Chapter Text
Bumblebee couldn’t deny it, he was exhausted. Probably hadn’t been the best idea to skip his recharge cycle to go on a drag racing joyride with Knockout when he had work this cycle. At least it was only desk duty and filling out forms this shift... But still, easy work or not, he knew he would not be able to get through his shift without a ‘pick-me-up. His hydraulics felt too sluggish, and his optics burned slightly with the desire to close against his will.
There was absolutely no way he would make it through the cycle without some Revita-gon. The QQ was on the way, it wouldn’t be a big deal to stop in and grab a couple to keep him going through his shift. There was plenty of time to stop as long as he didn’t get caught up in anything along the way, which was unlikely at this early joor. Even troublemakers needed their recharge, and this section of Iacon rarely experienced any truly dangerous criminal behavior.
There had been an uptick in blasphemy cases recently, and he knew there would be a stack of pads consisting solely of those files on his desk. It seemed that those in the Sublevels were quite vocal in their displeasure towards his Sire and or the Council system he had left to govern them. His superiors had thus ordered an increase in Enforcer patrols in the sublevels, to ‘ease the unrest.’
Bumblebee scoffed as he kicked a small stone down the sidewalk with his left pede. The new orders weren’t just, and he knew it. It was simply a way to over enforce the mechs in the sublevels. It had created a steady influx of shanix in the means of fines, and those that couldn’t pay were sentenced to labor through the prison systems. A win-win for the system but a net loss for the supposedly free citizens of Cybertron. Optimus Prime would have never allowed this.
He had to admit, he wasn’t sure what his Sire’s stance on blasphemy was. It had never really come up in any of the stories or songs he had been told as a sparkling, and it was never a topic he had ever thought to ask Optimus about as he’d grown older. But he did know that Optimus would never approve of such a blatant disparity in the level of enforcement between the Upper and Lower level citizens. It was not true justice to enforce some more than others. Maybe if he brought the issue up with Ratchet… They were due for a visit soon, and he knew that this would be something his Nurturer would agree with him on at least…
The pebble he had been kicking veered off to the left, further than he had energy to bother with following it to continue his little game. It wasn’t too much further to the Quick Qube anyway, and he already passed the tactless billboard depicting his Sire with a smile on his face and “Till All Are One.” written beside his likeness almost Like a slogan. It was… uncomfortable to look at. Optimus didn’t… smile. Not like that artist’s depiction, anyway. When he did, they were often forced, covering up some greater discomfort or pain that he never spoke of to anyone, yet still were genuine in their expression. This smile was fake…. It was wrong, almost a mockery; he hated looking at it, and the hundreds of others just like it dotting the city. It reminded him of those tactless advertisements all over the cities on Earth, trying to make people want to buy things.
He really didn’t understand why his Nurturer allowed it. He understood that Ratchet felt a deep inner need to preserve Optimus’ legacy, but most of these depictions felt more like a mockery than a celebration of all his Sire had done for Cybertron. But honestly, bringing that up in a conversation almost felt cruel. It was… painfully obvious how deeply Ratchet was affected by the loss whenever Optimus was brought up. Criticizing his method of expressing his grief, even if that grief was painful to look at, just seemed… taboo. It was true, at least, that no one could ever forget Optimus when his face was plastered everywhere…
The QQ wasn’t a very large shop by any means. It only carried various forms of energon, some snacks and other various common consumables to supply the mechs working in the Trion Square complex of businesses and government services. When Bumblebee stepped inside, the shop seemed deserted, save for the mech behind the register; a small blessing that he had beat the morning influx of archivists on their way to the Hall of Records. He didn’t have the time to wait behind them in line if he wanted to get an early start on his desk work.
Revita-gon and other stimulating elixirs were displayed in the back, the aisle furthest from the entrance. Bumblebee knew this was a ploy to force customers to walk past more products on their hunt for their morning pick-me-ups, to encourage more spending, but he was on a mission as he walked towards the back, cutting through a few aisles as he calculated how many cubes he’d need to buy to last him the cycle… Three should be enough to keep him awake through his shift, but four would be required to keep his mind sharp and focused on getting as many of those blasphemy cases dismissed as possible… but if he bought five he would get one free… Did he really need six?
Bumblebee rounded the corner of the last aisle, his helm still unsure if he really needed to go for the deal or not, when he glanced up and felt as if time itself froze around him as he took in the worst possible obstacle between him and his much-needed Revitagon. Orion Pax, the Replacement, stood just in front of his prize, back turned towards him, fumbling with an extra large cube of what appeared to be a hangover tonic. The optical scan he performed was completely involuntary, an unfortunate side effect of his police training, and one he desperately wished he could suppress more effectively when he was off duty.
His HUD flooded with information detectable from this close of a range: scuffed paints, scratches, dents on the plating, and as Orion turned to face him, the dimmed, flickering lights of his optics as they slowly cycled into focus on him told Bee more than he wanted to know about Orion Pax’s activities in the past cycle. He was obviously hungover as all slag and judging by the servo shaped dents at his hips and the scuffed paints on his back it was painfully obvious just what sort of drunken activities he had been engaging in with that pit-stain of an abomination he called a conjunx.
Disgusting. Bumblebee felt his tanks clench in revulsion as recognition struck Orion’s processor, and his obviously exhausted face pulled itself into a smile that others would probably describe as loving, but to him was merely a sickening mockery of the smile that belonged to his Sire. Orion Pax was the walking manifestation of wicked selfishness, willing to put the entire planet, no… the entire universe, at risk just so he could live out his vile archivist gladiator fantasy romance with Megatron.
“Good orn, Bumblebee. What a pleasant coincidence to meet you here this early…" Orion spoke agonizingly slowly, his glyphs imprecise, yet thick and his words slurred from the aftereffects of too much high grade: a disgusting usage of the frame and voice gifted to him by Optimus Prime. One of the most infuriating things about Pax was his methodological usage of excess, unnecessary glyphs that often gave Bumblebee the impression that he was talking down to those around him, another slight against Optimus, who usually remained humble in his speech.
"... been some time since I have last spoken to you, and I wanted to….” Orion was prattling on in an agonizingly slow manner, and suddenly Bumblebee felt a twinge begin to build up in his processor, making his helm start to ache. Orion’s hungover monotone grated at his audials and felt like listening to a train wreck happening in slow motion. He spoke so slagging slowly that it was impossible to focus on what he was trying to even convey, and his scanners kept pointing out each dent and scratch marring what was supposed to be Optimus’s frame, incorrectly categorizing them as signs of an assault. It forced him to again and again be reminded of what Megatron was doing to what was left of his Sire’s frame. Disgusting… Orion Pax had absolutely no decency parading around in that state.
Orion clumsily shifted his hold on the cubes he was carrying, to reach into his pouch at his hip as he continued his inane rambling. “...been working on this gift for you. It’s a datapad full of myths and…” How long was Orion seriously going to keep on with this pathetic charade that he actually cared about him anyway? Every time they ran into each other it was like this; Orion would carry on and give him some gift or other, usually things he would have liked when he was a sparkling, until Bumblebee could find some excuse to get the frag away from him before his snapped…
But he was so tired, and his helm was growing more and more pained each klik… Orion’s voice was grating on his audials like a claw being dragged down a sheet of glass.
“Just… stop!” He interrupted Orion harshly, and he couldn’t help the mild sense of satisfaction that bubbled in his processor at the hurt, but confused look that sprung up on Orion’s face at his tone. The archivist fell silent as Bumblebee spoke. “You’re always doing this scrap! I don’t know how someone so intrinsically connected to Optimus could be so dense in the helm.”
Orion opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but closed it again when Bumblebee raised his servo. “No! You’ve said enough. I’m done, Pax. Every time we run into each other, you pull this ‘estranged sire’ routine and try to buy your way into my life with stupid gifts or stories, and I have to play like I care. I’m done.”
Orion’s reactions were slowed, likely a result of his hungover state, but the way his face sank in understanding was a strange form of catharsis. “You don’t just get to decide to be a sire when you want to! You’ve done nothing for me my entire life! Every chance you had to forge a relationship, you turned your back on me! And for what?”
Orion stood frozen, as they would say on earth: like a deer in headlights. Once again he tried to speak, but as soon as he started, Bumblebee cut him off. “Save it. I know the reason. You turned your back on me, your supposed sparkling, so you could go frag off with Megatron.”
“You don’t und-”
“Shut up! I understand perfectly. I’m not stupid, Pax! You’ve shown me exactly what you care about every time you’ve had the chance! Every fragging time I actually needed you, you chose to frag off with Megatron without saying anything!”
Orion visibly winced at the venom in his words, his audials falling almost flat. “Bumblebee, I’m s-”
“Oh no, Pax. You don’t get to be ‘sorry.’ ‘Sorry’ is what you should have said to me when my Sire sacrificed himself so that you could live in his stead. ‘Sorry’ is what you should have said before fragging off with Megatron back on Earth. ‘Sorry is what you should have said vorns ago! You’re not ‘sorry’ for what you did! You’re ‘sorry’ that I’m not putting up with your scrap!”
“Why the frag would you even think I’d want anything to do with you? You chose Megatron over me! More than once! You willingly and happily live with the very mech who destroyed our planet. You have your fuels with the Unmaker’s spawn. You kiss and love and interface with the mech who ripped out my voice!”
Orion flinched again, and seemed to sink in on himself, but he did not try to speak. To Bumblebee, he looked much like a ‘kicked dog,’ as the humans would say. Orion would always choose Megatron. Everyone knew that. What a perfect time to prove it now, once and for all, when he finally had Orion right where he deserved to be.
“Listen carefully, Pax. You can prove to me, right now, that you really want this relationship with me. All you have to do is make a choice. You can only have one or the other.” Orion looked at him, with a worried confusion, as he processed what was being conveyed to him. “Me or Megatron.”
Orion didn’t even have to speak his answer. It was evident by the instant shame in his face and the way his optics immediately fell to the floor. His audials lowered even further as he further deflated into himself. The pitiful excuse for a mech didn’t even have to think about it. It would have been sad if it weren’t so predictable.
“That’s what I thought. You will always choose him over me. You disgust me. Now get the frag out of my way and leave. me. alone.”
Orion said nothing, only nodded once, and stepped to the side, as Bumblebee furiously stomped past him. He wished Orion had been a little slower to step aside. It would have felt nice to shoulder check him, just for emphasis that he meant what he had said. But judging by the look on Orion’s face, he got the message just fine without it.
Finally, he stood before the Revita-gon display; the slagging drink that had dragged him in here and into this confrontation in the first place. He took a klik to try and push his anger aside. He had a whole shift he still needed to get through, and he knew he tended to be less sympathetic when he was angry.
This was fine. This needed to happen. At least now, Orion knew how he really felt, and that he wanted to be left alone. If there was even a slice of dignity in Orion Pax, he would honor that. No more would he have to play nice to Optimus’s replacement. He was free of Orion Pax from here on out.
He smiled at that thought and finally reached forward to grab his pick-me-ups. After what he just went through, yeah, six sounded great. When he turned around, Orion was gone. Bumblebee took his time as he made his way to the front of the shop, and was pleased to see that the morning influx of archivists were just starting to file in. The check-out line was still free and open.
Perfect. He wouldn’t be late, and he wouldn’t have to deal with Pax anymore. He couldn’t wait to tell Ratchet about it, and how good it felt to tell him to frag off. He smiled as he paid his credits and popped open one of the drinks. It was going to be a good cycle.