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Optimus doesn’t let go of the sparkling.
Megatron catches wind of their activities, and Optimus doesn’t think twice about grabbing the sparkling and running. The warlord screams from across the broken battlefield, and Optimus can see his own troops hastily readying for the fight. His eyes narrow, zooming in behind Megatron to spot their escape point.
Their ship. The warlord placed himself and his troops between the autobots and their ship.
The sparkling in his left arm grabs his chassis, big baby blue eyes fixed on his face. Optimus looks at the child, gears turning in his mind, and then back to his enemy.
“Ratchet,” he mumbles into his earpiece, voice low. “Clear a path.”
He’s off and running before the “Roger!” can come through.
The autobots leap at their opponents, metal clanging and lasers firing as Optimus weaves through the battle to try and get the sparkling to the ship. Megatron, like always, has his sights set on the bot, and Optimus clutches his precious package tighter. It would be foolish not to be afraid in this moment, he reminds himself, but he can’t let that fear overtake him. He has to get the little one to safety.
He transforms, just barely, letting the wheels in his knees carry him under swinging blades and various gunfire. He sees Ratchet and Bulkhead cutting through decepticons like they’re paper, and while he cringes at the vulgarity he knows there’s no other way right now. This sparkling, this light of hope for the future, it’s all that matters. If Megatron got his hands on it, the blow to team morale would be more than just severe.
A stray decepticon puts itself between Optimus and the ship, and he clutches the young bot even tighter. “Arcee!” he yells into his comm.
“On it!”
The opposing bot goes down the instant she makes contact, and he can see it in her eyes too. The furious need to keep this sparkling safe.
He spares her a nod as he runs past the corpse, optics snapping back to the decepticon leader soon after. Tiny servos grip his chest, steeling his resolve.
“You’ll be okay,” he whispers, angling his body to conceal the small bot. “Just don’t move.”
Megatron grins at his approach, sharp rusted teeth glinting in the dim twilight air. The sound of his vents opening with a rush of air is audible across the battlefield, ancient technology making itself known in the dramatic fashion Optimus knows Megatron prefers. His blaster hums, unnatural purple light snaking its way through the wires of his arm before reaching the opening, and he knows that despite the show the other puts on that his deadliness is not hindered. It’s a familiar sight, but not at all a welcome one.
“Hold on,” he whispers to the young bot, and he hopes against hope that the stark yellow of the sparkling doesn’t catch Megatron’s eye. The warlord looks gleeful as he readies himself for hand to hand combat, seeing his opponent barreling towards him faster than he ever has before. The prime, grunting, turns rigid and slides right under Megatron’s feet, holding up his own blaster to shoot directly into the other’s.
The warlord’s shout of indignation calls attention from his troops. Dozens of decepticons turn to Optimus, transforming and flying directly at him.
“Shoot them down!” comes the ragged call from Ratchet. Optimus relays the order in his own comms and braces himself for impact.
The damage comes in threes. Three planes crashing behind them, three planes crashing in front, three decepticons that manage to hit their mark and scuff his back. The energon of Optimus Prime spills on battle worn ground, but he doesn’t care. What catches his eye is the ship, now only meters away and the door opening.
“Retreat! Now! ”
Prime’s order causes a shift in the battle, with autobots ducking out of the way of blows and back into the ship. As soon as Optimus sets pede on the cool metal of the aircraft it rises, debris falling away as he scrambles inside and takes cover. He curls protectively around the sparkling, now out of reach of Megatron and therefore safe.
Physically, at least.
The sparkling is quaking, and Optimus can feel it viciously trying to cool down its internal temperature. Small vents are open all along its body, repeatedly opening and closing in an attempt to help. It’s too hot for its own good, the metal almost burning, and he can only imagine the pain the sparkling must be in.
“I am here, little one.” Optimus has no expertise in calming children, or even being around children at all. No sparklings had been born since the war started, and those who were sparklings when the fighting began got snuffed out. Offlined. Optimus remembers seeing piles upon piles of tiny cybertronians, sparks extinguished and transformation cogs harvested in an attempt to make more decepticon warriors. The memory almost makes Optimus shudder while looking at the precious yellow package in his lap. Any thought of this small bot looking limp in a pile amongst other children makes him feel ill.
The sparkling is still trying to breathe, vents struggling to expel the hot air trapped inside it. Optimus, expression gloomy, rubs a thumb along the bot’s spinal cord. There’s not much he can do for it but wait it out in the dark of the entrance corridor. He hopes the shine of his optics can bring a small modicum of comfort to the small bot.
“In and out. Cooling will take less time if your intakes are slow and controlled.” The bot tries, truly, but Optimus can see it struggling to catch its breath. “Here,” he mutters, adjusting himself so the bot can see his demonstration better. “Like this.”
His vents flare open, the whirr of his steady fan sounding throughout the corridor, and soon the young bot’s exhales are calmer and matching Prime’s. The bot hiccups once and lays his head against Optimus’ shoulder, utterly exhausted from the ordeal. Optimus’ optics draw over the sparkling, spotting tiny doorwings and small emotive antennae. Qualities of a young scout class.
Qualities of a child.
Optimus can’t get that thought out of his processor. They really found a cybertronian child on a salvage mission. Something thought to be extinct, and yet here it was. Here he was.
And in the darkness of the corridor, while approaching footsteps of allies ring just around the corner, Optimus can’t help but be astounded at the being in his grasp.
~*~
It’s a solo mission. B-127 is scouting the nearby decepticon base. His battle helm is affixed to his face and his spark is pounding in his chest. There was floating intel about an incoming attack, and B-127 was designated with the task of reporting exactly when it would begin. The only issue now was that the decepticon base looked empty, and Ratchet had already complained of him “jamming up the comms” with his chatter. “Only mandatory reports,” he had instructed, and B-127 really did want to do well on his mission. He followed the order, however antsy it made him.
It’s strange, though, the quietness of the base. Normally there would be at least minimal activity, or even guards at the entrance, but it seemed as if the area was a dead zone. As if there was nothing worth guarding inside.
He squints at the base, optics shrinking with focus from his perch on a nearby tower of stone. Despite the earlier order, B-127 puts a finger to his left audial. “Hey guys-“
A sudden BANG comes from the base, throwing the thin pillar he was standing on to the ground. The scout wheezes, hands scrabbling to push off the rubble that had collapsed on top of him. In a haste, he brings his finger back to its former position.
“Mayday! Mayday! Base just blew up, no one inside! Attack is coming!” The words punch themselves out of his throat, the static of his wheeze apparent through the comms.
“We see them, scout,” comes the guttural rumble of Optimus Prime, complete with sounds of gunfire in the background. “You need to get here. Stat.”
“On my way!” B-127 shouts, transforming but keeping the comm open. “Do you think the intel was fake?”
“Evidently,” Optimus mutters, and the scout can hear the metallic clang of him getting hit in the head. “ETA?”
“I think it’s too long, Optimus. Can anyone spare a bridge?”
A chorus of “no” hits the young scout’s audials, and he grumbles to himself.
“Sorry scout, but they’re hitting us hard and fast, -on your right!- you’re going to have to take the long way,” Arcee says, and B-127 grumbles again. He wants to get there faster. He needs to get there faster, but the attack, however anticipated, seems to be worse than initially thought. None of them can spare a moment to get extra servos on deck. He can do nothing but hit the gas, and hit the gas he does. It’ll burn extra energon, but it’s a necessary sacrifice.
The quiet rumble of the road is only disrupted by the comms in his head, playing horrid noises of the battle taking place. Arcee’s is full of sharp noises, of which the scout knows from countless hours of sparring is her taking advantage of the incredibly sharp wheel covers on her pedes. She cuts through the air, a whirlwind of blades and guns, only hindered by the autobot code to not do unnecessary harm. Ratchet’s is full of almost nonsensical noise, the shout of orders alongside Optimus’ a familiarity to the scout. Optimus can be heard fighting multiple Vehicons at once, their trademark whirring ever present in the comm link.
It feels weird to B-127, listening to the battle happening without him. The road in front of him is dark and quiet, albeit scattered with a terrible array of scrap metal. He wonders how the other scouts are doing, if they made it back safely. If they’re helping the battle.
He can see the smoke, getting closer by the second. The sounds that were confined to the comms in his head are now entering through his audials, and they sound much worse than they did through the tinny microphone of the communication link.
“Optimus?” B-127 calls, transforming and skirting around the edges of battle. Debris from falling buildings almost squash him. “Optimus, where are you?”
He sees him the instant the words leave his voice box. He’s battle-locked by Vehicons, distracting him from the warlord approaching his back.
B-127 can’t let that happen.
He yells, converting his pedes to wheels and skating across the battlefield to launch himself directly at Megatron’s back. The bigger bot gives a roar of his own, aiming his blaster behind his head and shooting wildly.
The scout ducks when the blaster fires, and his little hands find their way between the chinks of Megatron’s armor. Fistfuls of sensitive machinery are caught and tugged, and while the warlord’s movements almost crush B-127’s hands he only grips harder.
“Eat my skid-plate, aft face!” he screams at Megatron, digging his hand further into what has to be delicate wiring. The resulting screech of his actions has him laughing breathlessly in triumph, planting his pedes firmly on the bot’s back as he begins to tug.
He’s charging up the blaster in his right servo to shoot in the cracks when Megatron’s hand gets ahold of his doorwing, tearing him out of the bigger bot’s wound and slamming him to the ground in front of him. He wheezes from the action and rolls over so he can keep his line of sight on his opponent, only to be met with fury-red eyes.
Megatron himself has his blaster pointed at the scout, a distasteful scowl on his face.
“You.”
B-127 shudders.
“You are the sparkling I saw that day. Optimus carried you off.”
The scout shudders still, the voice of Megatron crystal clear in his audials despite the cacophony of noise otherwise.
The warlord pushes his blaster under B-127’s chin, weapon humming with energy right above the scout’s spark. Fear is thrumming through his body, pistons straining with the effort to not turn and bolt.
“Your leader seems quite attached to you,” Megatron mutters, and the scout can’t even hear Optimus shouting in his comms again. “Killing you would hurt him, yes, but I sense the fear of what I might do to you is more useful in time.”
The battlefield seems to freeze. B-127 brings out his own blaster, shooting the warlord’s away from his spark in an attempt to get up and run. Instead, ice cold metal hands grasp his forearms and yank him back, a sharp claw at his throat. He freezes, and the battle around them resumes.
It’s only when he blinks a few times that he notices Optimus, frozen before Megatron. He has a blaster aimed at the warlord’s head, but he isn’t firing. It takes B-127 far too long to realize it’s because of him .
Megatron sighs, waves his other hand at Optimus. “Deal with him.”
A swarm of decepticons overtake Optimus, holding him down while Megatron clutches the scout in a vice grip.
“Look how weak you are,” Megatron all but purrs, staring Optimus down while he grips the scout’s neck in one hand. “If you can’t save your own scout, how can you expect to win this war?”
Optimus yells, cutting through the decepticon scouts like they’re made of tin. Megatron chuckles as more of his troops overwhelm Prime, slowing him down enough to where he can’t do anything but listen to the warlord as he raises B-127 into the air.
“Witness,” is the only word Megatron growls before he plunges his fingers into B-127’s throat.
An ear-splitting whine full of static sounds across the battlefield, alerting every autobot left standing. They can only listen as the crackle of high-pitched static chokes and tapers off as Megatron yanks his voice module out in one fell swoop.
Optimus, in as precarious a position as he is, zeroes in the cool baby blue energon that hits the burning ground.
It’s enough to stir him into action.
He leaps, actually leaps the few meters that separate him from his scout and he screams . Megatron’s face morphs from one of triumph to one of disgruntled smugness. Optimus encloses his arms around B-127 while he kicks the warlord into the dirt, face inches from Megatron’s. His vents are fuming, fluttering open to omit actual steam from how hard his core temperature rose in just a few seconds.
The Vehicons rush to defend their leader, marking Optimus’ cue to leave. He brings about a blaster, firing it at Megatron before it gets too crowded. He misses, of course, when would Megatron ever allow himself to be hit, but it’s enough to give him time to turn tail and run.
“Ratchet, Arcee, anyone come in,” he grunts into the comms, eyes flicking from the ground in front of him to the bundle in his arms. Familiarity tickles the back of his mind. “Autobots, come in!”
No answer.
“Scrap.”
~*~
B-127’s optics haven’t flickered on once.
Their ship, a small vessel barely fitting the two of them in their escape, crash landed on a small remote planet. Their solar cycles are faster, their planet populated with all kinds of alien life.
Life Optimus can’t appreciate with the threat of the death of his subordinate looming over him.
Thank goodness escape pods came with medkits in them. A welder, some spare sheets of metal, anything Optimus could get his hands on to help B-127 he would gladly weep for joy over.
But not now.
Now it is time to work.
Optimus holds the tools in his too-big hands, staring at the open wound on B-127’s neck. The energon flowing from it has since thinned out to a trickle. He knows that’s bad, somewhere in the back of his processor Ratchet is telling him general first aid that he’s long forgotten, but he can’t pinpoint the details of it. He can just stare at the wound, hands shaking, and he has to put the tools down for a moment to calm himself. Ratchet isn’t here, it would take the rest of the team solar-cycles to actually reach them with the coordinates from the emergency beacon. He has to fix B-127’s throat now .
Optimus heaves a breath, vents fluttering with the effort of trying to cool down his internal processes enough to think clearly. B-127 needs him, depends on him in this moment to survive. There must be no errors, no slip ups. One mistake could lead to the scout’s offlining.
With that thought in mind, he picks up the tools again. He just has to close off the leaking circuits and tuck them away where they won’t get pulled or disrupt transformation. Optimus eyes the mess of circuitry in the scout’s neck, hesitant, but he has to move quickly.
So, he works.
Wires join together, barely still hands delicately making sure the energon flow isn’t disrupted in their repair. He tucks delicate wires under panels, soldering them to the side so they may later be properly repaired under Ratchet’s instruction.
B-127 doesn’t move the entire time, and the eerie stillness makes his spark sag in his chest. The scout was usually a whirlwind of activity and chatter, seeing him lifeless and still is quite jarring to the prime. He seals off another frayed wire and sighs when the scout doesn’t flinch in the slightest.
He’s halfway through now, and he pauses to gently grab the scout’s jaw and move his head to and fro to make sure nothing gets caught. It wouldn’t do to solder the tendons too short and prevent him from having his full range of motion.
It’s tedious work, Optimus idly notes, and he suddenly has so much more respect for Ratchet’s patience in matters like this.
Nothing is amiss when he adjusts B-127’s head, so he continues. The wires in his subordinate’s neck are so small, he thinks, optics squinting just to see them better. His handiwork so far seems like a blurry mess compared to the swift and delicate repairs Ratchet performs, but it’ll hold B-127 together. It has to.
He welds one more set of ends together and fastens the frayed wires of the voice box off to the side. There won’t be any repairing that, not without the pieces of the box, so he does what he can. The hole in B-127’s throat gapes at him, and he suppresses a shudder at the sight. He’s done what he can for now.
With that thought in mind, he sets the tools down and moves the scout’s plating where it needs to rest. He settles down next to him, grass-scuffed knees creaking with the motion, and he heaves a sigh.
“B-127,” he mutters, looking down at his scout before looking back up and at the stars. “Hang in there.” He almost calls him “soldier,” but seeing his tiny face void of light gives him pause. “Our team will be here soon.”
~*~
The team ends up staying on the planet where they crash landed. It’s out of standard decepticon patrol range, making it safe enough to hide out and for B-127 to recover.
Well, Optimus supposes “recover” is a generous term. B-127 hasn’t been himself since the attack, and who could blame him, really? When one’s standard is boisterous and loud, the removal of a voice module is bound to have lasting effects on the individual.
The lasting effects on the team, however, showed throughout the entire base.
It’s quiet. Even if B-127 was not in the base before he was injured, there was always at least some chatter. Some form of white noise that hung in the background and showed their ship was alive with bots. The silence is louder than that now, and Optimus hates it. He can tell B-127 hates it too. His doorwings sag when he walks, and the constant evading of Ratchet’s efforts to bring him back to the medbay say more than his words ever could.
“Cybertron below me…B-127, get back here! ”
Ratchet’s cries are met with short bursts of static from the scout as he ducks under tables to get away from the bot. Optimus watches from a nearby bench, a slight grin on his face, as Ratchet slips on a medical instrument and falls to the ground. The old bot groans, cursing, and B-127 scrambles under the bench to hide behind the prime’s dangling legs.
“Consarn it, B-127! How do you expect to heal properly if you won’t sit still for two kliks? These appointments are mandatory! ”
Optimus chuckles to himself, looking behind him to where the young scout has moved to. He sees mirth on the bot’s face, but as the seconds tick by he can see the uneasiness become present in his movements.
“B-127.”
The scout freezes, optics flicking from Ratchet to Optimus. The prime’s expression softens on seeing the scout’s antennae flatten to his head, so he tries to choose his next words gently.
“Your voice module being removed requires continued medical attention until you are able to safely function in its absence. Until then, you will listen to what Ratchet says.” The scout rumbles a bit, and Optimus doesn’t need a digital notepad to know that he’s protesting. “That is an order, scout. I am sorry, but this is non-negotiable.”
Saddened rumbles omit from B-127, but he ultimately gets up from his hiding spot and trudges over to Ratchet.
“Thanks,” he grumbles, pushing the scout onto the medical berth with forced patience. “Let’s get to work.”
Optimus crosses his arms and legs to observe the procedure. Ratchet is a flurry of sparks, a stark contrast to the prime’s shaking hands when he had performed first aid on his subordinate. He hums to himself, eyes locked on B-127’s face, and while watching the scout look anywhere but at Ratchet he wonders if his own hasty work has hindered the youngling’s recovery in some way.
“There,” breathes Ratchet, and both B-127 and Optimus look at him expectantly. “That should be good for now. I don’t think there’s much more I can do for ya without your original bio-component, and, well…”
The silence punctuates the sentence, hanging heavy on all three bots. B-127’s optics are cast to the ground, and Optimus dearly wishes he knew what to say to comfort the young scout.
Ratchet fakes a cough, vents opening for a moment before snapping shut and turning to his computer. “Anyway, you’re clear to leave. Just don’t put too much stress on the area until the alloy sets properly.”
He waves the two off, and Optimus stands up to usher B-127 out the door. He follows, dragging his pedes, and Optimus gently closes the door behind them.
When he turns back, the scout’s head is hanging, servos balled into fists at his sides.
“B-127? What is the matter?”
His subordinate remains still for a moment before he starts lightly shaking. Optimus is alarmed, and he immediately crouches down to come face to face with him. “Do you need anything?” he asks, concern open and present for the scout.
B-127 whirrs softly, a slight whine reaching the prime’s ears amidst the whirring. The scout says nothing, but he leans forward slightly to rest his helm on Optimus’ shoulder. The prime says nothing, but he understands the gesture. B-127 needs comfort, the way he used to when he was just a sparkling. Before he became a scout.
Optimus exhales, bringing up an arm to put his hand on the scout’s back. The shaking has only grown, and B-127 lets out a sparkbreaking whine that makes Optimus feel ill. He idly draws a finger up and down the young bot’s spinal mechanism, something that he did before he joined their ranks.
Optimus Prime, in all of his wisdom and accomplishment, feels helpless in the face of the sparkling’s grief. He knows that this war has scarred its fair share of bots on both sides, but they’ve had much more than a few centuries of maturity to know how to handle and accept any new reality they’re thrust into.
B-127 does not.
Despite his soldier status, he is by all means a child. Optimus relies on him in battle, has commended him for his bravery in directly attacking Megatron to save his life, but those facts are stained with the fact that he is but a sparkling. A child thrust into a war that isn’t his to fight. He should be…
What should he be? Optimus’ processor stalls as he realizes that he isn’t quite sure what sparklings should be doing. It’s been so long since he’s been in a proper working society. B-127 is a child who doesn’t know how to be one.
So Optimus doesn’t say anything. He stays silent in the wake of B-127’s cries, offering physical comfort to let the scout work through his emotions in safe company.
His spark aches, but under the ache is a simmering anger. Optimus, despite all of the carnage he has seen done by Megatron’s hand, has always handled battle with him with a somber and resolute attitude. There is nothing that can be done to change Megatron’s mind, Optimus knows, and battle with the decepticons is dangerous and necessary. He hasn’t wasted time stewing in hate for the warlord, preferring action instead. His wrath is rare, terrifying. Something he hasn’t truly felt in eons.
And yet, here it is.
White hot rage tickles his mind, and when B-127 finally starts to calm down he’s already forming a plan in his head.
He has hesitated before, to end the war. To deliver the killing blow to the warlord that has already cost them so much. Old memories of fondness for Megatron have always held him back, grasped at his feet and begged “Please, you can help him.”
Prime could scoff.
He sees now, the price his mercy has paid. He has always operated under the assumption that Megatron can be redeemed, that every spark has some sliver of goodness in it. He’s always hesitated before now, never taking the chance to truly end this war with his own hands. Megatron nearly extinguished his scout’s spark, almost costing B-127 his life. If the loss of the scout’s voice has already damaged the autobots so, Prime can’t imagine what his death would do to their team.
What his death would do to Optimus .
There’s no question now. Optimus will do what it takes to win this war if it kills him.
~*~
A sparkling’s first name is never their definitive one. It was common back on Cybertron to give sparklings temporary designations (usually a combination of letters and numbers) until they were old enough to pick their own; it was considered a rite of passage for most cybertronians, a reward for a big accomplishment.
Optimus has never brought this up to B-127. He’s not sure why. Their naming is something every sparkling looks forward to. He has, however, mentioned it offhandedly to Ratchet, and the docbot had only sighed at the notion.
“Has it occurred to you that you haven’t told ‘im about it ‘cause you want ‘im to still be a kid when the war is all done and good?”
It’s a quiet day.
Optimus and B-127 are spending it outside. The scout has expressed interest in the organics on this planet as of late, and Optimus is relieved he wants to do something other than trudge silently around the base. They’ve adopted forms to blend in on this planet, and are currently just listening in on a gaggle of the natives around a twisted colorful structure.
Optimus peers at the rumble of B-127’s vehicle form. He’s quiet, as he always is nowadays, but this time the prime knows he’s listening rather than just staring into space.
“Have I told you of naming ceremonies?” Optimus asks, despite the fact that he knows the answer.
B-127 hums, low and lazy, and the slight guilt of the unintended secret begins to weigh on his spark.
“It’s a tradition, back on Cybertron,” he says, and he can see the turn of the scout’s front tires. He’s listening intently. “When a sparkling accomplishes something great, their birth designation may be replaced with a name of their own choosing.”
B-127 makes no noise.
Optimus hesitates in the tension his comment has caused before continuing, “I believe it is high time for your own naming ceremony.”
The scout rumbles, taking in the information but not supplying anything in return. It’s not like he would have much to supply anyway, but even still.
A call from one of the native children catches the pair’s attention. “Mommy!” it calls in barely-whispered amazement, waving a hand to the other organic. “Mommy, come look!”
The taller native calmly walks over, a soft smile on her face. “What is it dear?”
“Look!! A little bumblebee!” The child gasps softly, tugging on their guardian. “Look, look!!”
There’s a small organic, so small that Optimus has to zoom in to see it. It’s fat and round, with yellow and black stripes adorning its aft. He chuckles, vision flicking to B-127 in time to see his front tires shift again. Small rumbles erupt from the scout’s engine, and Optimus can tell he sees the insect.
“Yes, yes! I see it! Be quiet, you’ll scare it away!” the guardian says. There’s laughter in her whisper, an overarching fondness apparent in the tone of her voice.
Optimus watches, amazed, as the insect flaps its tiny wings and rises above its perch. It flies off, much to the smaller organic’s dismay, to land on B-127’s hood. He can see the sudden stillness of the scout, an attempt to not disturb it.
“You’ve got a friend,” Optimus whispers, and he can feel the scout trying not to shake with a giggle.
The “bumblebee” skitters around on B-127’s hood, cleaning itself. It’s unbothered, Optimus muses, unburdened by the complexities of life.
B-127 makes a low grumble, and the bumblebee flies off. He whines, sad, but Optimus only gives another chuckle at his predicament.
“It looks a little like you, B-127,” he mutters, vision returning to the organics. One tumbles down a red swirl on the structure, screaming, and then returns to do it again. Insanity. “You look like a little bumblebee.”
B-127 whirrs, clicks scattered through the noise. Optimus is getting good at reading him, he notices, because he doesn’t bat an eye at the lack of words. “I think it’s fitting, actually.”
The scout doesn’t make a sound, but Optimus can tell he’s thinking about it.
~*~
Optimus is old.
Megatron far older.
Battle doesn’t get easier with age, Optimus thinks distractedly. His components are ancient, crafted from a time not only before the war but in a life of peace on Cybertron. A life led for countless years, full of cataloging information before he became a prime. Before the war. When Megatron was still just an ally to him. Unthinkable in this day and age, but that fact has always made him struggle to truly deliver the killing blow.
He’s terribly old.
And he’s terribly tired.
Megatron is standing across from him, grin etched on his face. Optimus doesn’t ever recall him using a battle mask, now that he thinks about it. Must be the result of his pride.
Battle wages on around the two, each side giving them a wide berth. The autobots out of fear of Megatron and faith in their leader, the decepticons only out of fear of their leader. Megatron has hungered for this, Optimus knows; hungered for a fair one-on-one fight for eons. He can’t say he feels the same.
But he can say he feels ready. He can say that, despite the hesitation before, he’s ready to take Megatron’s spark away from him.
“Let the best bot win,” Megatron sneers, and he’s off the ground before Optimus can reply.
Metal clashes sound throughout the battlefield, yet Optimus can hear nothing but his team on the comm link they all share. Arcee is yelling, tag teaming with Bulkhead to make up for each other’s weak points. Ratchet is paired up with Prowl, with the former yelling obscenities every five seconds.
And Bumblebee. Oh, Bumblebee.
He can see the scout in his peripherals, streamlined components indicative of youth moving effortlessly to weave himself in and out of decepticon legs and onto the backs of several Vehicons. He’s chirping at the enemy, voice loud and angry before he plunges his blades in between panels, and Optimus feels a swell of pride at just how well the young bot is doing.
Megatron growls, something low and deep and ancient , and Optimus takes his attention off of his subordinate to glare back at the warlord.
“Attention elsewhere, Prime?” Megatron seethes, bringing a servo back to punch his face. Optimus bends out of the way, grabbing the warlord’s head with his own and knocking it against his knee.
“No,” he growls back. He thinks of Bumblebee, the bright eyed tiny scout that he saved from being pulled into Megatron’s grasp. Then he looks back at Megatron himself, staggering backwards with an expression of loathing, and he allows the hatred he’s been simmering this entire time come to a boil. “I am seeing exactly what I’m intending to see.”
“Oh yeah?” the warlord huffs, rolling his shoulders back and charging his blaster. “And what’s that?”
“An outmode.”
The insult hits precisely as it should, clouding Megatron’s head with anger. He charges, blind, without noticing Optimus’ demeanor.
The prime ducks as the blaster fires, rolling on half-transformed knees and catching Megatron’s foot this time as he ducks under him. Megatron yells, only half catching himself, and it’s enough to give Optimus adequate time to grab him by the neck and point a blaster between his eyes.
Megatron sneers, recognizing his precarious position but letting his ego do the talking. “You won’t.”
Optimus narrows his optics. “Won’t I?”
“You’ve never had the ball bearings before.”
Optimus’ face morphs into something dangerous, dark enough that Megatron falters on his words.
“Times change.”
Without hesitation, Optimus Prime fires.
Megatron screams, the blaster going through the right side of his head and into the dirt under him. He charges, shooting wildly to get Optimus away from him. It works, just barely hitting Optimus’ shoulder, and Megatron scuttles to his feet in a blind rage. He looks ghastly, a hole in his processor and his mind literally melting to the floor as the seconds tick by.
Optimus didn’t think he would go down in one shot, but he’s at least dying. With hardware as old as Megatron’s, it isn’t a stretch to say that he’s a bit sturdier than most. Old pieces tend to be more resistant than younger, newer models. It’s only a matter of time before he dies, though, and Optimus knows it will be today. Optimus knows it will be now. As cunning and powerful as the warlord is, he’s also prideful. Turning tail and running to medbay is not an option for Megatron.
“Bumblebee,” Optimus says into his comm, voice even and clear. Bee chuffs, an affirmative, and Optimus stares distastefully as the warlord throwing himself at him. “Can you spare a moment?”
The crazed bot swings with an incredible amount of force, and Optimus simply jumps out of the way. He’s collected, impassive, leading Megatron on like a predator laying a trap. Bumblebee whuffs an affirmative in his audials, and he nods to himself.
“Aim for my head,” he says, optics flicking behind Megatron to where his scout is. His subordinate. His sparkling. “Release when I say so.”
Bumblebee doesn’t question him. He leaps up a desecrated building, gaining vantage while making sure no one will get to him in his position. He’s ready.
Megatron charges, blaster ready to fire and old decrepit claws aimed for Optimus’ throat. He throws out a hand, pushing the blaster up so it will fire above his head instead of at his chest. At the same time, he grabs the wrist of the outstretched hand to twist and bring Megatron to his knees. The warlord is losing strength, he realizes, his melting mind becoming unable to withstand the information coming in from simply existing.
Optimus, surprisingly calmly, bends on one knee behind Megatron. He’s holding the decepticon still, hand behind his back in such a compromising position that if he were to move he would lose it. Optimus’ optics are bright in the wake of his determinedly darkened face, and they shine off of Megatron’s chipped metal plating. He sees himself in the reflection and he does not bat an eye.
This is not the Megatron he once knew. This is not a bot that can be saved. That friend who he once fought beside perished eons ago.
Calmly, and with great strength, he uses his other hand to grab the back of Megatron’s head and force his one remaining optic to look up. He knows the warlord sees Bumblebee, cannon charged and ready to fire. Waiting for his order.
“You remember that scout, hm?”
The battle around them grows louder, a cacophony of noise that neither of them hear. Megatron’s vents are opening and closing, knowing they have to cool down but not being able to with the vegetating state of his mind. Processes in the warlord are failing already, Optimus realizes, but he knows he can do this one thing for Bumblebee.
“You took his voice.”
Megatron struggles weakly, panic making his movements jerky. Optimus does not let go.
“You took something that we cannot replace.”
Megatron’s body is stiffening, a sign indicative of low energon, but Optimus has seen this happen enough times to his own allies that he knows the warlord can still hear him.
“Your cruelty has lasted for too long. You will not rob him of his future.”
Megatron’s mouth opens, a croak falling from his failing voice box.
“Bumblebee,” Optimus speaks, optics locking with his child’s from across the battlefield. “Shoot.”
Megatron falls dead at his feet.
~*~
Ratchet’s working overtime.
Such is the life of a medic, Optimus supposes, but he wishes Ratchet would hurry up and clear him. He’s worried for Bumblebee. He wants to make sure he’s alright.
“Would ya quit wigglin’?” Ratchet bites out, teeth clenched. He harshly tweaks a bit of delicate circuitry, eliciting a sharp inhale from his superior. He gets the message, he really does, but he can’t help but fidget.
“Apologies, Ratchet, I am just anxious to check on Bumblebee.”
The medic is silent for a moment, an almost unreadable expression on his face, but his mouth is curved into a slight smile as he solders off another patch of plating. “You really care for that kid, don’cha?”
Prime doesn’t bat an eye at the callout. “Yes.”
Ratchet looks surprised at the lack of fumbling for an answer, but he chuckles all the same. He finishes his soldering job, putting down his instruments with a light pat to the shoulder. “Alright. You’re stable enough for now to be let go, but I want no arguments when I call you for a checkup later.”
Optimus grins, big and wide, as he sits up. “Thank you, old friend.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ratchet mutters, trying and failing to hide his own smile. “Go find your kid, Prime.”
Optimus doesn’t object to the designation. He swings his legs off of the medical berth, standing and giving his injured shoulder a test rotation. It creaks, only slightly, but it feels miles better than when he came in.
“Give Bumblebee my regards, won’t ya?” Ratchet calls as he leaves, and Optimus hums a distracted affirmative in response. He’s already opening the door.
Not willing to waste time actually searching, he pings Bumblebee’s comm link. He receives an answer immediately, always the loyal scout, along with Bee’s location. He must be wanting to see Optimus too.
When Megatron fell, so did silence over the battlefield. Actual shock that the leader of the decepticons was well and truly deceased spread across both sides of the fight. A silence uninterrupted until Starscream tried to gain control over the army in Megatron’s stead. This was quickly snuffed out by a blaster to the head, and to this day no one is sure who did it.
After that, it was a blur of activity. Some opposing bots immediately surrendered, and those who did not were dealt with in a quick and professional manner. They could either go about their business in the universe and find what purpose they could, or they could become enemies that were shot on sight. Many chose the former, and those who didn’t flew off to cause trouble another day.
Through the chaos, Optimus was not able to properly talk to Bumblebee. He had to immediately jump to negotiations, as he was recognized as the one with the most authority almost immediately. Bumblebee was lost in the fray, likely standing to the side as Ratchet fussed over him. Even when they had returned to the planet where they had set up their base of operations, he hadn’t been able to spare a moment.
So, now was the time. He had to find his child or he wouldn’t be able to stand it.
The location Bee had sent was outside of their ship. He recognizes it as where they had found an entire hive of bumblebees, and many a solar cycle was spent sitting and watching them work.
He exits the ship, bidding a hello to a recovering Prowl. He hurries after the door closes behind him, pedes flattening what little grass is left on the path that had worn down over the stellar cycles they had spent on this planet. The hive was oft visited by Bumblebee, and Optimus has always admired the way he could sit and do nothing for hours without feeling like he was missing out on something important. He supposes it’s the dependency on himself, the faith that his leader would triumph no matter what.
He’s glad he can give Bumblebee that reassurance.
Finally, he’s nearing the small clearing that the scout’s location pinged from. He slows his steps, entering carefully, and the resulting sight is the reason.
The scout sits in the middle of the clearing, a respectable distance away from the nest, with bumblebees crawling on every inch of him. He’s moving slowly, almost still, to allow them to crawl as they please. Optimus can see he’s gathered a few of the local flora to put in his hands so the little creatures will have reason to come to him.
He’s quiet, but not silent, letting his scout know he is approaching before gently sitting down next to him (well, as gentle as a four-ton giant can). He watches for a moment, seeing Bumblebee close an optic so the approaching insect won’t get in his circuitry.
“You were remarkable yesterday.”
Bumblebee angles his head to look up at Optimus. The prime sees him dump the vegetation he had gathered next to him for the bees to pick at themselves. The scout’s engine makes a low rumble, indicative of a question.
“How do you feel?”
The scout takes a moment to stare at the ground, then at the hive across the clearing. The bees are working hard, as unbothered as ever, as unaware of the centuries-long war that had just concluded as the grass beneath their feet. Bumblebee finally makes a chuff, gently drawing a finger along the ground before looking up at him and beeping slightly.
“I’ll take that as good?” Optimus says, the side of his mouth quirking a bit.
A notification pops up in his view, and upon opening he reveals it’s from Bumblebee. The binary reads one word.
Relieved.
Optimus gives a small laugh at the response, nodding his head and staring at the grass in front of them. He pauses, taking stock of his own emotions. He’s been fighting so long, he’s become an emotionless husk of who he once was. Orion Pax, nervous librarian and dedicated scholar, was in a time long gone. His love of learning and documentation extinguished by the conflict that destroyed his home. Now, all these billions of years later, he’s not sure who he is anymore. Not sure what he wants to do.
He peers at Bumblebee, watching as the scout looks at him in anticipation. He’s waiting for the prime to respond, and Optimus can’t help but think of when he found the scout. Small, helpless B-127 who had barely any wits about him, growing into the dependable and sassy young Bumblebee. Optimus couldn’t imagine seeing the person B-127 would become all those years ago. To know his mentorship and borderline parenting was actually good enough to bring about the sweetest bot in the universe.
He wants Bumblebee to grow up properly, however that happens. He wants to be there to see him mature into the great bot he knows the young scout can become. But Bumblebee has to make that decision, too. To stay with Optimus.
“Now that the war is over, you are free to do as you please,” Optimus finally says, optics flicking to the ground for a moment before they rest back on Bumblebee’s face. “You can do anything you like. You may go out into the universe and find your place in it. Or…” The scout’s face is expectant, hopeful. Optimus hopes to every higher being that he will accept. “…you may stay with me.”
He tries to say more, to offer other ideas for what Bumblebee can do so he won’t feel required to stay if he doesn’t want to, but a sudden crash of metal to his chest stops him mid-sentence. The yellow blur is bodily hugging him, little arms squeezing his midsection plating tight. His doorwings are fluttering along with his damaged voicebox, chirps and beeps sounding in rapid succession as he buries his face in Optimus’ chassis.
The prime can only assume this is a yes.
He blinks once, joy overtaking him when he hugs his child back, and he can distantly feel his optics misting with lubricant. The pop up in the corner of his vision states that his processes are becoming jerky with emotional protocols and that lubricant is required to help.
Bumblebee shifts in the hug, prompting Optimus to pull back to look at him. He keeps an arm on the scout’s shoulder, reassurance that Bumblebee is still here and still whole. Still with him.
The scout has no doubt noticed the tears in his eyes, as indicated by his alarmed chirp. He chuckles wetly, lubricant having gotten in his delicate facial plates, and he wipes his eyes.
Optimus Prime doesn’t cry. His prime status puts him above such things. He has to be a leader, with the cause always put first. There’s never any room for grief when you have a gun pointed at your helm. But he supposes he’s done a lot that is not expected of him in the time he’s known Bumblebee, and heaven forbid he stop now that he’s allowed.
Bee whirrs again, and Optimus shakes his head minutely before pulling him back into a hug. “I am fine. Just…happy.”