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Megatron hated yellow and black. Apart, they were fine. Along with other colors, they were fine. But together and alone, they reminded him of the mines. Many of his people felt differently. Most despised grey. They felt the grey walls of their work and prison close around them, the grey tools that they were forced to pick up and swing would dig into the soft metal of their servos, and the skies hid the great vastness of space behind a thick grey cloud. But Megatron never resented the walls or the ground. It was not the wall's fault that many were forced to destroy it in search of the things it held. It was not the tools' fault that they were designed without concern for those that held them. It was not the skies’ fault that it was hidden by smog.
But yellow and black were painted upon his body, and the many bodies around him, without their consent. It was on the helms and arms of his companions, forced on them by their higher-ups. It itched as it flaked off, improperly maintained and hardly integrated onto his frame properly. Yellow and black meant subservience. Yellow and black were the only colors he saw past the optics of those around them, almost as dull as their grey frames.
He hardly counted the blue of the energon he mined. It existed in the space of his processor that was for work and work only. Its existence meant only that he had a moment to quit hacking at the ground around him for a moment as he transported it to a cart. He never cared for it, but it never bothered him either. Some said that blue was the color of life, but he didn’t have a particular opinion of it until he met Orion.
Orion’s blue was different. It was dark and could be mistaken for black in the middle of the night. It was shiny and well-kept, a luxury that Megatron himself never let himself indulge in sans the minimum upkeep that was required of a soon-to-be revolutionary. The lights of Iacon reflected off of it in ways that mesmerized the gladiator, twisting the lights with the curve of his frame. Of course, the red was beautiful too, but it was the blue that captured his gaze most often.
Blue like energon, but not quite. Blue like the dark skies above that he could see clearly on nights when they drove for miles, silent and comfortable in each other’s presence. Blue like Orion’s own optics, which were much lighter but no less mesmerizing. Undamaged and unhindered in freely spinning from dust or debris, they were a sight to behold. Blue was Orion’s color, and no one else’s, regardless of what the logical part of his mind told him.
He told Orion, once, about his distaste for the mines' safety colors. It was one of his more vulnerable moments, sitting in Orion’s room with data pads scattered about. It was quiet, Orion’s well-kept joints hardly making a sound when he moved. The archivist had been focused on a historical document, but Megatron had been distracted by the neon yellow and black striped band he had around his wrist.
“-so when the functionalists began to rise in power, it was actually surprisingly easy to get people to-Megatronus?” Orion asked, tilting his head to meet Megatron’s optics more obviously, “Are you alright?”
“Hm?” Megatron blinked, “What?”
“You seem distracted.” Orion said, putting the pad down. “Did you even hear what I was talking about?”
“Functionalism. How easy it was for them to herd people into it. Yes, I was listening.”
Orion narrowed his optics. Those big, blue optics. “Yes, well. You seemed out of it.”
“Take that off.” Megatron said instead of responding to the accusation.
“Excuse me?” Orion frowned, following Megatron’s gaze to the band. “Why should I-?”
“Take it off, now.” Megatron reached over, intent on just pulling the hated thing off himself, but Orion pulled his wrist away, slapping Megatron’s digits with only a bit of force. “Orion, you have to take it off.”
“Why?” Orion asked, putting a servo almost protectively over the band.
“What is it, why keep it on?” Megatron’s processor quickly filled with images of peeling paint on the overworked bodies around him, of painfully scratching off his own in a fit of rage, of the cold feeling that the cheap paint left while it was still drying.
“It’s a medical marker. I need it.” Orion said haltingly.
“Why in the Allspark would you need a medical marker?”
“Because I’m being treated right now?” Orion said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
That caught Megatron’s attention, and he finally looked away from the band and at the confused expression that his friend wore. “Treated? What for? You’re hurt?”
Orion rolled his optics, “It’s just a small operation for some pistons in my wrist. Being a clerk involves a lot of typing.” He snorted, “Although I’m sure that seems quite silly when compared to the injuries you get in the pits”
Megatron once again stared at the band, “You’re marked for…surgery?”
“A small one. The band just means that I have temporary pistons put in until I can get permanent ones, so no one tries to be too rough with my servo.” Orion chuckled, “It’s overkill, but what Ratchet says is law and I am not going to argue with him.”
The information that Orion was giving him clashed with what he knew about the band, about the colors. Those colors were supposed to mean danger - and to a certain extent, he supposed breaking a wrist could be considered dangerous to higher-class bots - but Orion wore them willingly. Wore them as a show of weakness. Wore them without question.
“Take it off.”
“I can’t-”
Megatron made another grab at the band, his processor too overloaded with memories that he had long since shoved away to think straight. This time, Orion didn’t react quick enough and his sharp digits hooked into the flimsy material, pulling it until it snapped.
Orion pulled his arm away with a sharp intake, and for a moment Megatron thought that he had broken the pistons like he'd said. But the look on Orion’s face wasn’t that of pain, but of worry. Somehow, that look shocked Megatron out of his vague memory fog. Worry wasn’t something he got directed at him often. The only person who would worry about him was Soundwave, and Soundwave was either not able or chose not to express it.
Despite having been violated, Orion got on his knees and knelt forward, his optics searching Megatron’s face. Megatron focused on the blue, trying his hardest to ignore the yellow band resting innocuously on the floor now. Orion let there be quiet for a moment before he spoke, “Okay. It’s off now. Are you going to tell me what the frag that was about?”
Megatron refused to speak for a moment, more out of the realization that he’d overreacted than anything else, but eventually the quiet got to be too much, and he could feel the band as if it watched him, taunting him with its bold colors. “The color.” He finally managed to force out of his voice box.
“The…what?” Orion looked at the band again, “Yellow?”
“And black.” Megatron forced his body to release some of the stress it held inside, his pistons grating against one another as he sat back. “It means danger.”
Orion blinked, then grabbed the band. For a moment, Megatron considered that he would try and tie it back on, and what that meant for the two of them, but all discomfort was thrown out of the window as Orion stood up and put it in a drawer. His years as a gladiator made his instincts shout at him, telling him to stand up, to not let Orion take the position of power, but he didn’t. He kept himself firmly on the ground as Orion seated himself again, pushing the pads away so that they could be closer.
“Okay. Yellow and black means danger. Why?” Orion tugged one of his legs up and put his helm on it, a casual and dangerous position to be in a gladiator’s presence.
Sometimes Megatron wondered if Orion knew what he was doing. If he knew that his demeanor was docile and unthreatening and was trying to use it against him in some sort of strange emotional double-cross. If Orion didn’t periodically start bar fights and square up against opponents that could absolutely send him on a one-way path to the AllSpark, Megatron would almost think that he was purposefully trying to send a false message of weakness.
He must have taken too long to respond, because Orion folded his arms, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll be mad. That band did have a purpose, you know. And if I’m to face Ratchet’s wrath, I’d like to know why.”
“Mad, Orion?” Megatron huffed, “I’m terrified.”
“You should be. I’m a very scary person when I’m angry.” Orion said so matter-of-factly that the corners of Megatron’s mouth twitched up slightly against his will. “So?”
Megatron sighed, “The colors meant something else in the mines.”
Orion’s optics widened, “Oh. I didn’t know it was a mine thing. You don’t have to-”
“Do not treat me as if I am fragile, Pax. You won’t like where that takes you.” Megatron cut him off, despising the apologetic tone coloring Orion’s voice. “I am not going to implode if I talk about some intentionally misplaced rocks.”
Orion was silent for a moment, and Megatron gave him the time to choose his next words carefully. “Then what did those colors mean?”
He was pushing the subject. A bold move, in Megatron’s eye. He squashed the feeling of being vaguely impressed - it wasn’t really something that should be considered impressive. “I suppose it was meant as a safety measure. All of the mine laborers had it painted on their bodies in some way or another, a way of picking us out among the tunnels.” Despite himself, his tanks twisted as he recalled it out loud. “Not that it mattered.”
“Forgive me if I’m missing something, but is that not a good thing?” Orion asked slowly.
“The worker’s safety was never a priority for the higher-ups. It was regulation. They did the bare minimum to make sure that they were paid at the end of the day.” Megatron growled. “Yellow stripes hardly do much to help when you’re crushed under steel beams and tons of rubble. They don’t help your clogged pistons or open wounds.” He didn’t realize that he was touching an old scar across his abdomen until Orion glanced at it. He caught Orion’s optic as he continued. “The most help they ever were was when you had to find the bodies after the dust settled.”
Orion pulled his other leg up, a sort of self-soothing gesture that Megatron had become accustomed to seeing when he spoke of his past in the mines, or of the bodies in the pits, or any other time when the archivist was particularly upset. Despite this, Orion gave him no words of pity, something that Megatron appreciated. “You didn’t have a choice in wearing it, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not.” Orion echoed softly, glancing at the drawer. “I won’t wear it.”
“I am just glad it means something of actual value here.” Megatron said, “I had thought…”
Orion didn’t mention the way his sentence trailed off, “I’ll just use my other servo when someone needs it.” He said instead, flexing the aforementioned limb.
“And Ratchet?”
“Oh, he’ll hate you for taking it off.” Orion shrugged, a smirk on his face as he unraveled himself and stuck his face close to Megatron’s. “And I’m sure you’re scared of that.”
“Terrified.” Megatron slapped the side of Orion’s helm, earning a sharp laugh and a surprisingly painful sock on the shoulder. “Get back to your research, Archivist.”
Orion saluted, worry gone from his face as he responded in a sarcastic tone, “Yes, sir!”
Megatron soon forgot about the little yellow and black band in the drawer.
Optimus Prime had a pet now. From his spies, reports of a bot that the Prime seemed to be particularly attached to trickled in, and a few things caught Megatron’s attention. First, it seemed that the scout was war-born, one of the last newsparks to come out of the well after it went dark. Second, Optimus Prime seemed protective of it in a way that he wasn’t with his other soldiers, training it himself and letting it nearer to him than most bots were able to get. And third, it was painted black and yellow.
Deep in his spark, Megatron wondered if this was just another way to hurt him. Another way to rub in his face the fact that Optimus despised him, perhaps had always despised him. Another way to use their late-night discussions and quiet talks against him. Another way to pull his spark out of its chamber and smash it into the ground, snuffing out anything worthwhile. Another way to prove to him that Orion Pax was dead, replaced with a monster of the Council’s making.
The betrayal hurt on another level, because never before had Optimus taunted him so. They had fought, they had bled, they had screamed at and hurt and nearly killed each other. But Orion Pax never would have taunted him, never would have used such a deeply personal thing against him.
But Orion Pax was dead, taken from him by a Council and a Matrix.
And that little yellow and black bot was the end of any hope that Megatron had of getting him back.