decide he was responsible for the future, hypothetical debacle and decide he was fair game for reprisal). Which left them with… what?

“Optimus?”

“Shh, I know that look, better not bother him just yet.”

“But what…?”

Optimus thought long and hard, paying no attention to the mechs trying to get his attention. He waved vaguely at Megatron when the grey mech started to hover a little too close.

Faces and facts and vague ideas paraded in his CPU as he tried to organize them in a coherent ensemble, weighing the pros and cons of various options. His optics wandered over the jars behind which Airachnid’s claw laid. His optics narrowed slightly before he slowly turned his head to look at the spiderbot’s decapitated head, which Megatron had let on display on a nearby chest (energon had pooled on it and they would have to clean it out before it stained the chest permanently).

Airachnid’s head. Airachnid, so cruel. Airachnid, with so many enemies of her own. Airachnid, so dangerous that mechs walked armed in New Kolkular when drawing a weapon was a serious offence, punishable by death.

Airachnid, who was finally taken down… and whose helm and hand they possessed.

“Megatron?” Optimus asked slowly, staring at the disembodied head. “You did promise to hand this head over to Arcee, didn’t you?”

The grey mech blinked. “That I did, my mate. You seemed to approve?”

“Oh, I do,” Optimus waved. “I was just wondering, did you precise when you wanted to give her that trophy? Or for that matter, did you mention wherever it would be a private or public exchange?”

Megatron exchanged a look with Prowl; the Praxian-styled mech looked just as surprised as him, though his expression grew thoughtful while his doorwings fluttered. “That I did not, Optimus, but why…?”

“Oh, I think I get it,” Jazz murmured.

“Making it into a symbol,” Prowl nodded as he moved to stand next to his mate. “A little unorthodox, of course, but perfectly in yours and his rights,” he added as he looked up at Megatron, who tapped his lower lip thoughtfully with a digit.

“Hmm, yes, yes. It’s not unheard of to give trophies in public, though I fail to guess exactly what you wish for, my mate. Well, not exactly,” he amended. “I do get that you wish to make a show out of handing Airachnid’s head to Arcee. But why? Wherever I hand it in public or in private, it won’t change much…”

Optimus smirked. “Oh, Megatron, who ever said you would be the one to hand over that trophy?”

Megatron raised an optic ridge while Jazz chuckled. “Oooh, someone already has a plan! Come on, my mech, don’t be shy; share with the rest of the band!”

And Optimus did just that.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing being a noble had taught Optimus, then it was the art of always looking at his best when attending any ‘formal’ or ‘official’ gathering. The skill hadn’t been one he had wished to develop in the first place, as he had always held little love for parties and social gathering where everyone just seemed out to snob everyone else. He had never been able to avoid them, however. Between his own Creators being socialites in their own rights and their family unit being related to the Prime lineage, participating in what Alpha Trion had once described as ‘the politest form of cut-throating he had ever witnessed’ was not only expected, it was an obligation. Even when one wished to just stay home with a good datapad.

He could remember hating every klik of it as a Sparkling, then as a growing Youngling, even if he knew he wouldn't be expected to stay up all night like the adults. His memory banks could easily run through the countless afternoons (because preparations had to start early) he had been dragged away from his toys to be bathed, painted, waxed, perfumed, adorned with jewels and lectured on how he was to be on his best behaviour by his Carrier. You never knew if the Prime wouldn’t be coming, and surely Optimus wouldn’t want to look bad if the Prime requested his distant kin to be presented to him, would he?

Ironically, Optimus had never met the ruling Prime optics to optics or be formally introduced. They had never seemed to attend the same receptions, and the palace was always full of mechs who held the Prime’s attention more than a young, distant cousin. While it was true the Supreme Leader of Cybertron had attended Optimus’ Bonding Ceremony, as was proper since they were kin, he hadn’t stayed to give the newly Bonded his Blessing, called away by urgent affairs. Flame and Optimus’ Creators had been mortified. Thankfully, the possible scandal had been averted with the presence of the Mistress of Flames, who made a show of Blessing her nephew’s union.

The incident had probably made people talk behind their backs, but Optimus hadn’t cared -- and thankfully, Flame had quickly come over his dejection. Especially after they received the Prime’s formal excuse and a set of impressive gifts to make up for his absence.

But nevermind.

The point was, Optimus had grown up to be very good in the fine art of looking at his best for every occasion that mattered. His Bonding to Flame had only honed his skills further, as Optimus had suddenly become responsible to not only prepare but also held a handful of formal dinners and parties himself -- his one, most time consuming task as the designated Carrier, particularly before Smokescreen came along.

Optimus had learned what polishes and waxes were the best to use, what were the ones that would give his frame the slightest but definitely tasteful little glow that drew approving optics. He had never been one to hoard jewelry pieces, but the ones he owned tended to be simple and elegant, showing more taste than wealth, which was considered appropriate for most settings. He had learned to smile and make conversation around a hundred different subjects, nodding at the appropriate time and fawning over the accomplishments of other, richer or more ‘famous’ nobles and Senators.

Obviously, the nomads didn’t practice this kind of ‘art’ -- at least nowhere near the extant Optimus had been taught. But posturing? That, they knew plenty about, and between grilling Megatron, Ratchet, Prowl and Strika for answers, it didn’t take long for Optimus to gather all the informations he needed about what was considered appropriate when one presented himself in front of the Chieftains Council.

So, the moment dawn break over New Kolkular, a steely-eyed Optimus started to prepare himself.

First, he started to clean; while the nomads didn’t mind getting a little dusty (and it was unavoidable anyway when they spent so much time trekking or hunting) and no one would have minded a dirty individual coming to give a report straight back from his hunt or patrol, it just didn’t work for Optimus. He wasn’t just a random tribe member; he was the mate to the Heir. And in the optics of the nomads, it meant something, especially when facing outsiders.

It was subtle, really, but there were expectations coming with his mating to Megatron -- and that didn’t just meant ‘give him Sparklings and raise them’. Be a good hunter, be a good warrior, keep an audio out for everyone in the tribe, help organize the camp’s daily life, assure command in the absence of your mate once he had truly become Lord,... Those were all things Optimus had gathered without needing to be told, even before Strika mentioned he would have to assist Megatron in leading the tribe someday. Still, it annoyed him the grey mech had never tried to openly discuss the topic with him. Sure, there had been hints dropped here and there, but nothing concrete and explicit.

And Optimus, too caught up with grieving, adapting and fussing over Smokescreen and the progression of his second Carrying cycle, hadn’t noticed. Primus, he must have gotten rusty. And getting rusty in that kind of field, well… There had been a reason he had glared down Megatron as they discussed their plans last night.

“You should have mentioned that much sooner.”

“I hadn’t wished to burden you further when it was clear to me you had enough on your mind.”

“Enough on my mind? Care to elaborate? No? And what about what you had on your mind, Megatron? Should we talk about the blow your honor took? About your jealous ex-lover? About your just as jealous Sire? Next to them, learning I had duties to see to as your mate was nothing. I would have actually welcomed the information because if there is one thing I can understand, it’s duty.”

“... You look angry.”

“Because I am. The only reason I’m not frothing at the mouth is because I was taught cold fury is always more efficient to use than mindless ranting. Megatron? Act so secretive with me again and I swear I’ll punch your dental plates out.”

To Megatron’s credit, he had looked sufficiently chastised before he had the indecency to look proud. Optimus hadn’t punched his dental plates out. But if Megatron’s plating now sprouted a mark that looked suspiciously as if another mech had bite him, well…

Optimus needed to make an impression in front of the Council and not just as a ‘messenger’. Cleanliness could only help him stand out because it’d be a mark of respect. As such, all dust and grime was carefully wiped away with a damp cloth until Optimus was satisfied with the result. It also had the side effect of making every scratches and marks on his plating even more visible.

A noble would have felt faint or horrified at having an armor less than pristine, but scars were badges of honor as far as the nomads were concerned. They showed your history as a fighter and an impressive scar could serve as a bold statement of your ability to survive -- though in Ratchet’s grumpy opinion, they also served to show you could be an idiot who only survived through sheer dumb luck.

Optimus’ injuries from his brief fight with Airachnid weren’t deep and they hadn’t reached the protoform; his self-repair system would naturally make them disappear over time. They could have easily disappeared already if he had buffed himself and touched up his plating, but he had discarded the idea. Pristine plating wasn’t the effect he wanted to achieve here. He had fought, and he wanted it to be shown.

But the fact he had obviously defended himself wasn’t the only thing he wished to show. Optimus had taken great care in polishing the necklace marking him as Megatron’s mate until the lion head gleamed faintly. And, to add to the effect, he had crossly asked Megatron to paint the glyph pertaining to his designation on Optimus’ pauldrons.

“It is unusual, my mate. Normally, it is the ones who caught themselves a mate who paint glyphs on their armor to let others know they are mated.”

“Is it forbidden however?”

“... No, it’s not and I know some tribes who consider it a natural complement to the necklace. Just unusual. The Bonding necklace is usually considered sufficient to let people know you’re mated.”

“Ah, but Megatron, you don’t seem to understand. I don’t want to let people know I’m just mated; I want people to know exactly WHO carved that necklace for me and who they will have to answer to if I was to suffer an ‘unfortunate accident’, just in case that wasn’t clear already.”

“... That’s devious, my mate.”

“No, that’s a statement. Put your glyphs on.”

Megatron’s penmanship was atrocious, but at least the glyphs stood out nicely in silver with a black outline whenever Optimus watched himself in the large shard of mirror he had borrowed out of another tribe member. Only one was currently visible, however; as of now, the other was hidden away under a tarnished, mid-length red cloak he had fastened above his right shoulder with a series of sharp fangs taken from Megatron’s trophies case. A sash of the same tarnished material had been tied around his waist, part of it hanging heavily in ripples over his left side. If one looked close, it was obvious something was hidden underneath but a casual observer wouldn’t have noticed and that was the effect Optimus was after.

The sash also helped highlight his rounding belly, where his Creation nestled safely.

Finally, Optimus had strapped his axe to his back on top of the cloak after making sure to sharpen the blade again -- an unnecessary precaution, of course, but one never knew.

As he watched himself again in the mirror, he could only nod in satisfaction, a dangerous smile on his face as he imagined what the meeting would play like. Behind him, Megatron, holding Smokescreen in his arms, could only watch his mate with a bemused expression while Strika and Ratchet, who had come oversee Optimus’ preparation, were trying not to snicker.

Strika especially seemed deeply amused.

“Rusty with weapons of not, your mate is all kind of terrifying when he has something on his processor, Megatron. I highly approve.”

The grey mech turned to look at her with a raised optic ridge. “‘Terrifying’ isn’t the world I would have employed. Though he’s certainly full of surprise.”

He had seen fellow tribemechs prepare for a fight or a hunt with less care than Optimus. The way his mate acted, it was like he was readying himself to fight a war -- a strange kind of war where no physical blows would be exchanged, but a war all the same. He had always known there was hidden steel under his mate’s meek demeanor, but this wasn’t the way Megatron had expected it to be brought forward.

The way his mate moved, the way he was radiating confidence was strangely arousing, he thought privately. Optimus’ smiles and his gentleness, his devotion to Smokescreen were all beautiful things to witness and Megatron couldn’t help but be flattered by the way his mate often looked up to him as he taught him all a proper member of the tribe needed to learn. But that sudden cutting-edge grace he had wrapped himself in since dawn, that confident look on his face, that small, predatory smirk on his face… damn Primus if it wasn’t a turn on.

If they had been alone, he would already have jumped him to make his hands roam all over Optimus’ frame -- and he would have probably be slapped for it, then been given an audioful about messing up Optimus’ paint when it certainly wasn’t the moment to.

From the way Strika was looking at him then at Optimus while smirking, she knew exactly what he was thinking about. Harumph. Damn, nosy femme. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed, narrowing his optics.

Strika blinked innocently. “What? I said nothing. I’m just noticing you can’t keep your optics off -- and do correct the way you’re holding that Bitlet, he’s going to squirm right out of your arms.”

“I know what I’m going,” Megatron mumbled as he did so, raising an optic ridge as Smokescreen gave him a bubbly laugh.

“I’m sure you do,” Strika said calmly, “and so does your mate. Just look at him! He’s of a Chieftain line and it shows.” Her chest huffed. “For the record, I have the sneaky feeling he’ll be better than you at keeping things level between our tribe and the others once you have ascended to full Lordship.”

Now that was annoying -- and not just because Megatron thought she was right. “You know nothing of the sort.”

A smirk that showed too much teeth answered him. “So you say.”

“I can’t believe I overlooked the fact he was an actual high-tier noble,” Ratchet muttered. “I had chalked it up to him being from Iacon and I knew his maintenance were screaming ‘upper crust’, but some of those expressions and glyphs he used are damn caste-specifics. Primus, I must be getting old for not having spotted it sooner.”

“To be fair, while I did mention being noble, I never told you what circle of the nobility I belonged to,” Optimus commented as he gave the medic a glance from above his shoulder. “While I never truly hide it, my prior background never seemed to be relevant.”

“Never relevant, my aft,” the healer groused.

“Would it had changed anything to the fact Megatron took me as a mate and adopted my Creations as his own?” Optimus asked, tilting his head and after a moment, Ratchet slumped.

“No, it wouldn’t have,” he admitted after sharing a look with Megatron. “However, it would certainly explain a few things about yourself. Kid, you’re sure about what you’re doing?”

Optimus gave him a level look. “Even if I wasn’t -- and yes, Ratchet, before you ask again, I’m pretty sure about what I’m about to do -- do you think I would back down? Megatron’s… trophy need to be showed to the Chieftains, and nowhere it is said the one who dealt the last blow should be the one presenting the proof of demise. Besides, I was one of the most wronged party in Airachnid’s last attack, the other wronged party being Smokescreen. As his Carrier, it is well within my rights to appear before whatever ruling authorities New Kolkular possess with my mate’s catch.”

“He got you there, Healer,” Strika said dryly. Oh yes, Megatron’s mate was showing himself more and more interesting as time went on.

“You might end up drawing an even bigger target upon yourself,” Ratchet warned, but it was clear he was resigned.

“He won’t. The Chieftains are honorable mechs,” Megatron rumbled, bouncing Smokescreen in his arms. “Or at least they can’t afford to appear less than so. Optimus is my mate and would have become known to them sooner or later, be it when he’d start participating in the Games himself or when I’ll ascend as the Lord of our tribe after my GrandSire pass away or decide to hand me the leadership. Appearing before them now will only bring my mate to their attention a little sooner than planned. Nothing we can’t deal with.”

“Quite,” Optimus murmured. Truly, it wouldn’t be any different from Iacon -- with the difference that in Iacon, nobody had ever tried to have him assassinated or worse, to assassinate Smokescreen. But, Optimus mused, if they played their cards right, then nobody would try again. “And if I do draw a target upon myself, then I’m going to remind them that I’m not helpless AND that they will have to go through Megatron if they want to get to me.”

“And to go through Megatron, they will have to go through me, Lugnut, and a good part of the tribe,” Strika added in with a look of glee. She let her knuckles creak ominously, earning herself an unimpressed look from Ratchet and a short laughter from Megatron. Smokescreen blinked curiously before imitating the grey mech holding him and bursting into a short laugh that made Optimus smile despite himself.

“My precious little one.” He eyed the bandage around his Creation’s hand with a pinch to the Spark. If only he had been quicker, if he hadn’t dodged that way, if he hadn’t let Smokescreen go…

They were lucky the damages were so limited, and Optimus estimated they were doubly lucky to have Ratchet as a Healer for their tribe.

The former noble walked over to Ratchet and gently pressed his forehead against the startled medic’s own. “I thank you for your concern, Ratchet. Do you still agree to watch over Smokescreen in our absence?”

“Stupid question,” the white and red mech groused, shaking himself out of his stupor. “Of course I will! But do I have to stay with that knives-nut mech you call your friend?” he added sourly.

“Jazz promised not to bother you, did he not?” Optimus replied calmly, refusing to allow himself to laugh at the look on Ratchet’s face.

“And I don’t believe him for a klik, no more than I believe my own Creations when they swear they’re going to be on their best behavior,” came the grumpy answer. “By the way, if they pick up his bad habits, I’ll solely blame you, Optimus.”

Now there was no stopping the chuckle. “They won’t,” he swore. “Jazz won’t be a bother. And Drift will be there as well, not to mention Dreadwing, so it’s not like you and your Creations will be alone with him.”

“Thank Primus for that,” the older mech muttered. “You’ll be careful, right?”

Optimus smiled. “Always,” he promised before looking up at Megatron. “Now, my mate, shall we start the show?

Chapter Text

If Optimus had started to get used to New Kolkular’s market and to its arena, never before had he had a chance to venture into the Halls, despite a secret, growing desire to do so once the young mech had gathered who and what the Lore Masters were and why they ‘owned’ a whole section of the caverns. They were, Optimus had realized, a weird mix between librarians, scribes, scientists and historians, thus explaining the respect they inspired among their fellow tribemechs.

Back on his first foraging trip, Dreadwing had explained at large how the nomads kept count of their resources and their evolution by using strings and a complex knot system -- the khipus. What he hadn’t specified and what Optimus had only learned later on was since when the nomads had started to use this system, and what other types of datas they ‘stored’ through their use of khipus.

The answers were, quite a long while and whole tales if one was patient enough to do all the knots required to retransmit a story.

Despite living solely out of what the Badlands could provide them -- or perhaps because they did -- the nomads never saw the point in throwing away ‘old datas’. Any records they bothered to make was kept jealously and preciously, even if they were hundreds or thousands of vorns old, and they were kept in New Kolkular, where anyone and everyone could consult them, provided they respectfully asked the Lore Masters for access.

Not that many did, unless they were the Chieftains and their Heirs, who had to know a number of things kept in the records, or if they were budding scholars and future Lore Masters themselves. Comparing how much the tribe had gathered ten vorns ago and how much had been gathered last stellar cycle was considered dry and boring by most. Even Optimus, who held an interest in consulting the khipus related to those topics for curiosity’s sake, understood the reluctance of the average hunter when it came to wander into the Halls.

Still, as Optimus had learned, there were more than dry numbers kept in the Halls of New Kolkular.

While the nomads mostly transmitted their knowledge orally, often weaving and sharing tales while standing by the firepits on the dark evenings after a day of hunting and gathering resources, a select few tribes or individual also kept ‘written’ records as well.

One night during their post-interfacing cuddling sessions, Megatron had confessed ‘reading’ some of the old legends he had recited to Smokescreen and Optimus on the khipus held in the Halls. He had described to Optimus enormous masses of strings, partly tied to a bigger rope which served as a ‘book spine’ to spread the strings in the correct order. Such a complex work had definitely made Optimus curious, especially when recording on a datapad or actually writing it down would have been far more efficient.

Then again, tales conserved in khipus form were incredibly old as well, dating back to an era where the nomads didn’t have the resources to spare to make a book. Nobody bothered to make them again, relying instead on oral tradition to transmit the legends and the stories from one generation to the next. The only ‘written’ records kept anymore were often birth or death announcements or Bonding notifications, allowing people interested to officially track down their lineage through the vorns and the different nomad tribes.

Optimus held a passing interest in consulting them, but today wasn’t the day, he reminded himself as they passed through one of the famed Halls, him opening the way with Megatron standing slightly back on his right while Strika and Lugnut framed his mate like two bodyguards. There would be other occasions later on; the Storms Season was far from over, after all, and even if he missed the chance this wintering, there would always be the next, and the ones after it.

Besides, he needed to learn how to actually decrypt the knots system if he ever wanted to ‘read’ the datas they contained. While useful and bound to be taught to him, the knots hadn’t ranked high on the list of skills Optimus needed to learn to participate in the daily life of the tribe. Learning to identify edible crystals and metalloplants and gather resources was more important to a nomad than learning how to count them, he supposed.

He would have to ask Megatron to teach him when they had a free moment -- and when Optimus’ CPU wouldn’t be burdened anymore by the recents events. Or perhaps he could ask one of the Lore Masters themselves; they probably wouldn’t mind if he asked politely, and perhaps he could also learn about their classment system as he did so. For that reason, Optimus made a point to give polite nods to the mechs and femmes he met along the Halls as they progressed through them and toward the room that had been chosen to hold the Council of Chieftains.

“Don’t get any idea, it’s not like the Senate back home,” Ratchet had warned the noble earlier this morning, when he had sought the medic out for final advice before starting his preparations.

And it wasn’t, Optimus acknowledged as they reached their destination and stood just outside of the Council room. There were no armed guards standing by the large, round opening that lead inside the cavern, unlike the Senate building in Iacon; but then again, the Chieftains were the bests of the bests among their respective tribes and they didn’t need anyone to protect them. If anything, it was whoever stupid enough to try and attack them who would need protection, weapons or no weapons allowed.

If there were no guards there was, however, a small gathering of mechs sitting on the ground a few distance away from the opening, each one working on making intricate knots on long pieces of strings as they held a conversation in low tones. ‘Scribes’, Optimus’ mind supplied, busy with making khipus about the current state of the city’s reserves or perhaps about the number of mechs currently residing in New Kolkular -- they needed to calculate how much the population had increased or decreased since the last wintering, after all.

Optimus gave them a respectful bow when some of them stopped in their task to stare at the small group, but didn’t engage the conversation as he passed the threshold of the Council’s room. Dozens of helms whipped in their direction as Optimus stepped forward confidently, Megatron and their escort on his heels.

The Hall the Chieftains used for their gatherings was nothing special. Indeed, Optimus mused briefly as he took a quick look around, it was perfectly identical in width and size to the ones he had passed through so far. The only differences laid in the decoration; the nomads had adorned this one cavern with shields on the walls, each bearing what could only be descripted as a coat of arms. Lances of different sizes and designs were inserted in between each shield or hung crossed above them. Pelts were occupying any free spot left, both on the walls and on the floor.

“Greetings, honorable Chieftains, Lords of the nomads. I, Optimus, mate of Megatron, Heir to the Decepticon Tribe, wish to speak with you.”

His voice was steady and calm, his posture respectful as he waited for an answer to his declaration. Already he could hear rumbles, either approving or questioning. Optimus hadn’t expected otherwise.

Really, he could have just presented himself as Optimus, hunter and warrior of the Decepticon Tribe; it was simple and correct and it painted him as just another member of the tribe. However, pushing forward his status as Megatron’s mate and so, future co-leader of the tribe, gave more weight to his words and more importance to his presence here.

He would have been bound to make an apparition at the Council sooner or later anyway, Optimus reasoned. As far as Megatron had explained him, it wasn’t completely unusual for a Chieftain’s mate could assist to the gatherings by their mate’s side or in their mate’s stead should he truly be unable to attend; nobody would have just expected to show up so soon. Even now, Optimus spotted a few mechs in the room who wore Bonding necklaces, marking them as mated -- and according to the ones Optimus had asked around, it was incredibly rare for a mech who had been kidnapped to ascend to the role of Chieftain of his new tribe. While one or two might be Chieftains themselves, the others were obviously here simply in support of their partners.

Optimus didn’t know any of them personally asides of Megazarak, his own tribe Chieftain, but he recognized a few of them from the arena, where they had supervised the Games or acclaimed their own tribes’ warriors. He even knew some of their names, thank to Bulkhead and Wheeljack who had watched more than one match with him and pointed out who was who -- often with humorous commentaries or gossip murmured in low voices.

Through them, Optimus had learned to identify mechs like Neo, Chieftain of Internuncio Tribe, a small-sized tribe which had installed his shelters next to the Decepticons’ owns in New Kolkular. Bulkhead had described them as friendly and good traders, though he hadn’t precised with whom they traded. Optimus had the sneaky suspicion the Internuncio Tribe had contacts with cities or at least some of the little bastions and settlements on the caravans roads and that they were part of the handful of nomads who spoke modern Cybertronian.

By contrast to the quiet and pacific -- at least for nomads -- tribe of the Internuncio, there was the more violent Maraudicon tribe. Optimus had no trouble picking out their Chieftain, Cannonball, a mostly yellow mech with purple optics he had seen fighting Megatron several solar cycles earlier in the arena. Maraudicons were susceptible mechs who barely needed an excuse to organize raids on caravans, which they plundered mercilessly. They luckily operated far from the trail between Iacon and Kaon, for they had never managed to claim that particular territory so far. Their behavior, however, helped to reinforce the ruthless reputation of all nomads.

Unless Optimus was mistaken, the mech who was sitting by Megazarak, who didn’t acknowledge his presence but for a brief nod, would be Hyperdrive of the Ironhope Tribe. His frametype was massive but old looking and Optimus couldn’t remember seeing another mech looking like that before. Although, he mused, Hyperdrive’s general silhouette reminded him of the few inhabitants from Yuss Optimus had met during various parties in Iacon; Yuss was considered one of the oldest but also one of the less technologically advanced settlement on Cybertron, to the point it wasn’t recognized as a proper city by Iaconian standard. Yuss denizens were usually large and broad-chested, with massive limbs and solid armors. Yuss inhabitants were also known for a peculiarity: they didn’t have T-cogs and thus they didn’t have altmodes.

Given how old-looking Hyperdrive frametype was when compared to the ones of recent Yuss inhabitants, Optimus wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he couldn’t transform either.

Then, there was Deathsaurus of the Nebula Tribe, a mostly blue mech recognizable by his wings, which was of a design Optimus had never seen before. Optimus knew little about him, asides of the fact Megatron seemed to think highly of him. Optimus’ mate always sounded respectful when he spoke of him at any rate and given how Megatron gave praises to mechs not belonging to his tribe, it was telling of the Nebula Chieftain’s quality.

The blue Minibot with spikes on his feet who stood by him was named Hacksaw of the Clearnight tribe, and he was rumored to have part Mini-Con and part Dinobot ancestry, though how real it was, Optimus had no idea. According to the rumor mill (or at least to Bulkhead), he had also been partly responsible, in his younger vorns, for a population boom among the Mini-Con population of New Kolkular. He was also still unmated, which was highly unusual for a Chieftain.

There were other faces Optimus could identify as well; the one of Thunderclash of the Autobot Tribe, for example, was easy to pick out from the crowd -- though Optimus had to admit he mostly did so because Wheeljack had once spent the entire afternoon glaring at the other, taller mech. Autobot Tribe, it turned out, was the one to which Ultra Magnus and little Strongarm belonged; Wheeljack apparently had issue with the tribe’s leadership, though he was tight-lipped about the reasons and Bulkhead hadn’t been more talkative. Optimus had not dared to pry further, but by listening to other mechs talking, he had gathered that a certain rivalry existed between the Autobot Tribe and the Wrecker Tribe, to which both Wheeljack and Bulkhead belonged to. Why Wheeljack had chosen to lay with Ultra Magnus if their respective tribes were almost at each other throat was puzzling, but Optimus supposed stranger things had happened before.

There also were a couple of femmes Optimus could easily give names to; the red-painted one with a sharp-crest, for example, had to be Glowstrike of the Alchemor Tribe -- minor tribe, composed mostly of Insecticons-descended mechs and the rarer Beastformers. Well, rarer in the cities, but less so among the nomads. There wasn’t any Optimus knew of among the Decepticons, but there were tribes out there where everyone was of a specific beast frametype. Then there was the yellow and purple, winged femme who sat across her on the other side of the room, looking at Glowstrike like she was, well, an Insecticon to crush -- Thunderblast of the Molniya Tribe, if Optimus remembered right. A very vain femme who, according to Wheeljack, had had more lovers than victories in the arena. Wheeljack had taken much pleasure into recounting how ballistic she had gone after someone scratched her face during a match. She didn’t look much like a fighter, but if she was a Chieftain, then she shouldn’t be underestimated.

Just like the ancient-looking couple who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, an elderly mech and an elderly femme. The mech’s optics briefly crossed Optimus’ owns. Large wings briefly fluttered before the mech gave Optimus a short nod of greeting, which Optimus was careful to give back. The femme didn’t react to his presence, but her attention seemed to be more on the young winged mech who was sitting to her left, slightly withdrew, and with whom she was conversing in low voice. A familiar winged mech.

Optimus forced himself not to look at Starscream, focusing instead on the mech half of the couple. Even from here, he could see the Bonding necklace around his neck (a simple choker with a carved pair of wings hanging underneath), and coupled with the femme’s presence, it was all Optimus needed to identify him for certain. The mate of Shatterstar Tribe’s Chieftain, the ancient Jetfire -- which meant the femme besides him was his mate, Nocturne, Shatterstar’s current Chieftain. The one Megatron has said to be rumored as being into frail health. If she was, she certainly didn’t look like it.

Indeed, she seemed far younger in far better health than her mate. Nocturne’s face was scarred near the lips and was full of microscopic creaks near the optics, something frequent with older mechas, but her whole frame was in pristine condition. Jetfire, by contrast, was giving such an impression of age that for a moment, Optimus was reminded of Alpha Trion. Jetfire certainly wasn’t as old as Optimus former mentor, but the harsh living conditions of the Badlands were easily reflected on his frame, his armor marred by marks of various lengths that had to have scarred the protoform underneath. He was bearded too, long, sharp-looking barbs cascading down from his chin and adding a wild and ancient look to him.

How long until Starscream ascended to the leadership of Shatterstar in their step, Optimus wondered? And how would the Shatterstar Tribe far with him as its head instead of the old but regal looking couple?

Well. It wasn’t really his problem at the moment, was it?

Breaking his musings and the staring contest, Thunderclash rose, the first of the Chieftains to move, drawing the optics away from Optimus. His optics were considering but his frame radiated kindness as he gave the red and blue mech before them a nod in greeting.

“Step forward then, Optimus of the Decepticon Tribe. Your presence among us is…” he paused briefly, as if searching for words, before he smiled ruefully. “Well, considering the chaos which swept up our sacred abode last night and the rumors we all heard flying around, I can hardly say it’s a surprise to receive a warrior in our Halls.” He raised an optic ridge as Megatron and their escort. Optimus didn’t bother turning to see if Megatron was giving him a look back. “Perhaps you, your mate and your fellow Tribemechs are here to shed some light upon what happened and quell the craziest tales we all heard so far? I’m afraid Megazarak wasn’t very forthcoming with details…”

“It wasn’t my tale to tell,” Megatron’s GrandSire answered calmly from his sitting position next to Hyperdrive. He harrumphed. “I wasn’t privy to any details either, but I’m sure my Heir and his mate will be forthcoming with them, since they bothered coming together when Optimus should obviously be resting.”

He looked intently at Optimus’ belly, which seemed to be even more prominent thank to the drapes of the sash. He wasn’t the only one looking either. Optimus stayed still and affect a neutral expression as the Chieftains’ focus shifted from his face to his abdomen. He could see the calculation in them, the knowing looks in several pairs of optics as they made their guess and evaluated, basing themselves on Optimus’ size and the swelling of his protoform, how much gestation time was left before the Sparkling emerged.

“Perhaps your mate would like to seat, Megatron?” Starscream’s syrupy voice rose above a few mutterings. The look in his optics was indefinable but there was something in his smile, in the brief twitch of his wings, that betrayed his agitation, and Optimus didn’t believe for a second the offer had been made out of comfort.

“While I thank you for the offer, Starscream of Shatterstar, I must respectfully decline,” Optimus bowed his head toward the Seeker. “I’m perfectly able to stand before this assembly. Besides, I won’t take much of your time, esteemed Chieftains.”

“Very well,” Thunderclash bowed his head – he seemed to be the voice of the whole Council today, Optimus thought privately. Perhaps it was just as well; it was easier to concentrate on a single interlocutor than to shift his focus between too many mechs. “State the reason of your presence, Optimus of the Decepticons. What do you wish to share with us?”

Optimus took a breath. Here he was. Now he just had to take the leap and hope the last actor of their little play was ready to step in at the right time.

“Quite simply, honorable Chieftains, I wish to share with you the news of the death of the femme once known as Airachnid.” He didn’t add a tribe name to hers in a careful display of trust, showing that he didn’t blame her former tribe for her actions. Besides, Airachnid had been ‘famous’ enough that few were unaware of her origins anyway. “I do not doubt her fate has already reached your audio receptors, carried by the rumors coursing through the Rotunda,” he added quietly but quickly as he noticed the bored looks on several faces – the ones who had known for certain already – “but perhaps the full reach of her duplicity hasn’t been brought to you.”

He paused, optics sweeping the room briefly. “Last night, shortly after the storm stopped and while most of New Kolkular’s attention was distracted by a stampeded of mounts having escaped their enclosures, Megatron of the Decepticons almost lost both his Heirs and by extension, his mate,” he said with a cold voice that belied the fear and anger he was still feeling over the whole matter, about Smokescreen and the unborn Sparkling being threatened. His fist tightened minutely as the wail of fear and pain of his Creation echoed back in his helm.

It was over, he reminded himself. Optimus wasn’t going to let anything happen to Smokescreen ever again.

There were a few sharp intakes of air and dark mutterings. EM fields flashed with rage. As Ratchet has once said, Sparklings were held as almost sacred by some tribes, they were precious and to be protected, no matter which tribe they actually belonged to. Seeing one die from sickness, from a fall, from injuries suffered through an accident or from one of the countless dangers inherent to the Badlands… well, it was tragic and sad and the cause of much grieving for their Creators, but it was, if not acceptable, then at least understood and grudgingly accepted. But to deliberately try to harm one, to kill one? That was unthinkable, an act of insanity that would see the culprit mauled to death by the whole tribe should they catch up with him.

Perhaps it was just as well for Airachnid she had managed to leave the walls of New Kolkular before Megatron and his group caught her with her; whatever quick death his mate had granted the Spiderbot, the whole nomad population would have been far less kinder – especially given Airachnid’s reputation and the not-so-secret desire to get rid of her that had already been lingering among concerned mecha. Mobs had been known to put mecha to pieces before in the cities, and city dwellers were neither quite as strong nor as well armed as nomads.

“She tried to kill your Sparkling?” Nocturne said, her face full of disbelief, fear and outrage, her old wings suddenly taunt. Her mate reached for her hand and squeezed it gently without a word, but he looked grave as he did so. At seeing them and the silent support, one had to wonder if perhaps there wasn’t something here, the hint of an old pain, the pain of having lost a Creation of their own…

Optimus gave a brief, jerky nod, keeping his expression as schooled as possible. “Try is the key word.”

“Obviously,” someone Optimus didn’t identify said dryly, “or you wouldn’t be standing so calmly before us.”

Nocturne threw a dark look over Optimus’ shoulder at whoever had spoken. Optimus himself didn’t bother turning, understanding that the femme had his back on this very matter. It was leaning more and more credence to the fact she must have lost a Creation of her own to violence in some way or shape… “Losing a Sparkling,” she replied coldly as her wings moved sharply, “is not and will never be a joking matter. Of course, I don’t expect someone who never had any Sparkling of his own to understand.”

The speaker sputtered. “Now wait, that’s…”

“Not the matter at hand,” Thunderclash interrupted smoothly, cutting off the argument before it could degenerate. Approving rumbling followed his words as he motioned for Optimus to continue his take. “I trust your Creations are both fine?”

“My eldest suffered an injury only time will allow to heal,” Optimus murmured darkly as he avoided to give too much details; best let the various Chieftains draw their own idea of what kind of injury Smokescreen was suffering from. It pleased Optimus to notice, from the corner of his optics, that Megazarak had stood straighter at the mention of harm befalling Smokescreen; he wouldn’t be surprised if Megatron’s Grandsire paid them a visit as soon as he was able to leave this meeting. Optimus carefully put a hand on his swollen abdomen. “And the one to be born will be fine so long I remain so. My mind and systems are already much lighter, knowing the one responsible for their harm is no more.”

“As would any Creator,” Nocturne nodded. “I’m curious, however, as to what a newcomer to our ways and to the Decepticons tribe could have done to bring upon himself the attention of one such as Airachnid.”

“A question we all wonder,” Thunderclash noted. “Unless you had the chance to get, ah, acquainted with her in some way or shape before last night cycle?”

“I didn’t have this displeasure, no,” Optimus replied frankly, not able to hide the anger and bitterness in his voice – a pity, since he had hope to be able to project an image of perfect calmness, but he didn’t think anyone would blame him. “As to why I did to gather her ire, I have no idea for, as Nocturne of Shatterstar so kindly pointed out, I am new to my tribe and the ways of the nomads. I dare not think I could have paid her insult, since we never met face to face or exchanged a single word between us before she stood in my shelter, looming over me and my Creation. Unless my very existence and that of Smokescreen’s were an insult in her optics. I find myself hard-pressed to guess why she would even have thought so of her own.”

The ‘of her own’ was a sly way of saying Airachnid hadn’t probably gotten the idea of attacking an Heir’s mate by herself and someone must have at the very least asked her to, without ever mentioning it was actually the case.

The slow ones or the ones who weren’t ‘politically’ inclined would probably not understand the oblique reference. The fast ones and the more savvy ones among the Chieftains would probably get it immediately, as well as the guilty party should he be present. Optimus eyed Starscream discreetly as he spoke. The Seeker didn’t outwardly react, his wings not even twitching and his face staying perfectly neutral, but Optimus was certain something had shifted in the Seeker. It wasn’t enough to say or even think he was guilty, of course; it was just an impression, something Optimus would be unable to express in words.

He just knew, however, that Starscream wasn’t someone he’ll ever trust – especially so where Optimus’ and his Creations’ best interests were concerned.

“Hard-pressed indeed,” someone murmured, giving Optimus the opening he wished to continue his speech.

“Airachnid’s motivations aren’t, whatever they may have been, the reason for my presence here among you, honorable Chieftains,” he said, bowing. “My reasons are far more pragmatic. My mate,” he nodded toward Megatron’s silent form, “saw fit to come back from his latest hunt with a trophy.”

Calmly, Optimus reached under the folds of his cloak and sash and pulled out a hastily crafted bag he let hang from his fist, arm raised forward as he slowly turned around so every Chieftain present in the cave could see it and guess what was hidden inside.

“My mate’s gift was most generous and brought me great joy. But, unfortunately, this is one trophy I’m afraid I can’t keep in good conscience for while I’m the most recent of her targets, I’m hardly the first nor the one Airachnid wronged the more. This is why I wished for you, the most honorable and strongest of our numbers, to stand as witnesses as I give the remains of the femme once known as Airachnid to the one who deserves the most to hear her passing has been confirmed.”

He stayed silent for a few kliks to let his words sink in. Nobody said anything; all optics were on the bag in his hands, reflecting surprise, scorn, approval or amusement depending on the watchers. Some obviously approved of Optimus’ formalism and his impromptu show while other were more-or-less obviously dismissing it and thinking it was a waste of their time. Not that they could voice it aloud without losing face, Optimus knew.

“I do believe she is present already,” he continued lightly. “Would the femme called Arcee of the Autobot Tribe come forward?”

“Gladly,” a voice answered from his left, and a few mechs shifted in surprise as a lithe frame wrapped in a dark cloak took a few steps forward. Optimus refrained himself from smiling; with all optics on him as he made his speech and with Lugnut and Strika’s bulk obscuring the door behind them, everyone (or almost everyone; a few of the Chieftains had keen optics) had failed to notice the newcomer’s discreet arrival as she slipped in the room and stood quietly in a corner, waiting to be called. Optimus wished he had been able to brief her beforehand instead of relying on a messager to let her know he wanted to see her before the Chieftains to give her a ‘gift’, but perhaps it was for the best. It would make their exchange more natural.

Optimus slowly turned in the femme’s direction and greeted her with a bow.

Until today, Optimus had only seen Arcee once, from afar, the day Airachnid had fought in the arena; he distinctly remembered a lithe blue frame being restrained by her neighbours, least she’d jump in the ring to go after the spiderbot (a pity she hadn’t). He had, however, never come face to face with her until now.

She was, Optimus noted, far smaller than he had first thought. Whatever her altmode was, it was obviously something light as well, perhaps a two-wheel vehicle or two propellers based model. She was so small, actually, that if Optimus hadn’t known she was an adult, he could have mistaken her for a Youngling. To his defense, however, most of the nomads he knew were of the tall and looming kind, making Arcee’s appearance an even sharper contrast with the rest of her brethren, even if there were all styles and models of frames among the different tribes. Then again, she had originally been Sparked in the cities, if Optimus remembered Megatron’s tale right, and had been adopted into her current tribe along with her sister. It certainly explained why she seemed so different from other nomads at first glance.

But if she looked different, she was no less fierce. Optimus resolutely didn’t look at her right hand, which was bandaged with flexi-steel up to her elbow. They were recent, a hint of color showing among the plates were they had to be locked over torn energon and coolant lines, and the blue and red mech had a fairly good idea of why Arcee wore them. While Megatron hadn’t gone into the full details of his hunt for Airachnid and who had helped him take her down nor how they did so, Optimus had a hard time picturing Arcee standing by quietly while the monster who had took away her lovers stood there.

Besides, Airachnid wouldn’t have gone quietly into the night, Optimus reasoned, and if Megatron had been the one to seal her fate and tear her head away from her shoulders, Arcee had certainly landed a few good blows of her own in that fight – blows Airachnid had obviously traded back as well as she could. It made Optimus wonder if anyone else had been injured in the fight and if he could find a way to properly thank them all for their part in Airachnid’s demise.

But those considerations would have to wait. For now, the only thing that mattered was Arcee.

Looking away from her face would have broken the impression he was trying to give, which was calm and collected, strong and unworried. It wouldn’t do to frown at someone else’s obvious injuries, or to break away from the planned scenario by asking the blue femme if she was alright or hugging her in gratitude for the role she had obviously played the night before.

A long, slow bow of respect was all Optimus could give her, but he put all of his Spark in it and hoped Arcee could feel it. If not, then he’d make sure to see her again later and convey his thanks in a better manner.

“Arcee of the Autobots,” he said calmly, his voice sounding incredibly loud in the silence of the cave.

“Optimus of the Decepticons,” she replied in kind. Her own bow was less marked than Optimus’, but her optics shone with an intense light that betrayed her agitation. “I have heard your words and they lead me to believe you wish to give me something?”

Straight to the point, then, Optimus mused. Whatever Arcee might be, she was apparently not a patient one. Well, perhaps it was just as well; drawing things out for too long wouldn’t ender people to Optimus.

“I have,” he nodded as he unfastened the cord closing the bag. “Please, from my mate and myself, receive this token of our appreciation.”

To Arcee’s credit, she didn’t move the slightest as Optimus raised out Airachnid’s helm out of the bag. She didn’t make a sound either, unlike some of their onlookers, not that Optimus tried to see who did -- right now, they didn’t matter, only Arcee did. Arcee, and giving her the ‘gift’ she was warranted. Airachnid had injured Smokescreen, but the blue femme had a bigger grudge that Optimus could bow to.

The dead femme’s face was still frozen into that final grimace. Optimus wondered if it was a trick of the light, but he had the impression her paint had become duller since last night and that the lenses of her optics had become more brittle. Perhaps it was because the last of the energon in her line had finished draining during the night; plating cut out from energon lines was rumored to become very fragile, Optimus recalled. There were a few spots of dried fluids around and on the cables of Airachnid’s neck, but that was it.

Would her optics shatter if Optimus scratched them? He dared not press a finger against them to check his theory as he held out the decapitated head for all to see, ostensibly showing it toward Arcee. It was her gift, after all.

The blue femme was doing her best to keep her face blank, but Optimus still saw a hint of savage approval in her expression as she fought to keep it under control.

“I hope this gift is to your liking and allow me to always call you an ally and a friend,” he nodded at her as he let the head exchange hands, Arcee’s tightening around the remains of the monster who had so cruelly tormented her for stellar cycles.

For a klik she didn’t answer, optics focused on Airachnid’s final grimace, optics burning – and cleaning fluids gathering at the corner of her optics as she was probably reminded of everything the spiderbot had taken from her, Optimus mused – and frame taunt before she managed to work out some words.

“Yes… Yes…,” she murmured, finally tearing her optics away from the head in her hands. “I will honored to call you ‘friend’, Optimus of the Decepticon Tribe, now and forever. Should you ever need help, any kind of help, I’ll be besides you and at your back. Your enemies will be my enemies, your Creations will be held as dear to me as if they were my owns. From now on, you’re my hunt brother.”

It was not vain promises, Optimus knew. He had spent a lot of time discussing nomads’ honor with Megatron and Ratchet. By promising such things to Optimus in front of all the gathered Chieftains and their Heirs, Arcee was affirming to Optimus a loyalty that would be on par with the one Lugnut or Strika held toward Megatron, despite not being from the same tribe. It was both shocking and awe-inspiring, for it proclaimed Arcee would fight for Optimus first should the need arise before she fought for her own tribe – and not just Arcee, but also those who were closely linked to her, such as her sister Chromia and Arcee’s own mate when she finally took one.

With nothing more than a gift and respect, Optimus had secured the loyalty of part of another tribe, a promise of alliance that wouldn’t be lightly treated.

Whoever tried to raise a hand against Optimus or his Creations in anything but a justified fight, such as an Arena match, would not just be facing Optimus and the Decepticons, but also Arcee and all Autobots that’d agree to back her.

It was enough to make any potential assassin hesitate, especially if they were here and were witness to the exchange – which they may or may have not, it mattered little now. The word would get out soon enough, and everyone in New Kolkular would know.

And it was more than enough to make Optimus a person of interest for all the Chieftains as they realized that Megatron’s outsider mate was a person to reckon with. Already he could feel the calculating glances sliding over his plating, previous impressions being reevaluated quickly. He risked a glance at Megazarak, not surprised to see the old mech smirking. Well, nice to know he had made an even better impression on him than ever before.

And it wasn’t completely over either.

“There is one more thing, honored Chieftains,” Optimus said calmly, with the faintest of smiles on his lips. He caught Megazarak’s optics again for a second and gave him a small bow before letting his gaze slide over the faces of the various Chieftains. His optics searched Starscream but the Seeker had disappeared from view – though a closer examination revealed the tips of grey wings emerging from behind a row of massive trucks that Optimus couldn’t get a name on.

Optimus carefully reached underneath the sash and the cloak again for the grizzly ‘object’ he had been discreetly transporting until now. He held it up in his open palm for all to see.

Airachnid’s claw was certainly less impressing than her decapitated helm, but it gathered a few murmurs around Optimus as he looked at Arcee again.

“My mate isn’t the only one who gained a trophy last night; I claimed my own when that… abomination tried to take my Sparkling’s life. It was a most satisfying trophy to take,” he confided on a light tone that did nothing to belie his satisfaction at the thought he had at least managed to do some damage on Airachnid before she fled, “but it’s not one I wish to keep under the same dwelling as my Creation.” Which was true without being the whole truth; he didn’t want Smokescreen growing up with the chance of accidentally stumbling upon a severed limb. “As such, I would like to entrust it to you, Arcee, to do with it as you wish, be it safekeeping or cleansing and destruction.”

The blue femme stilled, looking vaguely hesitant. “It is your trophy, Optimus…”

The red and blue mech tilted his head. “Mine, yes, to do away as I wish, and I would prefer to give it to someone who is as entitled as me to a piece of that femme. Consider it as a mere token of my appreciation for a brave warrior who rose at my mate’s call and went with him to hunt the one who dared to harm a defenseless Sparkling. Besides, don’t you think it’s normal to gift my first trophy to a friend?” he added with a faint smile, trying to look demure.

Arcee’s lips quipped. “It is,” she acknowledged. It was a common practice among certain tribes, though most often the very first trophy was kept or gifted to one’s Creators. “Very well, Optimus. I accept your gift,” she bowed, then presented her hand palm up. Optimus let Airachnid’s hand drop in it with internal relief. Fury at the dead spiderbot or not, he would readily admit that manipulating a bodypart was still making him somewhat queasy. He let none of it show as Arcee made the hand quickly disappear from view, putting it into a subspace pocket as Optimus turned toward the gathered, silent Chieftains, shoulders squared.

“Let it be known that I don’t need my mate to protect me when the need arises,” Optimus said plainly. “Especially not,” he added with narrowed optics and a hiss, “when the safety of my Creation is threatened for what I did to Airachnid, I would do again to the next one who try to cause them harm. Except that if it does happen, honorable Chieftains, then I will aim directly to remove their helm off their shoulders instead of contenting myself from taking a mere hand.”

There was a general rumble of approval and even a few dark, amused laughs. Obviously his declaration was something they could all agree with.

“It seems the future of my tribe is well in hand,” Megazarak commented from his place. “This is quite the feisty mate you choose, Megatron. Don’t you have anything to add to his words?”

Optimus was aware of the other mech moving behind him, coming to rest just behind his left shoulder. “What could I say that my mate didn’t say already?” the grey mech shrugged. “Asides of the fact I have the utmost belief in his ability to make good of his threats, I have nothing to add to this conversation. Now, with due respect, I think we’ll take our leaves. We have an injured Sparkling who is waiting for us both.”

Then on only then did his hand seeks Optimus’ and the red and blue mech allowed himself to turn from the assembly. He gave Megatron a fond look as he was lightly tugged away, barely bothering to give the Chieftains a bow of farewell as they left the room, Lugnut and Strika on their heels.

“Was it as satisfying for you as you wished, my mate?” Megatron murmured as they walked away, deaf to the rumors they were leaving behind them.

“Even more so,” Optimus replied levelly. “I think your GrandSire is starting to like me.”

Megatron snorted. “He already did.”

“Because I’m a fertile mech, right?” Optimus droned, making Megatron lightly punch him.

“Well, yeah. But now you have just proved him you have a good processor to go along with it. Don’t be surprised if he insists to see you more and have you assist to every clan meetings he can put you in from now on.”

“Joy,” Optimus deadpanned, but that didn’t really bother him. He leaned against Megatron, feeling the tension in his cables finally leave him. Suddenly, he felt tired. The only things he wanted now was a pelt to lie down, a cushion or two for the comfort of it and Smokescreen’s small, warm frame pressed against him. “Let’s get back home, hmm?”

Megatron smiled fondly. “Your desires are my orders, my mate.”

“What is going to happen now?" Optimus asked, lying curled on his side among the nest of pelts and blankets. Smokescreen was fast asleep against his growing abdomen, curled into a ball, little vents producing a slow, steady sound that was almost lulling his Carrier into recharge himself. Behind him, spooning him with a hand resting on Optimus’ belly, Megatron hummed.

It was still early in the afternoon and there was no storm announced for the rest of the day, but neither of them was in a hurry to get out of their shelter and do, well, anything really. Optimus was still supposed to rest and Megatron didn’t want to be parted from his mate and Sparkling.

A gently rub had Optimus sighs in gratitude. “Nothing will happen,” Megatron hummed. “Life is going to be back to normal soon enough. The Games will continue. The Storms Season will pass. The Tribe will go back to the Badlands to gather resources for the next wintering. I’ll hunt; you’ll help in whatever fashion you wish in the camp. And when the moment comes, you’ll birth our Creation. And when they’ll be old enough not to need your constant supervision, I’ll teach you to hunt besides me.” His hand stilled upon Optimus’ swollen belly after a last caress.

Would it really be so simple? Optimus couldn’t help but wonder. After everything which had happened so far, he couldn’t quite believe it.

But really, why would there be anything more to his life now?

The drama with Airachnid asides, the nomads led a very simple, uncomplicated life. True, Optimus still had a lot to learn in order to perfectly slip in, many skills he needed to develop in order to help his tribe by any way he could, but he was a fast learner. Once he knew all the basis, he would only need time to improve.

Was it truly possible that after so much Spark-wrenching troubles, so much fright, he could finally find peace?

… Yes. Yes, it was, he realized.

He couldn’t help it; he giggled.

Megatron raised his head a little, taken aback. “Something the matter, Optimus?”

“Nothing wrong, if that’s what you’re really asking,” the red and blue mech replied, snuggling against the other mech’s chest with a smile, still giggling. “It just feels a little anti-climatic, that’s all. I don’t know. I guess I was expecting more troubles.”

Megatron raised an optic ridge but didn’t ask any question. He just accepted the snuggling and briefly kissed the back of Optimus’ helm. “Oh, there will be troubles sooner or later. Injuries on hunts. Bad results in the Games which will force us to use smaller or further hunting grounds. Quarrels with other tribes or within our own,” he listed off.

It made Optimus smile. “Nothing we won’t be able to handle, then.”

Megatron rumbled in approval. “No, nothing.”

Optimus’ comm link chose that moment to chime. ::Uh, Optimus? Sorry to call you like that, but I really need to talk to you. You got a free klik free or two?::

The red and blue mech blinked. “Jazz?” he asked aloud, making Megatron still before he excused himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to startle you. I’m just receiving a message.” Shaking his head, he concentrated on the comm link. ::Jazz? Is something wrong?::

::Weeell, not wrong per say, at least not with me, but Prowl is acting really, really weird,:: the white and black mech sent over the comm. He did sound worried, which made Optimus sat up – though slowly and carefully as to not bother or wake Smokescreen. Besides him, Megatron grunted and sat down as well, looking displeased.

“Your friend has the worst timing,” he commented unhappily as Optimus shushed him.

::Weird how?:: he asked Jazz, wondering what was going on. Jazz looked more puzzled than anything, so it probably wasn’t too serious, but one never knew. ::Has it done something that you find worrisome?::

::That’s the problem, I don’t know if I should really be worried or not! He, uh, he’s usually pretty stiff and proper, you know? Or at least he has been since I woke up under his tent, so I dunno if he was always like that or if he was worse or better before, you know?::

::Jazz, what did he do?:: Optimus asked patiently as he relayed the fact Prowl was ‘acting weird’ to Megatron in hushed tones as to not disturb Smokescreen’s rest.

::That’s the thing; he came back to our shelter from an errand and he just… stilled. Like, utterly still; his optics got dark and even his doorwings didn’t twitch. He just… sniffed the air? Kinda like a Cyberhound trying to find a trail? Then he zoomed on me and he, uh, pounced?:: His voice as a squeaky quality to it that Optimus had never heard before.

Optimus just stared at nothing then looked at Megatron with round optics. “Prowl isn’t the kind of ‘bot to just sniff the air then pounce on his mate, is he?”

Megatron just raised an optic ridge. “Hardly. He’s too dignified to just pounce on anyone. Unless…” he trailed off before smirking. Optimus’ shoulders sagged as he tried not to laugh. He didn’t know if he should laugh, really, because he had no idea of how Jazz was going to take the news, but Megatron had all but confirmed Optimus’ rising suspicions.

::Jazz? Where is Prowl right now?::

::Sitting on me,:: the black and white mech replied, which made Optimus break into laugher both in and out of the comm as he pictured the scene in his mind. ::Yeah, yeah laugh it off,:: Jazz sighed; he did sound amused too. ::It’s not exactly that I mind, but I’d like to be able to at least sit up. Only, it’s like he’s not even listening to me anymore.::

“Not unusual when he receives a good news; his CPU partly shuts down to avoid a surge and he mostly works on instincts for the next cycle or so,” Megatron shook his head with a smirk as Optimus relayed the information. “You’re friend better resign himself to be showered with hugs and cuddles for a while.”

Jazz, not hearing Megatron and oblivious to the meaning, was continuing to describe the situation he was in. ::He kissed me like there was no tomorrow then he pinned me down on the nearest pelt and now he’s busy snuggling his face against my abdomen and my neck – which I’ve nothing against, but it’s starting to freak me out the way he’s NOT reacting to what I say. So, I’m going to ask again, is that normal or should I be really worried or what?::

Optimus smiled softly. ::It’s… not dangerous, Jazz. And Megatron assures me it’s no unexpected or exactly abnormal.::

::You know what got into Prowl then? What is it?::

Optimus hesitated for a moment, silently mulling over how he should present things. He knew Jazz wanted to go back to the cities, but… it wasn’t exactly an option anymore, was it? And he didn’t want to hurt Jazz. But he couldn’t lie to him either…

::Jazz?:: he asked carefully. ::Before we go further, I want to ask you something.::

::Yes?:: Jazz asked warily.

Well, there was no avoiding the subject.

::How do you feel about upcoming Creatorhood?::

Chapter Text

The low moan of discomfort escaped Optimus’ lips despite himself. In answer, Megatron’s hand squeezed his briefly with more force, and the smaller mech gave him a tense smile that didn’t reach his optics.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, trying not to grimace as another contraction hit him. It wasn’t exactly painful, not like it had been when he had birthed Smokescreen, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.

The lack of true pain was something Optimus could only marvel about and be thankful for. According to Ratchet, it was perfectly normal; a first emergence was usually painful because the Carrier’s frame was running on new, unfamiliar protocols which forced his internals to shift in new ways in order to allow the Sparkling to get out of the gestation chamber. Once those protocols and the internal transformations had been done a first time, though, the Carrier’s frame became ‘accustomed’ to running them and further emergences became much easier to deal with.

Megatron snorted in answer. “I’m not leaving, my mate.”

“You should at least try to get some recharge,” Optimus tried to insist, only for Ratchet to grumble as he wiped a damp, fresh cloth over his forehead. Even if he wasn’t in true pain, his systems were running hot and the Healer kept monitoring him closely.

“Give it up, Optimus, he won’t move from your side.”

Optimus mewled softly as he felt something move inside him, making a short warning pop through his optics. “But he should; you’re the one who told us the Sparkling wouldn’t get out before dawn at this rate so it’s not like he’ll be missing much. And I’d much prefer to have you well-rested so you can care for Smokey and greet the little one when they’re out,” he added, turning pale blue optics up towards Megatron.

A clawed digit stroked his cheek. “Caring mate,” Megatron murmured, an hint of amusement in his optics. “My caring, foolish mate. I won’t rest while you don’t, Optimus. Besides, what kind of mate would I be if I let you alone while you birth our Creation?”

“Other go hunt while their mates do,” Optimus pointed out, though the last word was grunted as he was hit by a contraction. In the gestation chamber, the Sparkling shifted, though he wasn’t yet aligned with the opening. “You’re the Heir; you have duties…”

“And there are none I must fill during the night but watch over your safety and the safety of our progeny,” Megatron replied calmly. “And I can easily work in the camp comes the morning instead of tracking preys. As for Smokescreen, we both know Prowl’s mate will keep good care of him while we’re otherwise occupied. Besides,” he smirked, “he certainly will need the training sooner rather than later.”

That made Optimus fight down a smile even as Ratchet wiped the cold cloth against his forehead. How true it was. His smile diminished as he thought of something else. “Your Grandsire…?” Had Megatron told him already? The grey mech hadn’t left his side once but to get Ratchet from the moment Optimus had woke him up after his CPU had lighted with alarms informing him the emergence process was about to start. Megatron might well decide to change his schedule as he pleased, but his Grandsire might not be in agreement with the sudden change of plan...

“Already know the tribe will count one more member before the sun reaches its zenith,” Megatron said calmly but firmly. “And Soundwave has already readied his fastest Cryo-Condor to bring the news to our sister-tribe and my Sire. Tribe members are already awake and gathered around the firepit to wait for news of your safe delivery -- which is perfectly normal when an emergence starts in the middle of the night,” he added with a slight frown, countering Optimus’ yet unvoiced protest. The red and blue mech closed his mouth helplessly.

“You better have told them not to hit the High Grade yet,” Ratchet warned. “I’m not healing or giving meds to anyone who complain of being overcharged to the point of purging because they partied like crazy.”

“I think they’re already well-aware of the fact, Healer,” Megatron replied dryly. “Especially since you already acted on that particular threat more than one. Fear not, Strika won’t let things get out of hand. Though she might not be able to stop them from waking half the camp by loudly singing.”

Ratchet’s look was a few notches down from thunderous. “If they wake my Sparklings, they’ll be going down.”

Optimus couldn’t help it; he laughed. Not long and not very loud, but he laughed, feeling reassured and slowly relaxing despite himself. He wasn’t fully comfortable with giving birth under a tent and not in the safety of a well-stocked Medbay in Iacon or Kaon, but he had done so once already and knew what to expect, Ratchet was a competent medic who would know if anything went wrong, and Megatron… Well, even if Optimus fussed and tried to make him leave, he couldn’t deny it felt good to have him close by and hold his hand.

Flame hadn’t held his hand like that; he had come to the private clinic Optimus had been brought to the moment he had received the notification Smokescreen was about to emerge, and he had stood vigil behind the observation window of Optimus’ room, fretful and happy-looking as he was joined by Optimus’ own Creators, but he had made no effort to enter and give Optimus any additional reassurance, to hold his hand like Megatron was doing now.

Flame hadn’t been the ideal Bondmate, and still Optimus missed him -- not like he should have missed a mate, but like he would have missed a close acquaintance. It would have scandalized some of his relatives, but it couldn’t be helped. Flame and him hadn’t been made for each other, they had only gone along what had been expected of them by society and their respective clans. They had loved each other in a way, but it wasn’t the kind of deep love that warranted infinite cycles of mourning. Optimus was ready to let go; had let go already of his past life and his less-than-stellar Bondmate. His only true regret was that the other mech should have had a chance to know his second Sparkling -- or simply know there would be a second.

The soft keen he made when the next contraction hit came more from mental anguish than physical pain, not that Megatron or Ratchet noticed. But Megatron’s hand squeezed his again harder.

“Brave little mate,” he murmured. Optimus just smiled vaguely at him. Megatron wasn’t what Optimus would call an ideal mate either, but there was a warmth to him that Flame had lacked and that reassured the former noble. Perhaps it was also his strength and his protectiveness that were making Optimus consider the grey mech like a good match, even if his choice in gifts would have been considered peculiar.

But the axe had saved Optimus and Smokescreen’s life, and Optimus couldn’t avoid feeling a brief moment of savage glee and pride whenever his memory files brought back Airachnid’s face, frozen in her last grimace.

“Optimus? You want something to drink or eat?” Ratchet asked as he loomed closer, examining him closely. The red and blue mech shook his head; his energy levels had depleted since the start of the emergence, but he wasn’t feeling the need to refill his tank. Besides, even if he tried, he had the feeling nothing would pass. “Very well,” the medic grunted, not sounding very impressed, “but if you ever start to feel light-headed, you tell me immediately, is that clear?”

Megatron rumbled. “Is it dangerous, Healer?”

“Not as such; it simply means his systems consume too much because they’re overstressed. Current with first carriages, less so with second, and even less so the more Sparklings you Carried to term as your systems adapt and adjust, but I’m not tempting Unicron,” Ratchet replied. “Nothing you can do, just keep holding his hand or help me keeping his frame cool if you can free your other hand, will you?”

Optimus turned them off after that, his CPU too focused on every little move of the Sparkling as it tried to locate the exit of the gestation chamber and to find the ideal position to get out. Time became a blur. He was more or less aware of Ratchet (and Megatron, at various intervals) continuing to gently rub cool, damp clothes over his frame, from his forehead to his legs and swollen abdomen. Fluids gushed out of his distended valve as it naturally dilated to make way for the Sparkling’s bid for freedom. That too was carefully wiped off, with Ratchet commenting about dilatation rates and normal fluid thickness -- things Optimus had already heard the first time around and he knew were normals.

He cried sometimes, because body eased up into the process or not, emergence still had its down, especially when the mechling one attempted to birth kept kicking you.

The Sparkling emerged with the break of dawn. Optimus could only lay panting as Ratchet grabbed the small body and immediately started to clean him up, lightly wrapping him in a blanket before handing him to the new Creators.

“A mech, Optimus. Congratulations,” Ratchet murmured while Megatron slide a few cushions behind his mate’s back to allow him to recline comfortably to hold the mechling. He had already spread a blanket over his mate’s lower half for modesty’s sake. Optimus spread eager if slightly shaking arms toward the medic, who gently let the precious bundle slide into the awaiting Carrier’s own. The Sparkling was wailing loudly, something not unusual with bornlings; after spending so much time squeezed during the emergence and after discovering the cold atmosphere outside the warm safety of the gestation chamber, it left them feeling disoriented and unhappy. And hungry, too, Optimus thought with fondness as he remembered Smokescreen’s emergence.

Speaking of… “Smokescreen?” he whispered, looking at Megatron then at Ratchet. He wanted his older son here to greet his new brother.

“I’ll get him,” Ratchet nodded, getting to his feet. Optimus didn’t bother watching him leave, too busy watching his newly born mechling while releasing his pouches so the little one could feed for the first time. He couldn’t help the happy giggle that escaped his vocalizer when the tiny mouth -- so much littler than Smokescreen’s now -- latched by instinct on the nearest nub and clumsily tried to suckle.

“So little,” Megatron murmured, reaching out with a single digit he hesitantly run over the small hem -- a very red helm, Optimus could help but notice. Carefully, he unfolded part of the blanket Ratchet had wrapped the mechling in as to get a better look at the Sparkling.

The chuckle that escaped him was more nervous than anything else. Well, he wasn’t about to ever forget Flame, Optimus thought distantly. The Sparkling was his first mate’s spitting image, at least as far as color went. Red, orange and yellow were spreading all over the mechling’s frame, taking a distinctive flame pattern on his chest that his late Sire had shared -- though Flame’s entire body had seemed on fire; the mechling, by comparison, only had a flaming torso. The shape of the helm wasn’t quite the same, being closer to Optimus’ own, and while the mechling’s optics were still trying to correctly boot, Optimus could see a few points of blue among the grey statics whereas Flame’s own optics had been red in color.

Optimus looked at Megatron, feeling vaguely worried. Would the bornling’s resemblance to his late mate be a problem? For all Megatron and the tribe clamoured he was the Sire, it was hard to deny who had truly Sired him. And would Megatron even manage to deal with a constant visual reminder of a mech he had killed in a ‘dishonorable’ fashion, even if he had righted his wrongs as far as the nomads were concerned?

But Megatron’s expression was one of wonder and amazement as he detailed the small body from the tip of his finials to the bottom of his heels, taking care of tucking back the blanket to cover the Sparkling again, mindful of how the little one’s sensitive systems weren’t yet able to regulate themselves. There was a reason newsparks were kept tucked in layers of heat-diffusing or warming blankets back in Iacon, after all.

“He’s perfect,” Megatron murmured reverently before he gazed at Optimus with a look of deep approval. “You did a very good job bringing our son to this world, my mate.”

Optimus’ cheeks flushed. “You… you don’t mind that he doesn’t look like you?”

Megatron raised an optic ridge. “He is OUR son,” he stressed out calmly. “Why would I mind what he looks like?”

Optimus had no answer to that. His attention wandered back to the newspark, who had finally gotten the hang out of suckling and was now putting his mouth to the task. ‘Perfect’, Megatron has said, and Optimus felt he was right.

Ratchet wandered back a few moments later, holding a sleepy-looking Smokescreen in his arms. The door-winged Sparkling was rubbing his optics while yawning, proof he had only recently come awake. Optimus was able to make out Jazz’s silhouette waving at him with a blinding smile -- and a few onlookers who tried to peer inside the tent -- before Ratchet closed the opening behind him.

“I swear, they have nothing better to do than to gawk,” the white and red mech grumbled, but his words lacked any real heat. If anything, he seemed more amused than anything else. “Here’s your Carrier, little one; how about you say ‘hi’ to him?” He put Smokescreen on the floor, where the Sparkling sat blinking and looking around until he spotted Optimus and the bundle in his arms.

Frowning, he started to crawl on his hands and knees toward him before rising and taking a few tentative steps, making Optimus mentally cheer and beam with pride. Smokescreen’s steps were still unsteady, but he was getting better and better at walking. Next to him, Megatron’s chest puffed with pride, the grey mech never stopping to show approval at his adoptive Creation.

Smokescreen’s face was reflecting his confusion by the time he reached his Creators. Who was that in his Carrier’s arms? He pointed and made curious sounds, his frown deepening as he saw the little thing was hanging from his Carrier’s pouches. The pouches were supposed to be his! Weren’t they?

“There, Smokescreen, look; it’s your little brother,” Optimus murmured as he shifted the Sparkling in his arms slightly so Smokescreen could have a good look.

Smokescreen just blinked. ‘Brother’, in his CPU, was only closely associated with Jetstorm and Slipstream so far. He understood ‘brother’ as ‘playmate’, ‘playmate’ who shared Creator’s attention and who recharged with you under the tent. He pointed again at his new ‘brother’, frowning.

“And how are you going to call him, my mate, that little brother of Smokescreen?” Megatron murmured, a hand on Optimus’ shoulder. The red and blue mech gave him a quick glance.

“Aren’t you going to…?”

Megatron shook his head ruefully. “Sires might give suggestions, but it’s the Carriers who get the last word. They bore them, made themselves vulnerable to many dangers and suffered to bring them to the world. A Sparkling’s name is the Carrier’s gift, not the Sire. But it’s the Sire who will officially announce the chosen name to the rest of the tribe, on the seventh solar cycle following the Sparkling’s emergence.”

“Oh.” Optimus looked down at the bundle in his arms then at Megatron again. “And you don’t have a suggestion of your own to give me?”

“Only to pick something that please you, my mate,” Megatron chuckled. “It is customary in some lines to honor the ancestors by linking the newspark’s name to those of his forebearers, but it’s not an obligation -- especially not in my line,” he added, stressing out the words. “Name him according to your Spark’s feelings, Optimus.”

“And that’s where I’m going to give you a few moments of privacy,” Ratchet declared, shaking his head as Optimus looked at him. “The Healer is a member of the tribe like any other, and the initial naming is a private affair between the Creators. I’m not supposed to know before you present the Sparkling to the tribe, at least in theory.”

“And in practice, he knows how to hold his glossa,” Megatron snorted. “Be gone, Ratchet. A few breems should be all we need.”

“You better hope,” Ratchet warned, optics narrowed, “because named or not, I’m not leaving Optimus and the bitlet’s side again when I’ll come back.”

“Duly noted, Healer. We know how much you care.”

“You’re lucky I do,” Ratchet threw over his shoulder as he exited the tent again and it wasn’t long before they heard him swear at onlookers outside to get back and stop hanging around.

Megatron just shook his head smirking. “Spirited. Well, Optimus? What will your choice be?”

The red and blue mech hesitated before taking a long, hard look at the suckling Sparkling. The temptation was strong to call him Flame or a variation of such, like Fire. But Flame didn’t seem to fit the small frame in his arms; while still fiery, the pattern of his paint didn’t warrant such a name -- and it didn’t feel right to burden the Sparkling with the name of a mech he’d never know, nor for Optimus to be sharply reminded of what once was (even if it didn’t really hurt anymore) and would never be again.

The Sparkling needed a simpler name. He peeled the blanket again to look at his son. Even at first glance, it was obvious the newspark wouldn’t grow to be as bulky as his Carrier; the mechling had a light build and slim look about him, much like Smokescreen. The tiny limbs were still a little curled and had yet to spread out fully, but Optimus could already say the mechling would have long legs which, combined with his build, were strong indications he would have a racer build growing up. His Creation would be a fast one...

“Hot Rod,” he decided out of the blue, startling himself. He repeated it again, tasting the words. “Hot Rod…” Perhaps he should have tried for something more formal and fitting for a noble like, perhaps, Rodimus. Imposing Smokescreen had been hard enough as it was, but Hot Rod would have never been approved by his relatives or even by Flame. It wasn’t… classy enough.

But his son wouldn’t grow up in palace, learning he was related to the Primes and to show himself above reproach, Optimus reasoned. He would grow up in the wild, tracking mechanimals by identifying and following the prints of their paws, free to do as he pleased. Rodimus would fit the Court in Iacon; Hot Rod would fit the Badlands.

“His name shall be Hot Rod,” he said with a steadier voice, nodding to himself. Megatron raised an optic ridge but nodded along.

“A fine name, my mate. Hot Rod he shall be. Be welcome among us, my Creation, and may you grow to become a strong hunter and an honorable member of our tribe,” the grey mech said toward the suckling Sparkling, looking so serious Optimus almost laughed out loud. And he would have, if not for a small sound that made him freeze.

“‘Od?”

Optimus and Megatron looked at Smokescreen sharply. A frown of concentration on his face, the door-winged Sparkling looked at his sibling, mouth working repeatedly. It was mostly statics, but every now and then it was easy to make out ‘Od’.

“I’m going to take a guess and say ‘Od’ is part of his new little brother’s designation,” Ratchet said dryly as he entered the tent again, hands clutching a large pot full of stew.

“It is,” Optimus said faintly. “It… I… first word?” He felt at loss but also hopeful and giddy. Primus, his oldest son was starting to activate his speech protocols!

“Sounds like it,” Ratchet nodded with a grin as he put the pot down. Megatron squeezed Optimus’ shoulder and went to pick up bowls and spoons for everyone even as Ratchet knelt by Optimus’ side, taking the place he had left unfilled. “Always a shock and a joy when they start fumbling, even if you start missing the clicks after a moment. You’re lucky his first word wasn’t a swear word.”

A smile tugged at Optimus’ lips. “The Twins?”

“I blame Drift,” Ratchet said with a perfectly straight face to which Optimus laughed. “So, Optimus, how do you feel? Happy?”

“Happy?” Optimus repeated, frowning. Was he? Was he really? Life had taken such an abrupt turn for him, could he truly say he was happy? He shuttered his optics briefly. In his mind, he saw Iacon’s streets, clean and full of people, he saw gardens impeccably maintained, full of inedible crystals and metalloplants, he saw his relatives and the long, endless receptions they all went to. He also saw the Badlands spreading before him as he walked, he saw the oases they reached, hidden deep in the desert, he saw New Kolkular’s market, full of banters and colors, he saw the mechanimals running in the distance, he heard the songs around the firepit as the flames burned high under the two moons of Cybertron.

He lighted his optics again and looked at Ratchet, his face a mask of serenity. “Yes, I think I am.” He looked at Smokescreen, at Hot Rod in his arms, and at Megatron’s sturdy frame, catching the grey mech’s optics and smiling softly at him. “I think I am…”