Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Their crumbling base doesn't exactly create an appropriate environment for human education, Optimus thinks, but he admires Bumblebee’s and Bulkhead’s efforts from the doorway anyway.

Even as Sari slumps deep on their shared sofa and looks klicks away from “dying of boredom,” as she’s often proclaimed. She blinks slowly, face is dull as she watches Bumblebee fumble with the holoprojector. [And where they managed to scrounge up one of those, Optimus has no idea. At least they’re using it for educational purposes and not glorified video game set-ups.]

“-and that brings us onto our next topic, class!” Bumblebee declares as he jams a button on the remote he’s holding. The projector gives a heavy whir, a huff of smoke, before emitting a faded display of stars all around them. “Astrology!”

“Astronomy,” Bulkhead whispers next to him.

“That’s what I said.”

Sari sighs and, if possible, becomes even more one with the couch.

“Uh- okay- so-” Bumblebee has something in his hand- Sari’s Earth textbook, Optimus realizes when he squints. He’s trying to read off of it as he talks, but the words are too small, even when they enhance their optics. “Astrology is the study of stars, dating back to… angel time- no wait, ancient times! It has been used for navigation and farming and, uh, seasonal changes? Anyway, today, we’re going to be learning about consternations!”

"Constellations," Bulkhead corrects.

"Constellations!" Bumblebee throws his hands up, and the book along with them.

The book thunks against Optimus’ head, which everyone ignores. Bulkhead takes the remote and clicks forward. The display shrinks, now displaying a cluster of stars in front of Sari’s unamused face.

Bulkhead’s optics squint the way they usually do when he’s pleased. “This one here is my favorite!” Seven white dots in the shape of some kind of- ladle? “The Big Dipper! See, there’s the North Star. The North star is really important for navigation and-”

“ Bo-ring !” Bumblebee shoves him away. “How about we turn our heads to a real star show? Check this out!”

The display shifts. White stars arranged in the shape of a- rectangle? Optimus tilts his helm in confusion. Two rectangles with some lines protruding?

“Now, he doesn’t look like much, but this is Orion! He was a major hunter back in your ancient Earth days, I hear. And he was even gonna hunt everything off the face of the Earth. But mama Earth didn’t like that, so she sent a big scorpion to kill him! And then he was banished into space!”

Optimus blinks. Is- Is this an age-appropriate lesson to be teaching Sari? This is rather… graphic for a human her age. How old is she again?

“Hey!” Bulkhead makes a grab at the remote. “You said I could go first!”

“You were taking too long, big guy!” He stretches the remote away from Bulkhead and places a pede on his chest, staving him away. He’s balanced precariously. “Sari doesn’t want to hear about some food utensil in the sky anyway. At least mine has a cool story!”

“Sure. Like that part where the scorpion that killed him gets sent into space and chases him around for the rest of time-”

“Ughhh,” Sari’s groan interrupts their argument. “Who cares! How is knowing about the stars and these stupid stories going to help us with battling the Decepticons!”

Both Bumblebee and Bulkhead pause from where they’ve started swatting each other. Bumblebee looks at Bulkhead, who stutters out, “Um. Well. We’re… all from space? The- stars are important because your people used them for navigation and direction-”

Sari throws up her hands. “That’s what we have a GPS for, duh?”

“Now, Sari,” Optimus says with as much softness as he can. “These two just want to help you continue your education. Your father wanted-”

“My dad’s not here, is he?” She bites, far too much venom for her little form. “He’s kidnapped, trapped who knows where, and instead of looking for him, here I am learning about a big spoon and some guy that probably didn’t even exist!” She crosses her arms. “At least we've got that in common.”

Bumblebee and Bulkhead flinch. They turn their optics towards him, somewhat desperate. Optimus wishes he knew the right thing to say, but what words can he provide to the girl who just lost her father? The one who wakes up cold because their base isn’t properly insulated to human life. The one confused and angry and hurt ?

They’re saved from that awkward topic when Prowl appears.

(Literally. Appears. Optimus needs to put a bell on him.)

“Curious,” Prowl mumbles from in between Bee and Bulkhead. The two mechs yelp and jump apart, dropping the remote, while Prowl rubs his chin. The display glitches and zooms in, less of a constellation show and now just a covering of bright orbs. “You say these are supposed to be visible every night, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen these before.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz we live in Detroit? A major city?” Sari rolls her eyes. “There are a bunch of houses and stuff, streetlights and bright billboards that stay on all night. The lights block out all the stars, so you can never really see them in places like this.”

“Which explains why the only time we saw the stars was during the camping trip we took some time ago. I see…” Prowl says in a way that Optimus has come to learn means he’s getting ideas. “And why is there a line in those three?”

“That’s Orion’s belt.”

“Who’s Orion?”

“He was some kinda hunter or something, so he got a belt named after him.”

“Actually,” Bumblebee hurries to pick himself up off the floor. “-Orion’s belt is just a part of the constellation of Orion-

A sharp beep cuts his words- a crime alert. The chief’s voice declares a robbery in progress, calling for backup and naming the major cross streets.

“Crime time!” Sari mobilizes faster than Optimus has time to blink. She hops off the couch and speeds over to Bumblebee, who transforms into his vehicle mode and pops open his door so she can climb in. “Ah well, time to go, guess the lesson will have to wait!”

When Bumblebee drives past him, Sari in the passenger seat, Optimus picks up a faint ‘phew.’

The constellation zooms out, an ever-flickering image of Orion once again, and Optimus sighs. He calls for his team to roll-out, hopes Bumblebee isn’t too far ahead.

.

Okay, so Bumblebee is going through another intense bout of ‘I’m the best and don’t need anyone’s help or input. Also let’s ignore Prime.’ again. He knows Bee is sneaking off trying to find this new league of villains. It’s reckless, and he can only hope Bumblebee will come to them when he realizes he’s in over his head again.

Optimus drives along his usual patrol route and lets his mind blank, lets the quiet night calm his agitation. If only his team had a better track record when it came to doing things on their own- Maybe then he'd have a little more faith.

A sharp beep from his center console alerts him just as he pulls into a lesser used country road.

An Allspark fragment? Here? He wonders and pulls into a ditch.

It takes some time and a lot of careful digging, but he eventually finds it. A fragment, probably smaller than Sari’s hand, wedged deep in the mud. No wonder he’d missed it on previous patrols, the signal is almost non-existent. Optimus takes it gently, lest he break it.

“Bumblebee to Prime ,” Bumblebee suddenly hails, sounding every bit hesitant and unwilling. “ We’ve got a situation here.”

Finally. Optimus puts the Allspark shard into his subspace- no time to get it back to base. He'll just have to keep it safe until later.

…

As if a new human villain with the power to slow time isn't bad enough, now they've teamed up with a Decepticon ?

“Why didn’t you call us sooner?!” Optimus can't help but chastise over the team line.

“I’m sorry!” Bumblebee cries again. “Just get over here!”

Optimus ex-vents and decides to table it, but oh, they will be having words later. And, what a surprise, the Decepticon is a double crossing liar who's stealing the weapon for himself. Who could have guessed?

When Swindle holds the weapon in their direction, Optimus pushes everyone behind him. It flashes a foreboding light blue, the power of the Allspark inside that clock.

Bumblebee is running towards them, going for an interception, but he'll be too late.

The blast hits, someone yells “Prime !” and Optimus shouts as something tugs at his chassis.

…

Optimus wakes up in the dark and for one gloriously peaceful moment, thinks he’s finally joined the Well.

That lovely thought lasts all of a klick, until he finally processes the dull ache in his frame. Still online, then. It was a comforting thought while it lasted.

A quick diagnostic scan tells him he’s mostly alright- his frame is a bit dented, but no worse than a normal battle. Optics at one hundred percent, so he hasn’t gone blind. He really is in a dark- place. Somewhere.

Okay. His Academy training says the first step to take when one finds themself in unknown territory is to become aware of their surroundings. Optimus comes to a stand and turns on his high beams.

Rubble. Granite deposits above, below, all around him.

He’s in a cave.

Alright, step two. When you’re sure you’re in a safe environment, away from any nosy Decepticons, hail your allies. First on the last known frequency, then on the broader bands.

He brings a hand to his audial, opens his comm line. “Ratchet?” The line fizzes and crackles. Not even a hint of voice. He widens his broadcast to the team’s radio line. “Autobots, does anyone read me?” Static, static, a few more clicks, but then still no response.

Slag it all.

It can’t be his antennae, or his audial processors. His diagnostic scan didn’t turn up any reports of damage to them. No, the cave must be weakening his signal. In a last ditch effort, he opens up his line even further. An open frequency.

“This is Optimus Prime,” He hails to the uncaring dark. “Can anyone hear me?”

Silence.

He goes on to step four, because step three is a glorified version of “get through to someone, wait for backup, hope you’re not stuck for too long.” Step four is “hide from Decepticons, repeat steps one and two until you find an ally, and trust in Primus.”

There is no step five.

Optimus places a servo on the wall and begins to walk. It continues like this for many klicks, pacing himself and following the wall, sporadically hailing his team. Every so often, a concerning rumble fills the air and the ground shifts, rocks falling from the walls ominously before everything stills again.

The more he walks, the more apparent it is that he’s in some sort of underground tunnel system. Less of a cave, more of a sophisticated path. Somewhere underneath Detroit? Maybe it’s one of those underground “subways” that Sari’s mentioned before. But she always said that the Autobots were too big to fit in, and this place notably lacks any rails or trains.

Actually, there's quite a few mineral deposits in this place. Specs of blue that faintly glow against the rocks. For a moment, Optimus thinks back to this mornings ‘Astronomy’ lesson.

Is this the power of Swindle’s new weapon? Transportation? But where did the Allspark even take me-?

A thunk to his left nearly has him jumping out of his shell. He turns, shines his light to where the path forks off, although it barely reaches a few yards. The thunking continues, louder and louder- something’s getting closer. Based on the rhythm of it, stomping, like pedes. Definitely not an Earth vehicle.

Another mech, he thinks, somewhat hopeful. Did we all get sent down here?

A light can barely be seen approaching. Distant, dim.

Red.

His servos freeze on the wall.

The thunking pauses as the mech, the Decepticon, down the hall realizes Optimus is standing there. “Who’s there?”

As if his day couldn’t get any worse, Optimus tenses as Megatron, of all people , continues his approach.

There’s nowhere to run, not like he'd make it very far running in a straight line, so Optimus brings up his face shield and produces his axe and bends his knees, ready for combat. Megatron is shadowed by the dark, only his eyes piercing through. Maybe Optimus was too quick in dismissing his joining of the Well of Allsparks.

Megatron steps into the light of Optimus’ highbeams, confident and threatening.

A blink, the red is gone, replaced with a bright yellow. “A civilian!” Megatron- Megatron ?- says, his voice… soft with slight disbelief. “What’s a civilian doing down here?”

Optimus stares and mirrors the gaping expression. Megatron’s got reflective caution tape along his helm, yellow optics, and, most notably, no Decepticon insignia on his chassis.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“I- I- uh.” Optimus blanks. Is this some kind of trick?

The tunnel gives another ominous rumble, bigger than the previous ones, that has them both rocking and off balanced. A large rock cracks loose from the ceiling, coming down right onto Megatron. Optimus barely thinks, just shouts a quick “Look out!” before shoving him out of the way.

A shock of pain hits the back of his helm. Then he doesn't feel anything at all.

.

“-in the name of Primus was a civilian doing down in the caves!”

Optimus groans.

“Don’t move so much, you’re alright, can you see me?”

Optimus opens his eyes. Two mechs- four? No, two again. Standing above him with glowing yellow optics. Behind them, on the wall, are the glittering deep blue shards.

“ Orion ,” he thinks he whispers, and then he’s out again.

Chapter Text

Oddly enough, it’s not the large, uncomfortable slab that Optimus wakes up on that raises his internal alarms.

The one he has in their base is similar: a repurposed wall, cut down into something vaguely rectangular and large enough for him to recline and recharge.

No, he's grown very used to the uncomfortable living conditions on Earth. The smell, however…

Optimus blinks awake, immediately noting the stench of rust and iron and heavy smoke. Nothing like what he’s grown accustomed to in these last solar cycles on Earth. He pulls a very unPrime-ly face and tries not to cough.

“Are you online?”

He turns his head. Beside him on a chair sits the Megaton from the cave- the one with caution tape along his helm and soft yellow optics. Now that Optimus can get a good view of him, he realizes that Megatron’s not as large, isn’t fitted out with his distinguishable war armour, isn’t even the same polished steel grey but instead a faded and oxidized black- but it’s definitely Megatron. From the shape of his helm to his voice to the sheer presence of him.

The warped Megatron leans in closer. Optimus recoils away on instinct. There’s a dull ache in the back of his helm.

“Careful. You took quite the hit.” Megatron assumes he only flinched from the pain. “You civilian builds aren’t made to withstand such extensive damage. The doctor recommends that you stay in the medical ward another solar cycle for observation.”

He sounds so… not evil. Like he didn’t gargle a pack of nails for breakfast. If Optimus were an even stupider mech, he might even say Megatron sounded kind . “Where am I?” He rasps.

“I found you in a mineshaft just outside Kaon. You were wandering the tunnels, speaking to yourself. You appeared to be lost. Then there was a cave-in and you-” Megatron’s face goes a bit funny here. Twitches and frowns. “You pushed me out of the way of a falling boulder. You saved me some damage, although it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m a war build, a hit like that would have been nothing for me. Why did you-” He shakes his helm. “Regardless, I am grateful. Despite the fact that it may have done more harm than good. We’re outside the mines, now. I’ve brought you to our medical tent.”

“Medical…” Optimus mutters and takes in Megatron’s words. “Kaon? We’re on Cybertron?”

Megatron frowns even harder. Concern on his face. “Perhaps there is more damage to your processor than initially thought. I will retrieve the medic once more.” He begins to stand.

“No!” Optimus reaches out to stop him, but instead pulls on his own sensitive wiring and grunts as a stab of pain shoots up his arm. A deep rumble, and when he opens his eyes again, Megatron is standing above him. The flaming sparks of pain subside, and Optimus speaks again. “I’m fine, I’m sorry. I’m just- confused is all.”

It’s obvious that Megatron does not believe him, but the mech drops it. “Would there be any reason for you to be away from Cybertron? Forgive me, but you do not seem like you came from one of our colonies.”

Colonies? What the frag is he talking about? Cybertron hasn’t had colonies since-

Since before the Great War.

Optimus looks around. A bright white tarp surrounds them, the flaps are being tousled open by the breeze from outside. Medical knowledge was always Ratchet’s expertise, not his, but even he can tell there should be more equipment here. A few jumper cables and a pile of energon cubes, a couple of crates off to the side, and a busted up looking welder. Not even a transmitter? Optimus cringes as he hears a distant clanging, and the hiss of steam.

“I’m… not exactly from here, as you can no doubt tell.” He takes in Megatron’s loose posture, scuffed frame, and whirling optics. “Did you see any other bots down there with me? Maybe with flashy colors like mine?”

Megatron shakes his helm. “No. It was only your energy signature that I was notified of.”

Okay, good, maybe? That might mean the rest of his team, or Swindle for that matter, didn’t end up transwarped here with him. But that would also mean he’s stuck here alone.

“Were there supposed to be more with you?”

Never give a Decepticon any information , his programming screams. No matter the threat to oneself. “To be honest, I'm not sure. It seems like I was the only one here. I… must have been lost down there for some time. Would you mind confirming the date for me?”

Megatron looks at him like he’s lost his processor, which isn’t completely unlikely. But Optimus gives him his best innocent smile and hopes he looks enough the part of the helpless, confused, civilian.

“Stellar cycle forty-two, solar cycle twelve after the fifth phase under our second moon.”

Ah . Optimus does not keel over in despair. He doesn’t. Except that’s- over four million years ago. Right. The beginning of hollowness crawls through him, threatens to consume him.

“What,” Optimus says, only after he resets his vocals. “Who… are you, if I may ask? I should thank you properly for helping me.”

Megatron stands up straight and stares at him, optics wide. “My designation is D-16. I am but a humble mining bot from Kaon. I do not require any gratitude; I was merely doing my job.”

Optimus lays his helm back against the metal slab, lets the cool temperature of it ground him. Colonies. Mining bots. Both things long lost to Cybertron’s past. 

“I’m extremely grateful, regardless. Thank you, D-16.”

D-16 looks pleased with himself. How nice. At least someone’s having a good time out of this Primus forsaken situation.

“...What were you doing so deep in the mines? How did you even get down there? There is heavy security around every entry point, only designated miners are allowed in.” Megatron- D-16 asks, although it doesn’t sound like he’s interrogating, merely curious.

“I- got lost.” Optimus says again. Truth.

D-16 narrows his optics in suspicion. “Bots don’t tend to ‘get lost’ down here. What is your designation?”

A thread of ire zaps through him. In his mind’s eye he hears Megatron’s voice, cruel and taunting, laughing in his face ‘I can’t be bothered to remember you’ and he almost bites out “I am Optimus Prime!” before thinking better.

This is- another world. Another time? A place where Megatron isn’t Megatron [yet?] and the very existence of Autobots and Decepticons is probably unheard of. Would revealing his name, revealing himself as a Prime, be too much?

“Orion,” Optimus says, thinking back to the twinkles in the mines. “Uh, Orion… Pax. Is my name.”

D-16’s entire faceplate slackens.

“I asked for your designation. Not a name.”

A social misstep. Optimus freezes and his processors work overtime to remember his ancient Cybertronian history lessons. “Designation” versus “Name”? What’s the difference? He opens his mouth to ask, but D-16 shakes his helm and beats him to it, rushes to get the words out.

“No, no. Please do not be afraid,” He takes a step forward, probably eager, but Optimus can only see it as a threat. “I am no functionalist. Nor will I turn you in for defying that which has been forced upon you. It is inspirational, truly.”

What the frag is he talking about? “Thank you,” Optimus says, the relief in his voice is real, though not for the reasons Megatr- D-16 is probably thinking. “And you? You gave me your designation, D-16. But may I ask your name?”

The bot smiles, a bit sad. It is leagues away from a warlord’s grin. “I have none. Truthfully I’ve never even thought to give myself one. There is no point. It’s not like I’m even a gladiator.”

“I understand,” Optimus lies. “Mega- um. D-16?”

“Yes?”

“I think I might need that medic now.”

Chapter Text

Optimus insists on leaving, despite the doctor’s orders. The medic gives him a gruff once over, confirming Optimus’ processor activity and basic motor functions- everything’s fine, besides a few dents and scratches. The medic doesn’t even offer to buff them out, but Optimus doubts they have the tools for that here anyway. He’s got a bedside manner that makes Ratchet’s seem heavenly in comparison.

“Stupid bot,” he grumbles as he screws on one of his panels closed- tight enough to make it hurt, and Optimus knows it’s on purpose because it’s one of Ratchet’s favorite ways to let everyone know he’s upset. “I’m prescribing never doing that again and staying within your caste’s limits .”

The medic leaves, but not before giving one last meaningful look at him and D-16. [Who is still sitting next to Optimus. Why is he still here? Pity? Some misplaced sense of guilt?]

D-16 smiles at him as he stands off the slab. “Hoist is usually like that, I apologize. It’s nothing personal. Despite his comments, he is the only one here who would not report you to the authorities for intermingling. Rest assured, you were in capable servos the whole time.”

‘Capable servos, right.’ Optimus almost scoffs and rubs at his stiff shoulder plates.

He pulls the tent’s flaps back and exits, realizing that D-16 wasn’t lying before. This tent is just outside the mine shaft entrance, along a jagged cliff formation with questionably stable support beams. The sky is dark and dim, suffocating and filled with smog.

A group of mechs are walking towards the entrance, all of them large, all of them scowling. They’re in the same battered shape as D-16. Practical squared helms and noticeable yellow tape, hooks on their backs, and drill attachments on their arms. Every part of their build screams functionality . Some of them look his way, curious, before sneering and leaving.

Different time. Different society. He glances up at the mech who’s come to stand next to him. Different Megatron.

A Megatron who is D-16, who has followed him outside and is staring openly at him with his bright yellow optics, like he’s some kind of puzzle. It’s creepy.

“...You may come with me, if you like,” says D-16.

Optimus blinks. “What?”

“You look more confused now than you were when I told you we were on Cybertron,” D-16 notes. He bows a little at the waist to speak to Optimus, and when he does, a little bit of dust seeps out of his crevices. “And the friends you were expecting are not here. You obviously have nowhere to go. If you’d like, you may stay at my habsuite. Just until you find your bearings and get something for yourself. Kaon is not known for its hospitality to outsiders.”

‘But you are, huh? ’ Optimus does not say.

Optimus does not go with him, because trusting Megatron, any version of Megatron, is a bad idea in any timeline or time period or universe or wherever it is he is.

“No!” He stammers, quickly. Too quickly; It’s startled D-16. “Ahem. No. Thank you, D-16. But I’ll take my chances.”

“Are you certain, Orion Pax?”

Optimus smiles, eager to leave. “I’ve been told I’m quite the resourceful mech. If you’ll just point me to the nearest city, I’ll be on my way!”

“That would be fifty kilometers along this path. It eventually reaches the main road. But-”

“Thank you again, Me- D-16! Bye now!”

“Wait, Orion-!”

A quick shuffle, and Optimus hurries into his alt mode, not even caring who sees him transform into an Earth vehicle. He doubts any of them will care enough to follow, anyway. He speeds away, kicking up dust and debris.

..

The terrain is rough, he can’t get his bearings when it’s all pointy rock and mineral and he keeps getting dust in his filters. It’s awful. He spots more mecha traveling along this path the farther he drives. They ogle at him, no doubt at his bright colors and smaller size. Optimus decides then that he should maybe pull over and reconsider his next move.

He finds a crevice in a large rock formation and pulls into it, pulling the Allspark fragment out of his subspace.

“Okay,” he mumbles as he turns it over. “I know you had something to do with this. I don’t know why you’ve sent me here, but I’ve had enough. I’d like to go back now!”

The Allspark is silent and dull. Unanswering and apathetic.

His pulse picks up. His cooling fans turn on. “I’m on another planet. Another time? Another version of Cybertron. Alone.”

Because of Swindle’s device. Because of his own Allspark fragment that he can’t figure out. So, does he need another Allspark fragment to get this working again? Does he need someone like Sari, who can harness the power of the Allspark with ease? But the only mecha around here are warframes and miners, from what he spotted. He needs someone with at least some knowledge of the Allspark and its more mysterious properties.

“Where would I find someone like that? I doubt anyone here would believe me if they saw what I had. The only bots who knew the most about the Allspark on Cybertron were in-” Optimus pauses and realizes. “...Iacon.”

The city of Iacon predates most of their written history. Iacon, in all its glory and splendor and familiarity. There had to be someone who could help him there! Someone who would listen; someone who knew what to do.

He just needs to find a way.

With renewed confidence, Optimus continues along the dirt path, onward to the main city D-16 mentioned.

…

“Excuse me-” The large femme he’s trying to talk to shoulders him aside. Optimus moves onto the next two who are walking by. “Please, a moment of your time.” They glance at him and chuckle, before ignoring him completely. Just like everyone else has been doing for the past megacycles that he’s been standing out here in the busy square.

Oh, he had tried entering one of the few establishments in the area, even one that looked like a shady oilhouse, even though stepping through the doors sent a chill through him. Then someone threw a knife, which lodged itself in the rafter right next to his head. That knife was followed by a bottle, then a chair, then a lone servo , and Optimus decided that an open area, with less of a chance for ambush, is the safer option.

“I just need directions.”

Kaon is not known for its hospitality, D-16 had said. No kidding. Most people won’t even look at him beyond a glare.

Optimus sighs, ready to venture into another establishment and rescinds himself to the possibility of a beheading.

That’s when he hears the scream.

“Let me go!”

He whips his head towards them. A group of bots, four total, lingering in the shadows behind a building. They’re all the same miner builds, reflective tape and all, with slight variation. Two of them, the ones with sharper shoulder panes, hold down another as he writhes on the floor. The one on the floor grunts, clearly more busted and beaten down than the others. The last one, the one still standing, is noticeably larger and has specs of green along his chassis.

The one with green slowly approaches the mech on the floor, tossing a wire stripper back and forth between his hands.

“No!” The bot on the floor screams. “No! Someone help!”

Optimus looks around. There have to be more than twenty other bots here, but they all turn their helms away and tuck their noses down. One bot sitting at a table with a large cup of oil glances up, winces in sympathy, then brings his cup to their lips.

A gargled sound leave’s the beaten mech’s intake as the two holding him down finally gag him, and Optimus begins moving.

“Hey!”

For the second time today, he jumps in. He tackles the green one, the one approaching with the wire stripper, first. Optimus catches him by surprise, bowling him over. This short period where he’s caught them all off guard is the only advantage he’ll get, and it’ll only last him a few seconds. He’s battled Decepticons before- speed and cunning are more important here.

With the green one somewhat stunned and off balanced, Optimus pulls out his axe, striking his hand to knock the wire stripper away. The mech hisses in pain when it goes down, and Optimus has a nanoklick to feel relieved before he’s covered in a shadow. The two mechs with pointy frames have ditched their victim to defend their leader.

This is where his smaller frame comes to play; they can swipe and grab all they want, but he’s faster and knows how to move between them. It’s clear these bots are used to fighting battles where they can beat their opponent with strength alone and don’t know how to handle a bot who slides everywhere they can’t reach. In fact, the two end up crashing into each other and knocking themselves down. They curse at him in a language that sounds close to standard Iaconian, but foreign enough that Optimus can’t understand.

Optimus smiles, just a little. Maybe he’s not as fast as Bumblebee, but it seems the yellow bot’s pension for speed has rubbed off on him.

It must not be the only thing, because like Bumblebee, he’s gotten too ahead of himself.

Optimus looks up, right into the enraged face of the group’s leader. The green detailing on his chassis is now clear- green flames that travel around his shoulder plates.

Frag-

In a blink, the leader has snatched him by his entire face and throws him against a wall. Optimus hears and feels something pop out of place inside of him. He takes too long resetting his optics, and the leader grabs him again, this time by the throat, bringing him in close.

“Who do you think you are?” He hisses in his audial.

Optimus answers by swinging his axe in his face. He feels the resistance under the axe give way and slice through the metal. The leader yowls in pain and crumples, dropping Optimus when he goes to cover his face with his servos. Optimus tucks into the fall and rolls, finally getting his bearings and standing.

“I’m the one who won’t stand by while bullies like you hurt defenseless mechs,” Optimus declares, doing his best to not sound like he’s got a screw rattling around inside him. Hopefully that one wasn’t too important.

The two from before try to rush him again, but this time Optimus uses his grappler to bind their legs to each other. They tumble down, landing right in front of him. While they’re down, he wraps their arms together, too. Just in case.

“Leave,” Optimus demands. “Before I report you to the proper authorities.”

The three stare up at him, gobsmacked. The one with green leaks energon from the small slice Optimus has made across his nose. He looks around and snarls something in that language of theirs, before taking the other two mechs by their wiring and fleeing down the alley they came from. He turns around, giving one last venomous glare at Optimus before disappearing into the dark.

Optimus sighs, retracting his axe. He turns around to the mech still quaking on the floor and offers him a hand. “Are you alright?”

The mech is clearly stunned, as are many of the others in the square who had stopped to watch the fight. Some help you all were, he thinks bitterly. The gag falls from the mech’s mouth as they take his hand.

Then they grin, mouth full of sharp, golden denta. It is not grateful. Not relieved. It is sly- a predator that’s caught its prey.

Optimus blinks.

The mech adjusts his hold so that he’s grabbing onto Optimus’ wrist, then punches him in the face.

Optimus falls and his vision spins. Warnings overtake his HUD, all the aches from before are back, and before he can will them away, he feels a pressure on his chestplate. The mech stands over him, placing a pede on him so he can’t escape. They’ve got the wire stripper in their hand, the one the green mech from before had dropped. Optimus tries reaching out and shooting his grapplers, but they dodge it easily and cackle.

Why, he wants to ask, but his intake can’t form the glyphs around the pain. I helped you, and now you’re going to kill me- Why? I need to get back. My team, my time, why? Why are you doing this? Why why why-

Suddenly, the pressure is gone. The mech has been barrelled over, and now D-16 stands above him.

Optimus gapes. D-16’s optics travel his form, before he grabs Optimus by his hips and hauls him up.

“Run!”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. He follows D-16’s lead, letting the other mech lead them along back alleys as the bot’s shout follows them.

“That-” D-16 gasps while they run. “-was incredibly stupid!”

“Is this that Kaon hospitality you were telling me about?” Optimus heaves.

They run for some time. Optimus has stopped trying to keep track of where they’re going, just focuses on following the yellow tape along D-16’s form in front of him. D-16 jumps up, through a scaffolding, pulling Optimus along when he begins to slow.

Eventually they stop at a quiet corner. It looks like the back end of a towering habsuite complex. No entrances, only windows climbing up to the heavens and leaking gutters. The sky is a dull purple, and the stars are beginning to twinkle. It’s here that they stay for a few kilcks, ex-venting and gasping. D-16 notably takes less time to recover than Optimus.

“What were you thinking?!” He says.

“What- hey- I was trying to help someone in trouble,” Optimus defends. “What else was I supposed to do- just let it happen?!”

D-16’s form begins to tremble. Then he begins to laugh. Not a nefarious cackle, not laced with malice. It’s disbelieving and honest and tilts Optimus’ world, just a bit.

No, wait. Maybe that’s just the hits he took to the noggin.

“You truly are something else, Orion Pax.” D-16 grins.

Optimus leans against a wall, carefully, so he doesn’t knock something else loose inside of himself, and sighs.

“My offer still stands.”

Kaon is not known for its hospitality. Optimus thinks of all the mechs who stood by before- while he was desperate for directions, while one of their own was going to be offlined. He thinks of the mech who took his own hand and then turned it against him. Is that what everyone here is afraid of?

“...Why?” He asks. Watches as D-16’s optics spin. Yellow, bright yellow, like the Earth’s sun. “Why are you helping me?”

D-16 considers him for a moment and shrugs. “Because you’re in trouble,” he says meaningfully. Optimus stares. “What else am I supposed to do?”

Manipulate me, Optimus thinks. Use this against me. Be the horrible, awful warlord I know you to be.

D-16 smiles a bit ruefully, and Optimus caves. Maybe he’s weak, maybe he’ll go down in history as the stupidest bot to ever online, but he needs this. His joints are stiff, his vents are permanently warm, and he lost the bolt that came loose twelve blocks ago.

“Okay,” he mumbles, thinking about his team and Sari and Detroit and the world he’s left to fend for themselves. “Okay.”

A few cycles. Just a few cycles, and he’ll find a way home.

Chapter Text

“Megatron the warlord was once Megatronus the gladiator,” the instructor paces in front of the board while they speak. “He was a low caste mech, filled with hatred for those above him simply for the caste they came into. Through no fault of their own! Through violence, coercion, and manipulation, he tempted his brothers and sisters into doubting the Senate. Into doubting our glorious Magnus! He amassed a following by deceiving his fellow people, taking advantage of their desperation and lower processing power and telling them that his way was better. In reality, he was a power-hungry, insecure fiend who longed for greatness.”

Optimus raises his hand.

“Why didn’t he just move up in his caste?”

The instructor bot looks at him, slightly annoyed. Fair. This is the fifth time Optimus has interrupted since they started their lesson. In his defense, though, they did say ‘All questions welcome.’

“That would have been too easy, and not at all what he wanted. Megatron never meant to earn his place or play by the books. He wanted to seize control. He has been, and always will be, dictated by his need for power and victimization.”

Optimus puts his hand down.

“... Moving on. A skilled warrior and cunning liar, Megatronus would hold illegal gatherings with the following he’d built. He would destroy property, loot energon banks, and disrupt the functioning of civil society. During the Riot of Helex, he led a violent uprising which lasted almost a decacycle and claimed the lives of two members of the Senate.”

Optimus raises his hand again.

“ Yes , cadet Optimus?”

Optimus tilts his helm. “Surely such measures were counterproductive to the cause he was leading. Why would anyone still follow him?”

“Because they feared him!” The instructor snaps. “You all are lucky you weren’t online to witness the atrocities he committed during the Great War- to his foes and followers alike! Megatron is a vile, heartless creature. Even the smallest defiance was met with his cruel iron punishment.”

The weight of the instructor’s stare [and the entire class’ for that matter] pierces through him, and Optimus sits a little straighter. Beside him, Sentinel covers his smirk with his servo.

“Does that answer your question, cadet? Though the Decepticon army has been defeated, their threat looms ever on the horizon. We cannot forget our history, lest we become susceptible to anyone’s lies once more.”

..

D-16 holds the door open as they enter his habsuite, half shy, half something else that Optimus can’t put his finger on. The habsuite is less of a habsuite, more of a broom closet . There’s a recharge slab in the far corner and table with some basic maintenance tools strewn on it and a shelf right above it, but little else. It is, according to D-16, the standard lodgings provided to miners.

“I apologize,” D-16 says, and for the thousandth time Optimus is jarred by how different it is than Megatron’s. “These rooms were only built for one. And seeing as there are no others available, we must make do.”

“I don’t mind,” Optimus says, completely honest. It’s not like his Earth quarters were much better. “Really I’m just glad I have a place to recharge after the, uh, eventfulness of today.”

D-16 chuckles. He walks a few steps to the right, where a cupboard hangs on the wall. From it, he pulls out two blue cubes. Energon, Optimus realizes, and his tank reserve chooses then to beep unhelpfully, reminding him that the last time he refueled was over an Earth week ago.

They sit at a small table right next to the cabinet- Optimus on a wobbly chair, D-16 on a splintered crate. He accepts his cube when D-16 offers it, tries to drink it in a way that doesn’t make him seem like a mech starved, and fails miserably. He knows D-16 notices, but the grey mech doesn’t say anything, just slides another cube over to him, face somewhat amused.

“What do you plan on doing now?” asks D-16, only after Optimus has finished his first cube.

“My goal is to get to Iacon, as soon as possible.” Optimus says. “How far is it from here?”

D-16 blinks in surprise, his cube halts before his lips. “Such bold dreams! Is that why you were asking for directions before?” [How much of Optimus’ time in the square was D-16 around for?] “Iacon is on the completely opposite hemisphere, Orion. It would take you decacycles to get there traveling alone in your altmode.”

Optimus cringes at the thought of more rough terrain and unfriendly locals.

“I support your endeavor nonetheless,” D-16 raises his cube in a form of cheers. Optimus notes the way his joints squeak, the way they are slightly stiff in motion. “You may stay as long as you need.”

“I appreciate it,” Optimus smiles. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think I may have strained myself too hard. I shouldn’t be long, though. Just give me a few solar cycles, then I’ll be out of your helm and on my way to Iacon.”

D-16 pauses and his optics widen in surprise.

“Have you already purchased a ticket?”

“A what now?”

“A ticket to Iacon,” D-16 says, slow. He puts both servos on the table. “We cannot just come and go as we please, from here. Orion.” He sounds- pitying. “Did no one tell you this?”

The look on Optimus’ face must give him enough of an answer, because then D-16 hurries to speak.

“Is that why you chose to come to Kaon, from your colony?” Again with the colony. “Was it the cheapest ticket? Or did they banish you here- it doesn’t matter anymore. Orion Pax, you cannot simply leave Kaon to Iacon. There are guards all along the city limits. They will shoot you down the moment you set foot over the border, regardless of your build.”

The cube loosens in his grasp, but Optimus does not drop it.

“A ticket is over a million credits. Unless you already have that saved up, bots like us make that in half a lifetime.”

Ah.

“I’m… sorry,” D-16 consoles when he notices the way Optimus’ face crumples. “Please, take all the time you need to decide your next course of action. You may use my recharge slab while I am gone.” He begins to stand.

Optimus blinks. “No, I can’t-”

“I insist,” D-16 pushes his hand down. “I am off to the mines again, anyway. I will not require it for some time. We can alternate schedules, and I can have a new one installed should the need arise.”

“You’re going back to the mines?” Optimus furrows his optical ridge. “But didn’t you just get out?” It can’t have been that long since Optimus left the medical tent.

“Yes,” D-16 nods. “And my next shift is set to begin soon. I will be back in about twelve megacycles, when it is over. Ah,” He pauses and considers Optimus. “The energon in the shelf. That is all we will have until the next ration disbursement in twelve solar cycles. Although I welcome you to my home, please be mindful and don’t consume too much.”

With that, D-16 steps out the door and is gone.

…

Optimus gives himself a rough patch job and leaves the habsuite and travels to the city square again, just to check. There’s a booth that looks like it’s advertising travel and he figures that would be the best place to ask.

“Excuse me,” Optimus has to stand on his tip toes to reach the receptionist. She leans over, looks him up and down, annoyed. “I’d like to get to Iacon. What would be the fastest way there?”

After five klicks, the receptionist finally stops laughing.

One million credits, she says, wiping coolant from her eyes. And an application into the city. Which is another thousand. Optimus cringes, says thank you, and heads back to the habsuite. The femme’s laugh follows him, disbelieving.

When he makes it back to the room and shuts the door behind himself, alone and away from everything he’s ever known once more, Optimus allows himself to break. Just a little.

This can’t be right. Iacon is- it’s the city of silver and hope and prosperity, where all are welcome. It’s where mechs of all different frames and origins came to exchange ideas. That’s how Optimus met so many of his friends. D-16 has to be mistaken, because Optimus simply cannot imagine a world where he is not. Iacon, closed off and inaccessible? It’s- it’s not possible.

No friends, no allies, no clear way home, an Allspark fragment that won’t cooperate, and the only mech even somewhat familiar to him is a distorted version of an insane warlord who’s tried to offline him more than once. Where is he supposed to go? What is he supposed to do?

He doesn’t even realize he’s slid onto the floor, coolant thrumming through him and vents working on overtime. How long has he been sitting here? A joor?

Primes are built to endure. Primes are built to last.

Optimus swears, on his whole being with his whole spark, he will endure. For the safety of everyone he’s left behind, for Earth, for Cybertron. He will make it back.

…

The first few days, Megatron mines and Optimus explores the room. It’s sparse, little more than a place to recharge and refuel. The shelf on the wall has a few data pads, which Optimus tries to read. But the UI is so complicated and unhelpful, and it’s all in an ancient language with no auto-translate function like the pads he’s used to, so he can’t read them anyway.

The few times he goes outside to walk around the city, he gets loads of angry looks. There are a few bots that catch his attention, though. Bots with white and gold plating, shining bright in the sun; their perfect frames are juxtaposed by the decaying buildings around them. They seem to be standing on every corner, watching mechs walk by. Those mechs quiet down when they pass them, walk a little faster like they’re trying to get away.

D-16 says they are called “Enforcers,” and Optimus remembers the term somewhat. Enforcers were the law keeping units before Primes and the elite guard were formed, meant to keep the peace. Even under their pitch black visors, Optimus can feel their stare on his back, and he feels no sense of peace.

“You’ve really never seen one?” D-16 sounds a little awed, a little envious. “Life on your colony must have been… very different. Just keep your head down when they’re around,” He advises. “And try to look productive. Your build already makes you stand out; you don’t want to attract any more of their attention. Civilians mingling around Kaon may not be illegal anymore, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try to find something else to charge you with.”

Illegal? Anymore?? “But… Why would they do that?”

D-16 looks down, incredulous. Are you really asking that? The looks seems to say. “Because… You’re a higher caste mech intermingling with us lower castes. They hate that.”

“And what if I’m not productive? What if I wander too much like you say?”

D-16 pauses and gives a meaningful glance at the weapons on an enforcer’s belt, and Optimus has his answer.

Sometimes he pulls the Allspark fragment out and rubs it between his figures. Maybe if he concentrates really hard, something will happen.

“Come on…” He mumbles. “How does Sari work her key? Am I supposed to hold it up or something?”

[While he waves it in the air, he thinks of Sari. Of her bright toothy smile and the way she leaked from her optical units. The way she giggled and enabled Bumblebee. Is she scared now? Is she worried? He hopes she’s safe- or at the very least being kept away from the fights she so eagerly tries to throw herself into. Thinking about her soft, fleshy, fragile form in the middle of battle makes him nervous. He should be there. He should be keeping her safe, keeping them all safe and instead he’s-]

He was transported because Swindle had hit him with Slo-mo’s time freezing weapon. Maybe it hit his own Allspark fragment and the crossing connections caused a… a time anomaly?

Oh, who is he kidding? Optimus sighs and puts it away. He never was the best at his science studies.

When he’s not busy embarrassing himself trying to parse out the ancient language in D-16’s pads [what is it, anyway? It doesn’t look like any version of Neocybex he’s ever seen] or tidying what little living space they have, he talks to D-16– when the miner is online long enough to handle conversations, that is.

“You’re halfway to stasis lock!” Optimus crosses his arms and frowns after the fifth time D-16 nearly slumped onto the table during a discussion. D-16 huffs, and while that look of defiance might have made Optimus’ battle protocols flare before, now he just doubles down. “Don’t give me that, you’re exhausted . You're taking a break, then I'm coming with you to help carry your rations.”

D-16 doesn’t look very happy about it, but he allows Optimus to follow him to the central market.

The line for their energon snakes through the city; they wait for megacycles. The sun burns down on them all and every mech looks all the more miserable because of it. Optimus is small enough that he’s shadowed by D-16’s larger form, but he soon realizes that the grey mech is burning warm. So he uses the water left in his canisters from his Earth altmode and sprays him down a bit. D-16 is clearly surprised, but smiles gratefully down at him.

A femme up front is shoved out of line. She looks weak, barely able to hold herself upright. Her joints twitch and her optics flicker a dim, faded yellow, as she looks up at the enforcer bot who pushed her away.

“ Please ,” Optimus doesn’t hear her say, but can tell by the way her dermas move.

“What’s going on?” he asks D-16.

“Poor femme didn’t make her quota,” D-16 mutters. Optimus looks up at him, takes in his sparkbroken face. “She’s being denied her rations. It looks like this isn’t the first time.”

“But she’ll die,” Optimus says. “How can they expect her to work and meet her target if she can’t function-?”

D-16’s face says it all. They don’t.

He doesn’t remember this part of his ancient Cybertronian history lessons back in the academy. Sure, there were mentions of rationing, of hard times, but- but where were the energon banks? Where were the Primes, along the roads ready to assist? Where were the automated mining bots, non sentient and ready to make life easier for the lower castes?

“I have to help,” Optimus decides, and nearly goes to her.

D-16 grabs his arm to stop him and Optimus turns, disbelieving. He shakes his head. “Not like that, Orion. You will cause a scene. That will only get us all kicked out of line, then we will all go hungry.”

When they make it to the front, D-16 trades in his data card [Something all miners have, keeping log of their status and credits and performance.] When they hand him his small crate of cubes, Optimus takes it.

As they walk back and pass by the femme, D-16 takes some cubes from his crate and hands them to her. It isn’t much, they all know this, but she looks grateful nonetheless.

“Though we cannot bring about radical change, we must do our best to help each other,” D-16 tells him as they walk away. Notably, only when the Enforcer bots aren’t around. “No matter what.”

There are a few more mechs that hand her a cube when they have their rations, but many more that don’t. Optimus can’t bear to watch, but he doesn’t turn away.

“I wish we could do more,” he says.

D-16’s face is somber. “As do I.”

..

Solar cycles later, Optimus is rubbing out the dents on D-16’s chassis. D-16 hardly even put up a fight when Optimus had offered, a testament to how tired he must be. It’s odd, touching him like this- the last time he and Megatron were this close to each other, Megatron had his entire intake in one servo. Optimus tries to push that memory away, thinks instead about when he helped Ratchet buff out Bulkhead’s dents. Before they found the Allspark and landed on Earth and Sari’s key. Back when it was just them, aboard Omega Supreme, when getting injured meant visiting Ratchet’s medbay, getting fixed up, getting teased-

He pushes that memory away too.

Instead he focuses on getting the dirt out of D-16’s plating; he knows the grime between the locks must be dreadful. D-16 had refused at first, but when Optimus asked when his last deep clean had been, the grey mech only bowed his head in shame and let Optimus continue. Based on D-16’s content field, he’s glad for it.

“Are your shifts normally this intense?” Optimus asks with a grunt. He’s having trouble getting a certain dent on his back pane completely smooth again. “You’re gone for so long. Surely you need a break.”

“No, not usually,” D-16 groans when Optimus pushes a little too hard. A push, a pop, and then he sags, tired. “But I am not only providing for myself anymore.”

Optimus freezes.

Has D-16 been pushing himself, working overtime to help him? And he hasn’t said anything? Why?

Later D-16 takes the recharge slab while Optimus sits on the chair, gazing at nothing. He looks over to their shelf of energon- only five cubes left, and the next rations won’t come for another four solar cycles.

Optimus walks over to D-16. He traces the miner’s face with his optics. It’s harsh and severe- of course it is. Everything about Megatron is [was, will be-] severe, too. But looking at D-16 now, Optimus cannot find a trace of Megatron. Just a tired miner, scuffed but still kind, doing his best to survive.

He scrapes the rust off of D-16’s arm [bare, no blaster cannon or weapon hatches.] D-16 is so deep in stasis, he does not wake. As the final flakes of red come off, Optimus decides what his next move will be.

…

“I’m coming with you,” Optimus says the next morning, stepping in front of D-16 before he leaves through the door.

D-16 looks down at him in surprise. “I’m sorry, Orion. Once was luck enough. You won’t be forgiven if you’re caught perusing the mines again-”

“I’m not going to peruse.” Optimus stands straighter. “I’m going to work with you. In the mines. That way I can earn my own rations, and my own credits. It will take the load off of you.”

“They’d never allow it,” D-16 dismisses with a wave of his servo. “A civilian mining energon. There are other jobs in Kaon. A welder or a janitorial bot. Maybe even a low level enforcer if you play your cards right. They don’t pay as nicely, but it’s better than torturing yourself daily.”

“And if I don’t find one?” Optimus challenges. “Most mechs won’t even look my way. Nobody here will hire me without any credentials or connections. And I won’t be an enforcer. You said it yourself- the pay isn’t well enough for both of us. Whatever I can do to help, D-16. I won’t be a burden to you any longer.”

D-16 stares at him in that funny way again, but Optimus does not back down.

“Alright,” D-16 hesitates. Then, more confident, “Alright. If that is what you wish, I will take you with me to speak to our supervisor.”

Chapter Text

Mining energon is leagues more difficult than repairing space bridges. The reflective tape he's required to wear isn't permanent, but the adhesive used to stick it to his frame and helm is so strong it might as well be. Optimus is given a drill that’s too big, made for mechs much larger than he is, and he can hardly use it. He doesn’t have the hooks on his back needed to haul the carts full of energon deposits like the other miners do, so he’s stuck lugging them by hand. Despite D-16’s help, he doesn’t make his quota on the first day- is embarrassingly below it, and his pay is cut short.

“Be grateful you’re getting anything, Pax,” the supervisor named N-01 sneers when they exit the mines. She’s a bit larger than the other miners, her frame is pitch black with a hint of silver steel. Her arm, notably, is a different shade of black than the rest of her. [It’s so obviously an implant, a replacement, but Optimus knows better than to stare and ask. He keeps his gaze on her scornful faceplate, her intense yellow optics.]

She drops a cube of energon- apparently the only mandated fueling the miners are provided- at his pedes. Optimus neary groans, he’s exhausted and can’t even imagine bending down to reach it.

“I oughtta send you to the smelter for wasting my time. If you’re smart, you won’t bother showing up tomorrow.”

She walks away, and it's only after she's gone that D-16 appears, bending to pick up Optimus’ cube.

“Do not be embarrassed. Your caste… it is just not made for things like this.”

‘Being a hero’s not in your programming.’

Optimus frowns. “I don’t care what I was made for. I’m going to be what I want.”

“Speak lower,” D-16 bows his head and mutters, handing him his energon. More groups of miners file out, heading home or to an oilhouse to unwind. Some look their way and whisper to each other. Optimus thinks he spots a familiar green detailing on one of them. “There are ears everywhere. I don’t know what it was like on your colony, but to say things like that here so openly is blasphemy and will likely get us both offlined.”

Optimus doesn’t even have it in him to argue. He takes the cube and downs it. If he leans on D-16 a little more on their way out, neither of them mention it.

He shows up the next day, and the day after that. After the fifth solar cycle, N-01 starts yelling about his form as he mines.

…

It’s easier, solar cycle after solar cycle, to see D-16 as D-16, and not Megatron.

Sure, they're both particular and serious and scary in the dark, but that's where the similarities end. D-16 is a bot who follows his mining programming down to the digit, and it’s earned him a rightful place among the topmost productive mechs.

Perhaps the most glaring difference is D-16’s complacency. He’s a rule follower through and through; keeps his helm down and doesn’t argue with his superiors when they bark orders. But he’s nice enough that he has a good relationship with the other miners in his sector. He often shares barrels of oil with them on their rare breaks, and has even convinced a few of them to welcome Optimus into their bunch.

[Not for the first time Optimus wonders what happened, or rather, what will happen to him that turns him to the path of evil and villainy.]

Their mining tools are set aside as they rest by their supply tent. Some lay down, others rub their aching pedes. They’ve all got coolant dripping down their frames, and Optimus’ vents hiss louder than anyone else’s. D-16, at his side, hands him his barrel of coolant.

“Now where did you find this thing, D-16?” One of them asks and juts his chin towards Optimus. He’s a faded grey mech with rust along the hooks on his back, and displeasure clear in his EM field.

“My name is Orion Pax,” Optimus says, because he can answer for himself and he’s tired of relying on D-16 for everything.

“I don’t think I was talking to you,” the bot sneers.

“J-009,” placates D-16 in a tone that sounds close to chastising. “Please.”

J-009 grumbles and takes a gulp of his drink. He directs his next question, albeit reluctantly, to Optimus. “Alright, Pax . What’s a weak little thing like you doing here?”

If his face wasn’t already flushed and dripping with coolant, Optimus thinks he might have taken more offense. “I’m here to work, and earn credits. I’m just trying to make an honest living.”

“Ha! An honest living, he says.” He rolls his optics. “There are plenty of other spots to make an honest living, Pax. Like welding or street sweeping. I think you’d be better off doing that kind of work.”

“Civilian builds shouldn’t be down here doing this type a’ stuff,” The bot across from Optimus shakes their head. They look him up and down, disapproving. “It isn’t natural.”

Optimus inclines his helm, diplomatic. “You may think so, but this is where I am. And I intend to work hard regardless.”

“Really now,” J-009 chuckles. “And what were you, before you came here? Not a construction build, that’s for sure.”

A disgraced Prime leading a bunch of outcasts on a repairship, Optimus does not say, because that would make him sound completely insane. He’s Orion Pax and Orion Pax has a completely believable story for himself.

“I was a custodial bot,” he says with a straight face, not at all surprised by the roaring laughter they respond with.

“A janitor!” One of them delights. “What, did you like spending time with the dirt so much you decided the mines were where you wanted to be?” The group, minus D-16, laughs more. “How bad does a janitor have to be to wind up getting sent down here, huh?”

“Can’t be worse than he is now!”

Optimus grits his denta and says nothing. This is somewhat like when he was first training to be a Prime. Sentinel, Elita-1, and he would often get picked on because they were newer. Sentinel was equally likely to join in on the teasing or throw it right back in their face, always one to meet fire with fire. Optimus was fine with sticking it out, ignoring it, and letting his skill do the talking.

“Did you see him fall off a wall? He was trying to pry the mineral out with his bare hands!”

“I saw that foam cannon of his activate when he hit the ground! Ha!”

“Those cleaning foams won’t do you much good down here, mech.”

Optimus tilts his visor down and stares into his drink. Not like any of his skills will transfer over here.

“Well I think it is a noble effort,” D-16’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Though Orion Pax may not have our build, he has the spark to try. That to me speaks more than anything.”

It doesn’t sway the mood, just makes a few of the other miners scoff and shake their heads, but Optimus appreciates it. He looks up at D-16 and smiles.

“I’m very willing to learn and improve myself,” Optimus says to the group. “And I won’t give up so easily.”

Someone mumbles something in that language of theirs. It must be an insult- he can tell because D-16’s field spikes with offense, and the other miners begin side-eying him and laughing. He really needs to ask D-16 to teach him.

“I don’t know if I should laugh at your stupidity, or admire your audacity,” says J-009 with some reluctance. “‘Won’t give up’ he says.. Sure. Talk to me once you’ve made it past a decacycle.”

No one else gets a word in. The work whistle chimes with a harsh FSHHH , and Optimus hears the managerial bots begin to round them up, shouting something along the lines of ‘back to work, you pitiful excuses of scrap.’ They all groan and begin to stand, making their way over to the energon deposits. Optimus hauls his drill up once more and steps into pace with D-16.

“You did well keeping your cool,” D-16 notes.

Optimus shrugs, then has to readjust the drill when it almost knocks him off balance. “There’s no point in arguing with people who only want to punch down. The best I can do is prove them wrong.” Even if I have no idea how.

D-16 must sense that he’s still miffed about the whole thing, because he tells him, “You understand that I meant everything I said, yes? I believe in you, Orion. Though your frame was not intended for this type of work, you are willing to push yourself and persevere. You’re just as capable as any of us.”

“I appreciate that,” Optimus grunts as they come to stand by the wall. He looks up at the energon deposits- the lowest one is still ten meters above his head. “But it’s a bit hard to believe when I’m surrounded by those who would rather see me fail.”

“You know they are only jealous, don’t you?” At Optimus’ scoff, he continues. “It’s true! you have seen more in your short lifetime than any of us will see in the entirety of ours. Of course they would rather see you fail- you’re a miner who has experienced life beyond the mines. You’re a miner who still has a chance to be free from here.”

“And you?” asks Optimus, only somewhat sarcastic. “Are you jealous?”

“Immensely so,” D-16 answers. It startles Optimus in its sincerity. “I envy your time outside the mines, on a colony, no less. The outside world is something we all long for, but are likely never to reach, so we don’t even try.”

“You mean… you’ve never been anything other than a miner?”

“I have not.”

“But, before. You said you were a warbuild, right?”

D-16 tenses and turns away. Looks like this is a sore subject, one that Optimus immediately wishes he’d never mentioned. D-16 doesn’t answer, and Optimus decides not to push. He climbs, drills, slips, and falls, over and over; he ignores the chuckles behind his back.

It surprises him when D-16 helps him stand after the tenth time Optimus thunks onto the ground. D-16 takes his servo and hauls him up; For a mech with servos large enough to crush his head, his touch is gentle. Before he has the chance to pull away, Optimus tightens his grip and holds him there. D-16 startles, his gaze snapping from his face, to their joined servos, back to his face.

“I’m sorry,” Optimus says. “I didn’t mean any offense with my question before. It’s just… Everything is so new to me. I don’t know what's appropriate here, but I’m grateful that you’re willing to help me.”

It feels like a lifetime ago that Ratchet opened up about his time in the war, since he had whispered There are some things I would rather not remember to Optimus at the very end of his story about Arcee.

I won’t make you remember , Optimus thinks. He focuses on D-16’s faceplate and makes note of the way his optics rove, the way they shine a little brighter- almost the same shade as his reflective tape.

The larger mech stares at their joined hands before sliding his away. His next words are said clunkily- he’s out of sorts. “I was not offended. I just… Do they not teach you the history of warbuilds and our designation as lower caste?” The question sounds bitter. “No, of course they wouldn’t. It wouldn't do well for public image.”

I’m beginning to think there’s a lot that was left out at the academy. “Well,” Optimus says, desperate to change the subject. “What do you want to be?”

D-16 straightens and responds, a bit loud, “I am perfectly content with my functioning here. Though my hours are harsh, we provide a necessary service to all of Cybertron. It is an honor to serve such a noble duty.”

Optimus is surprised by the volume only for a moment, before he notices the shining white of an enforcer bot’s plating just a few meters away. There are ears everywhere.

“Yes,” Optius says as confident as he can. “Yes, of course.” He looks back at the endlessly high wall of minerals, at their shining, taunting blue light, and does not think of the stars.

…

He falls off the wall the next day, and the day after that. Optimus is beginning to think he’ll have a permanent dent in his frame. It wounds his pride, severely, but it seems like his perseverance has earned him the [begrudging] respect of the other miners. One of them even catches him the next time he falls.

[They still drop him, but only when he’s a respectable distance from the ground and isn’t risking serious damage.]

After their next shift, he’s even given an invite to the local oilhouse instead of just tagging along with D-16. They take their seats at a booth and drink their oil; It’s watered down, but so is everything else here. The oilhouse is packed with everyone sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, and Optimus has to fight to be noticed so he isn’t accidentally forgotten and squished.

Good thing D-16 is sitting next to him. At least he affords Optimus a little more space.

There’s a mech that’s been looking antsy all night. He keeps looking over his shoulder, like he’s afraid he’s being followed. You know you’re only going to attract more attention to yourself by acting that way , Optimus wants to advise. Doesn’t, because he gets the feeling it would be taken as an insult.

The mech leans closer to them all and whispers, “So I’ve been reading-”

He’s met with the collective groan of the whole table. Optimus looks around, confused.

“Hook,” J-009 says sternly. “We’ve told you before not to involve us in things like that. You know how dangerous it is.”

“It’s not even contraband this time!” Hook insists. This time? Optimus wonders. Some miners chuckle faintly, but most look annoyed. “It was a newspaper from Iacon that an old friend of ours sent over.”

Where Optimus brightens, the others around him sour.

“You know they have energon banks over there- places where struggling bots can just have energon! For free! And relief shelters that aid the community, after things like acid rain or a wire tornado. Imagine something like that here, for everyone.”

Optimus smiles. Finally, someone at least hopeful about bringing change to their city! But the rest…

They're beginning to look angry.

One stands abruptly, shaking her head and mumbling “No, I’m not putting up with this. Not tonight. I’m not listening to your idealistic scrap, Hook. You’re exhausting.” as she leaves. She doesn’t push her seat back in.

“So help me,” Another glares. “If I hear one more word, you'll see me outside. Then you'll really wish for those energon banks.”

“You know things like that don’t work here, Hook. Don’t be stupid.”

Hook lowers his optics, ashamed.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Optimus blurts. He can practically feel all the eyes that have snapped to him like he’s under the scope of a Decepticon’s blaster, but he continues, helm high. “Things like that could greatly benefit the bots of Kaon- why not try? We would only need to coordinate with distributors, write a few letters to the senate to get it all approved-”

That gets him a round of cynical laughter.

A bot across from him named L-04 sneers. “As if writing ever helped.”

“Have you ever tried?” Optimus challenges.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Sitting so close together, everyone’s fields brush against his own, clear and bright in their emotions. Annoyance first and foremost. Offense. A tiny bit of anger and, maybe worst of all, resignation. It’s like this is an old argument, one that they’ve long since stopped trying to solve because they were too tired of it, so they don’t bother anymore. The atmosphere is heavy, and Optimus wishes he knew how to fix it.

D-16 turns to him and asks, “How would you go about it? Setting up mutual aid? Is that something you had where you’re from?”

“Well-” Optimus begins, and then halts, looks around the room to gauge everyone’s reactions. Some have already turned away from him, resentful, and why wouldn’t they? Why should they listen to the opinions of a mech who has only experienced the surface of their hardships? He changes his approach. “Why don’t… why don’t you tell me what you’ve already done?”

Hook brightens immediately.

“What you said- about writing. I did that!” He rocks forward, knocks his partner’s cup of oil so hard it sloshes and almost spills. “I wrote to the senate, told them about the injustices here- you’ve seen the way the enforcers treat us, yeah? I wrote and told them about the curfew they’ve set on us, about the way they push us beyond our required hours, and about how extremely they punish mechs for simple infractions! I also wrote about the energon shortage and the supplies we need. I even said ‘please’!”

Some bots mumble in annoyance, but Optimus ignores them and nods. “That’s a good place to start.”

“Yeah! But they never responded, so we tried setting up aid stations around the block. We got those welder tools and iron buffers and even a few free supply kits mechs could take home! But we got too overwhelmed too quickly- things like that are in high demand- and we didn’t have enough tools to service everyone, so we had to shut that down, too.”

“What happened after that?”

Whatever Hook was going to say is cut off by the scraping of a seat at the other end of the oilhouse. They lift their helms to see a femme spun in her chair and turned towards their group. Did she hear their conversation and decide to join in? Her frame shines a deep, burgundy red in the bar’s weak lighting. She’s playing with something in her hand- ah, Optimus realizes. It’s a dagger. He gulps.

“I wrote to the senate, too,” She says. She’s staring at Optimus almost challengingly. “After those useless afts ignored us for so long. I wrote. I didn’t think they would read it, anyway. I said that I would use my gear and mine a tunnel straight to them, to the doors of their crystal homes. If they weren’t interested in reading about the suffering we were experiencing here, then they could get a first hand experience.”

She stabs the knife into the table; it might as well have been a physical blow with the way the others flinch. The air is still, yet buzzing with electricity.

“The next day I had enforcers knocking down my door. Took me while I was in stasis. Turns out they do read out letters- at least, they read mine.” She leans forward, a bit more into the light, and it’s only then that Optimus realizes the gaping hole where one of her optics should be. He shudders. “Wanna know what I learned? They’ll ignore what we say when we’re civil, when we say please ,” she throws a mocking sneer at Hook. “But the millisecond that we become a threat, even mildly unruly- that’s when we get taken seriously. That is the worth of your words .

“You want to make a change here, upper crust? You won’t get it with your pretty letters and ideals.”

Surely he looks like a, what was that human expression? A fish out of water, yes. Optimus keeps opening his mouth and then closing it, not knowing what to say. He thinks of the organic fish creatures that Sari once showed him and the way they flopped and gaped when they came out onto the surface.

“That’s… awful.” Because what else can he say? “I’m sorry.”

There's a haunted, angry look in her one optic. Has she always been like this? Optimus imagines her, imagines all the other miners and designated servant class builds, who never even had the chance to hope for a better future, a more just way of life, because any resistance was met with apathy at best, brutality at worst. And here he is, stupidly telling them to just try again.

“It was wrong. It's wrong of them to ignore you, wrong of them to make you feel like you have no voice unless it's threatening. No one deserves to go through that." Optimus hopes he can convey just how understanding he is, is willing to be, with his tone alone. "I hope one day we can reach some type of peace and equality without any bloodshed. Believe me, I know it’s easier said than done. But I refuse to believe that there’s not a single bot from outside this city who would help if they knew what you were going through.”

The femme at least looks like she’s considering what he’s saying, like a sparkling eating their required iron supplements even though it tasted bitter.

“Oh, I’m sure a higher caste colony bot would know better than any of us, yes?”

That cynical voice comes from a booth a few meters away. Optimus has to crane his neck to see, but there he sits: the mech with the green detailing that he had gotten into a fight with all those solar cycles ago. His friends are sitting with him, and they don’t look happy to see him either.

“A colony bot cleaner, probably worked for a senate member, that’s why he’s so sympathetic to them,” He sneers. “I bet you think you’re doing us all a favor, coming down here to clean up our act. You think you’re some kind of saviour? The benevolent upper class come to civilize us?”

Optimus angers. “I don’t-”

“Oh, save it,” he spits. He shifts in his seat and gives him a disgusted once over. “You can play pretend all you want, upper crust. We all know how your kind really thinks. You’re not one of us.”

“You forget I’m a miner now as well.”

“And I bet you hate that, don’t you!” He grins, golden denta the color of copper in the lighting. His friends laugh behind their hands. “Janitor’s been demoted to miner, and now you’ve taken refuge with the only bot stupid enough to put up with you.” He’s referring to D-16, and that for some reason makes Optimus angrier. “And you aren’t even good at it either, from what I hear.”

“I was pretty good the other day in the square, wasn’t I?” Optimus snarks. Hook chokes on his drink. “Or did you forget?”

In a blink, the mech has stomped across the room to confront him. He pulls Optimus out of his seat and throws him into a stack of oil barrels in the far corner of the room. They crack and break underneath him, leaving Optimus covered with the sleek, slippery stuff.

The mech comes to stand above him. A few other patrons laugh nervously, but most others are silent, watching.

“Will you report me to the authorities, Pax?” The mech mocks and spreads his arms. “Go right ahead.”

He reaches down and takes Optimus by the intake, raises him up high.

“Bots like you,” he declares. “Love to sit in your colonies, in your cities made of gold, and prattle on and on about how we should run things. How to better ourselves, as if we’re too stupid to understand. You debate about whether or not we should be allowed to run our own businesses, meanwhile we starve at the borders. Keep us distracted with trivial issues and hope we die off quietly. Well, you will not fool me.”

He looks around, makes a show of swinging Optimus like he’s some prize. “Orion Pax is all talk, spouting idealistic scrap just like the rest of them. We don’t need him. We don’t need any of them!”

From up here, Optimus has a good view of the entirety of the oilhouse. Most are turned towards them now, drawn to the spectacle. Looks like they’re loving the show. A few more are concerned [some from Optimus’ table, should he count that as a win?] D-16 is standing, trying to shove his way forward. The server behind the bar is beginning to shout, telling them to take it outside.

It would be so, so easy to pull out his axe. Every instinct, every code and string of binary drilled into him in the academy is screaming at him to fight. Primes are built to last, not fall.

But then he thinks about the repercussions, should he fight. Would the mech’s friends join in? D-16 had jumped in to help him before, he might do so again; would it become an all out brawl? The angry mech holding him has clearly spoken what the others were thinking: Optimus is an outsider not to be trusted. If he fought one of their own, if he won again, even if it was only self-defense, then he could forget about ever building bridges.

Optimus steadies himself as much as he can and meets the mech’s gaze.

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” He says with some strain, careful to keep his EM field clear of any anger or challenge. “I’m sorry for the way you’ve been let down by the high caste in the past. It was wrong, and you have every right to doubt me. But please, at least give me the chance to prove that I mean what I say. It was never my intention to belittle you, or anyone here. I really am just here to earn a living, and help where I can. Even though I have a lot to learn. You’re a miner too, right?” He notes the hooks on the mech’s back. “We’re more alike than you think- agk! ”

The servo around his intake begins to tighten. Optimus stares into the optics in front of him as they spin, go from bright yellow to a dangerous shade of orange.

“Don’t you ever,” the mech snarls. “Compare yourself to me.”

“Enough!” Is that D-16? It sounds like him- Optimus can’t tell given that he’s closed his eyes against the pain. “D-X0, stop this. Let him go.”

D-X0 does not let go. In fact his servo tightens more. “You’ll defend this mech, D-16? Have you been fooled by him already? For all you know, he’s a spy reporting back to the senate, waiting for the chance to turn us all in and replace us with non sentient drones. We’ve all heard the talk.”

“Your conspiracies are unbecoming,” D-16 says. When Optimus finally opens his eyes he sees that D-16 is standing some feet away. Not poised to fight, looks like he’s focused on de-escalation. “There’s no need for violence, we’re all just here to unwind. You’re causing a disturbance.”

“Says the one intermingling with a high caste and bringing him where he’s not welcome!”

“Actually!” Hook interrupts with a servo raised. “Orion was invited.”

D-X0 sends him an absolutely venomous glare, but Hook doesn’t look bothered at all. Optimus wishes he had that level of… obliviousness? Foolishness?

“I welcome him here, D-X0.” J-009 speaks, somewhat challenging. “He sat among us. He spoke with us. Honestly, Orion may have been a bit annoying with his speech-” Hey ! “But he is good company. I don’t believe the same can be said for yourself.”

D-X0’s field bristles with offense, and he looks around- looking for support? His friends seems like they might stand up and defend him again, but everyone else appears content to sit back and watch the scene play out. The mech behind the bar had come up to them at some point, but he’s not moving to have them removed… yet.

“He attacked me. He attacked one of our own!” D-X0 says to the room. “Don’t you all see? This is how it starts! First we allow them into our cities, then they attack us for no reason and get away with it, then they terminate us all!”

D-16 speaks louder. “If you’d like to bring up your little scene at the city center the other day, I’d say it was well justified self defense. You’ve let embarrassment and paranoia dictate your unfair judgments.”

A collective murmur of agreements, and D-X0 looks shocked, betrayed, realizing that he has more opposition than allies here.

Something catches his eye, and Optimus looks down to see D-X0’s unoccupied servo begin to move. He lets himself stew in disappointment a moment before preparing himself; so this will be a brawl. He mentally runs through battle protocols- if D-X0 drops him, he can roll out of the way, bring out his axe, maybe slice at his friends’ heels when they no doubt join the fight. If not, Optimus will have to fight from here. Difficult, yes, but he could maybe get his pedes on D-X0’s chassis. Give himself some leverage and twist and hack at the arm holding him so that D-16 can focus on the others.

Move the fight outside, away from civilians, minimize damage-

D-X0 snarls. He doesn’t drop Optimus so much as toss him forward, flinging him away like he’s some unwanted trash. Optimus stays on the ground, positioning himself, while D-X0 glares down at him but does not make a move to attack.

Something touches his shoulder, and Optimus flinches. But it’s only D-16, come over to help him stand.

“Are you alright?” He asks quickly, quietly.

“I’m fine,” Optimus says with the same tone.

“There’s no point here,” D-X0 spits. He looks down the bridge of his nose to sneer at them. “Keep playing your little game, Pax. You’re not even playing the right one. And when you realize that, when you all realize, I’ll be right here waiting to say I told you so.”

D-X0 stomps past them, past his table and towards the exit, and his friends follow. They make sure to let their elbows shove Optimus when they near. The bartender begins to chase them, shouting “Hey, get back here! Somebody has to pay for those barrels!” but goes ignored.

It’s only because D-16 is standing so close to him that Optimus hears his exvent.

“My friends, I’m sorry for the scene we’ve caused tonight. But let this be a reminder of the harm that anger and mistrust lead to. We must not let it turn us against each other.” He says to the room. “It only leads to destruction. Our friendships, our comradery, are all we have. It is a choice we make every day, among every bot regardless of their build. That is what truly matters, and that can never be taken from us.”

The bots from the surrounding tables murmur in agreement, some even clap. Optimus is still covered in oil, his throat hurts, and he can’t help but notice the mess in the corner that the oilhouse workers are beginning to clean. He looks back up at D-16 to tell him that they should offer assistance, and feels the words die before they can crawl out.

The beams on the wall, most likely there for decoration, frame D-16’s form in a way that makes his shoulders look broader, and the broken light behind them flickers and fades. It makes D-16’s shade appear a darker shade of grey. He looks imposing, yet calm. Terrifying, yet confident.

D-16’s hands are steady as he guides him back to their table, as he pays for their drinks and asks another bot for a few rags that Optimus can use to clean himself with.

When D-16 makes arrangements with the oilhouse keeper, probably payment for the damage, Optimus takes in the people around him. They’re watching D-16 in half awe, half admiration.

It fills him with dread.

“Ignore him,” D-16 tells him as they make their way outside. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

No, maybe he doesn’t. But maybe it’s just easier to fight the things you have control over than face the things you cannot. Optimus cringes.

“What you said,” Optimus mumbles. D-16 tilts his helm. “About… us helping each other. About needing to stick together. It’s true. You’re right.”

“Most do not see it that way.”

In millions of years, in another lifetime, you won’t either, Optimus doesn’t say and swallows his sorrow.

The buildings around them stretch so high, like infinite servos trying to cage the city in, that the light of the stars hardly reaches them. Optimus looks up, hoping to see a faint twinkle. It’s calm in a suffocating kind of way.

“But D-X0 was also right about one thing.” Optimus says. D-16 stares at him, half shock and half curiosity.

“And what is that?”

“I’ve been playing the game all wrong,” He mutters to the sky.

…

The next time he goes to the mines, Optimus ditches the drill entirely and pulls out his axe. He slides his mask into place, too, since it keeps out most of the smog and debris. It gets him a few stares, but he continues, determined.

He hacks away at the energon deposits, expertly slicing around them, never enough to hit the raw mineral, just enough that they become loose. This makes it easier for D-16 to give them a nudge with his drill- a little pop, and they all fall into a pile at their pedes.

D-16 takes their pile of energon and loads it into the minecart. Optimus transforms into his altmode and uses his ropes to pull them into the designated drop off zone. His tires are not made for this terrain and he wobbles some, but it’s still easier than lugging them by hand.

When the shift is over, the supervisor approaches him. She looks like she’s bitten into a cyberlemon.

“Well, Pax,” she says. “I can’t say I’m not happy with the results. You have… performed well. Despite your obvious shortcomings.”

“Thank you,” Optimus tilts his helm forward and chuckles. “I’m glad I finally met your expectations, despite my abysmal form , as you called it the other day.”

“Just-” She holds up a hand to stop him and rubs at her nose bridge. “As long as you continue to make my numbers look good, I don't care how you get your work done. Or who's help you get, as long as you keep it professional.” That last part is said like she's implying… something. But Optimus can't even begin to guess what.

Optimus’ shoulders sag in relief. Finally. He turns around, only to find D-16 staring back at him.

The grey mech is sporting a big grin and he comes over to pat Optimus’ shoulder. “Well done, my friend.”

It's impossible not to smile back. “I can’t take all the credit. You were no small part in this. Thank you, D-16. As always.”

The way D-16’s optics swirl with delight makes Optimus feel- funny. Happy, in a way that would have had him short circuiting on Earth had he known that this young version of Megatron caused in him.

N-01 yells something that Optimus doesn't understand, but makes D-16 cough and turn away. Embarrassed? Optimus frowns. How strange.

As the day continues, and then ends, and as they walk back to D-16’s habsuite to recharge, Optimus allows himself to hope for the first time since he got here. This is the beginning, he can practically feel it in the Allspark fragment that sits deep in his subspace. This is where things will finally start to go right.

Chapter Text

As the weeks continue on, Optimus’ rank in their sector continues to climb. He’s not at the top percentage [doubts he ever will be] but he mines energon deposits quickly and consistently enough that it’s beginning to reflect on his credit chip. With these earnings he’s able to help D-16 pay rent for the habsuite [ way too high for how small it is] and earns his own energon ration crate.

Things are not easy, but they’re getting easier.

Just like it’s easier, solar cycle after solar cycle, to ignore D-X0’s withering glares. In the mines, on the street, even inside a shop.

Instead Optimus focuses on his fellow miners, on his new… acquaintances. J-009 and SS-27 and L-04 and others, who include him in group jokes and teasing. They’re friendly in a way that he never expected and go out of their way to make sure there’s an ‘Orion-sized’ seat waiting for him. Hook, whose designation is actually G-85, is adamantly pushing him to help spread word of- their idea? Their hope? Their suggestions for a just and better society? Which is nice.

If only he hadn’t chosen to start knocking on D-16’s door in the middle of the night, arms full of datapads.

D-16 is a grouch when he’s woken up too early, so Optimus has the wonderful experience of standing between two warframes trying to appease them both. Hook is speaking too fast, Optimus can barely catch every second word, but he’s saying something about letters and complaints and revision.

“Yes,” Optimus says, stepping in front of D-16 before he can slam the door in Hook’s face. “I’ll look over the letters everyone’s written so you can send them to the capitol.”

“Great! What you were saying about the Senate and the way to reach them really got a few of us going-”

“Hook-”

“Well, you’ll see. Here-” He shoves a few pads in Optimus’ hands. His reaction time is suboptimal so soon after recharge, so he drops a few. “There’s strength in numbers, but a lot of folk here used so much, eh, colorful language. It’s up to you whether or not we should keep them in! There’s also a few that need translating-”

“ After!” Optimus raises his voice and gives Hook a stern look usually reserved for Bumblebee after he got too ahead of himself. Hook jumps a bit and looks down at him, surprised. “I’ll be happy to review everything you've given me after a full recharge cycle. But until then, we're going to go back to sleep, as you should too.”

“Oh.” Hook blinks, steps back, and looks between the two of them. Optimus can practically hear the gears turning in the other bot’s processor before he draws his own conclusion. When he does, he looks sheepish in a way Optimus recognizes. “Oh! I’m so sorry. That was horribly inconsiderate of me. Barging in at this time, I should have known better!” He wacks his own head with his servo and it makes a faintly concerning thunk .

With his arms still full of datapads, Optimus carefully takes a step back. “Right,” He nudges D-16 away as well. Both of them stepping away should send the clear message of This conversation is over, goodbye . “Okay, so-”

“Forgive me! I’ll just leave these here and let you two get back to- whatever it was you were doing!” Hook speaks a little faster, a little louder. “I hope I wasn’t too much of a disturbance.”

Another step back, this time Optimus begins to close the door with his pede. “It’s fine, Hook, now why don’t we all-”

“I mean, it was rude of me, you two were in the middle of-”

D-16 slams the door shut the rest of the way. “ Good night , Hook!” A muffled response comes from the other side before they hear the sound of retreating steps.

Optimus sighs, relieved, and then turns to his companion to raise an unimpressed brow. D-16 shoots him the same look.

“I know you wanted to do that too.”

Optimus doesn't answer that.

He places all the pads on the table while D-16 picks up the ones on the floor. Optimus organizes them and does not think about what he’s just agreed to, need for rest already consuming him. The stack of reading on the table is a problem for tomorrow’s him.

“Are you sure you won’t take the berth tonight?” D-16 asks him as Optimus goes back to his spot underneath the table.

“Positive.” Optimus shakes his head and waves the question away. He yawns. “I’ve had it the last two nights. It’s your turn.” He shuts his optics and lets the sweet static of recharge overtake his processor.

It’s been a long day, a long night, and he doesn’t want to think anymore. Not about Hook’s request, not about D-X0, not about D-16 insisting that he take the recharge slab even though they almost have enough saved to get a second one installed.

And he especially doesn’t think about the way Hook had hunched his shoulders, blinked at him with a I haven’t done anything wrong! look in his eyes, and swayed a bit. He doesn’t think about how Bumblebee reacts the same way when being scolded. He doesn't think about the aching familiarity that's left his chestplate feeling hollow.

…

So this is how, after his mining shifts, Optimus finds himself reviewing the letters written by the displeased denizens of Kaon and re-wording them so that they’re less… threatening. He will admit, reworking “I’ll shove a wrench so far up your aft port you’ll have bolts screwed that you didn’t even know existed,” into something that the Senate might be more willing to sympathise with is… an entertaining experience.

“I don't know how I feel about editing out parts of a bots writing.” Optimus tells D-16. [Only when they're at the habsuite, because mentioning these in public might sick an Enforcer on him.] “It feels like I'm silencing them.”

“It's necessary,” D-16 assures him. “Members of the council are tetchy about these things, as you've heard. If you send every letter in its completion, they'd probably raze Kaon to the ground to make an example.”

“I just don't like the dishonesty of it.”

“I'm sure they'll appreciate your dishonesty when they get to wake up the next morning because of it. Besides, I'm sure they only needed to get their frustrations out.”

It keeps his mind off the dreary monotony of the day by day. Keeps his mind off of the fact that he’s been here for months with hardly any progress.

All this writing and editing and revising is good for something else, too: Optimus has finally learned what the strange language here is called.

“It’s not likely that the Senate can understand Kaonese,” Hook explains over the rumble of a frac pump. Optimus leans closer to look at the pad in his servo, tracing the runes with his optics. “So I’ll need your help translating too. You know how to read and write, don't you?”

The glyphs are similar to the ones Optimus is used to, and so are the sounds, but there are subtle differences in the pronunciation, in the context in which each glyph is used. It must be one of the early pidgin languages that popped up before Neocybex was declared Cybertronian Standard.

There’s a part of him, forever the knowledge-hungry student, that finds this fascinating. During quiet nights, he stays up at the table reading and then rereading the data pads that D-16 has on the shelf, delighting when he’s able to connect a glyph to one he recognizes from the future.

His progress is good, but Optimus still relies on the other bots for more accurate translations.

In the miner’s tool shack, J-009 leans against the shelved wall as he reads the latest translated letter he helped Optimus draft up. Optimus himself climbs up and down a ladder, putting away their supplies. Every so often, J-009 makes a soft hum that makes Optimus nervous and eagerly awaits his opinion.

“So?” He asks, taking a seat on one of the steps. At this height, he barely reaches J-009’s helm.

J-009 lets the silence drag [fragger, Optimus thinks. He’s enjoying the suspense too much.] before he gives a slow nod. “It’s good.” He hands the pad back. “You kept the tone of the original writer without completely overhauling the letter.”

“Thanks,” Optimus says, pleased. “I was really trying to make this as accurate as possible.”

“Lucky you’re one of the few who knows how to write.” J-009 turns to the shelf, going back to lubricating their tools before handing them to Optimus to put away. He does it by hand, getting into the grooves of their complex auger, fingers coming away black and dirty. “I don’t understand the intricacies of it, but you’ve picked up real quick.”

“D-16 is a good teacher.”

J-009 coughs, servos slipping over the twist and making a creak. “I’m sure he is.”

Optimus doesn’t mind his slip, too content with the glowing review. D-16 is a good teacher, invaluable, and Optimus couldn’t be more grateful for his support and assistance.

“I don't think ‘nervous’ fits very well here.”

Even when he is being nitpicky.

“I’ve changed it three times already!” Optimus complains, sagging back in his chair. Maybe a tad dramatic, but they’ve been at this for megacycles and he’d like to recharge sometime tonight.

D-16 sits back as well. Not as far, since he's sitting on the crate and it doesn't have a backing. He gestures to the pad in between them on the table. ”It’s necessary. We have to make sure they’re perfect.”

Optimus sighs and deletes the sentence he’s been working on for the last twenty klicks. It would seem Megatron’s perfectionist tendencies remain a constant throughout history.

After a few moments of silence, D-16 asks tentatively, “...Do you really think it will work?”

Optimus looks up and catches the other’s expression- something caged, but earnest. Moments like these, quiet and without the stress of physical labor, make D-16’s eyes bright. Young. Hopeful. It makes the energon running through his lines feel cooler and he says, “I can’t believe anything else.”

D-16’s optics flicker and he nods. He looks at Optimus like he’s the only mech in the world that matters at this moment. Like his words actually mean something.

“Will you write a letter as well?”

Optimus frowns. “I haven’t been here very long, I wouldn’t even know what to say.” I haven’t experienced half of what any of you have gone through- I have no right to complain . “What about you?”

“Perhaps I should…” He looks like he’s going to say more, but then he hesitates. Optimus can only marvel at it- when was Megatron ever unsure of himself?

“I could help you,” Optimus offers, all thoughts of recharge suddenly far from his processor. “If there’s something you feel they need to know or pay attention to, I could help you put it into words. Under a pseudonym if you don’t want to put your name on it.”

This apparently is all the encouragement D-16 needs. He sits forward in earnest, glancing between Optimus and the pad and trying not to seem too interested. Optimus subdues his amused grin and only nods.

It starts slow. D-16 mutters a sentence, then two, about the most inoffensive and mild views on certain policies enacted by the Senate in the last solarcycle. An extended curfew for miners, for example, or a pay increase after a certain amount of joor a miner continuously works.

“Maybe,” D-16 leans over, pointing to the tablet when Optimus tilts it towards him. “We could bring up the roaming beasts in the badlands; ask for security and surveillance for mecha out there not equipped to defend themselves. Or the lack of funds given to medics.”

Optimus’ digits fly across the screen and he nods.

Eventually, they move their chairs closer together, meeting at the halfway point of the table. D-16 types on the pad and gestures. “Be subtle in your demands. Make it so they’re not even demands, just suggestions.”

“We could make it seem like it’s their idea…” Optimus thinks aloud, thinks of Sentinel. “If we lead with compliments, stroke their egos, then suggest some new policies or revisions that might gain them even more favor, maybe they won’t be so quick to deny it.” He mumbles, “Maybe once they’ve finished patting themselves on the back, they could actually focus on helping.”

D-16 barks out a laugh. “Careful! One would think you’re criticizing our wonderful government.”

Optimus smirks. “Oh, never .”

…

It turns out that Hoist, the mech D-16 had taken him to when Optimus first landed in this time period, is not really a medic- he’s a general maintenance bot who receives too many cases outside his expertise. No wonder he was upset with Optimus’ little excursion in the mines; he wasn’t equipped to handle repair to that extent.

This environment suits him far more- that being: Optimus as his patient, sitting on a small medic berth getting a check and a tune-up.

“Alright,” Hoist scribbles something in his data pad. Up close, Optimus can see his plating is a very, very dull green. “Now bend your knee.”

Optimus does. When he gets to about the halfway point, it stiffens and creaks, and Hoist shakes his helm.

“What did I say about following your caste’s limits?” He tsks and frowns. “If you want to operate at peak efficiency, you need to follow regular, routine maintenance checks with me. You miners think yourselves indestructible just because you handle rough jobs on the regular, like you can face Primus himself. Well, that’s not the case! You’ll see me once every other decacycle or so and you will not -” He points the pen at Optimus with a threatening glare. “-skip any of our appointments.”

Optimus nods, sufficiently threatened. Hoist walks to the cabinet behind him to retrieve a medical scanner. As he does, he rubs at his back in a way that is familiar- so familiar. Where has Optimus seen it before?

“Spend all day labouring over you all, getting my backstrut in a twist!” Hoist huffs. “You think I get half the credit that the proper medics do?”

Optimus perks. “Would you like to-”

“Save it,” Hoist snaps. “I’m not interested in the little charade you and G-85 have going on. I’m not about to join the Well of Allsparks asking for some half-credit raise, no sir, no thank you. Unlike you lot, I like staying online…”

He shoves the scanner in Optimus’ face, probably to discourage him from speaking any more. Well, message received. He mumbles an apology and lets Hoist run the scan along his frame without any further attempt at conversation.

“I… I do admire how you put up with him,” Hoist mutters eventually. He stares intently at the space at Optimus’ shoulder plate. “G-85 is… not the easiest mech to wrangle.”

Optimus feels his derma pull up at the corners, just a bit. “He reminds me of a friend I used to have.”

Bumblebee wasn’t [isn’t, won’t be, maybe] exactly like Hook, but the general energy they bring, the way their optics shine when they’re excited and the way they speak with large gestures gives Optimus pause. Is it just a thing with younger bots? He doesn’t remember being so animated in his youth.

Hoist pulls him from his thoughts with a tap to his helm.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Hoist grumbles and makes a face. He always has a general annoyed scowl, but now he looks… uncomfortable?

“I said- is there any other… strenuous activity you've been partaking in that I should know about?”

“Um,” Optimus thinks back. “Nothing other than a few rough shifts? Oh! And there were those fights D-X0 and I got into, but that was some time ago…”

“Anything… else?"

“No.”

Hoist is an alarming shade of red, Optimus has half a mind to ask the maintenance bot if he himself needs a tune-up.

“Fine!” Why does he sound frustrated? “Be that way! We’re done, then. Your processor hasn’t sustained any long term damage despite your ill-advised rough housing. Motor functions are mostly adequate for a mech of your size, but I replaced a few bolts and tweaked your hardlines; you should feel a noticeable difference.”

Optimus hops off the slab and oh . He rolls his arms and stretches his legs and doesn’t feel a dull ache or stiffness for the first time in months! He’d grown so used to the discomfort, he had forgotten what mobility was supposed to feel like.

He smiles up at Hoist. “I feel amazing! Thank you, Hoist! I really appreciate it.”

Hoist looks surprised, then bashful. He looks away, waving his servo. “Yes, yes, you’re welcome, Orion. But your vents still need a serious deep clean. They weren’t made for the smog of the mines, and you can’t keep pushing them on overdrive. I’ve got other appointments today, but I can fit you in on the next solar cycle.”

Optimus nods and then opens his mouth to respond, but then Hoist does that thing again- he rubs his back strut and lets out that faint whirr, almost like a groan- and Optimus freezes.

He’s struck by an image, then. A memory. Ratchet hunched over a computer module, hand on his back and faceplate set in its usual disgruntled scowl.

“What’re you looking at?” Ratchet snapped at him when he caught Optimus watching. Optimus had only raised his hands in surrender, suggested some time away from his work and a bit of rest.

“What’re you looking at?” Hoist asks now with that same scowl. It’s only through sheer force of will that Optimus does not crumble onto the floor.

…

Half a stellarcycle since Optimus landed here, on a place he’s coming to accept is the past version of Cybertron, and the smell of sulfur has become ingrained in his processor. By this point, he’s become used to the harsh conditions, the hissing whirr of their drills, even come to terms with his new look, decked out with yellow reflective tape. But that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten what he longs for.

Around the bar, mecha talk about a group of insecticons making their way along the borders of the city, discussions of how they should be handled, killed, moved, and Optimus wonders: What would Prowl have to say about this? Would he have wanted to defend them the way he defended the dinobots? Would he have risked his own chassis for the harmony of nature, even here?

Optimus has tried something new today- some mixture of oil and silver. He slumps against the bar when the room starts to spin, and mumbles, “I want to go home.”

He faces the window. Two bots are outside in the alley, huddled against the side of a wall- painting something? Suddenly they’re swathed in a bright, white spotlight overhead, and they both throw their tools down and bolt. They’re followed by a surveillance drone, and then an Enforcer. Optimus watches the paint dry and thinks of Bulkhead.

“Then we shall go,” D-16 says [Optimus half forgot he was there] already standing to guide Optimus off his chair.

But Optimus shakes his head. “No. No, that's not what I…” He feels his optics begin to leak.

D-16 drags him home anyway. He doesn’t remember much, but Optimus thinks he was slung over D-16’s shoulder at one point. He wakes up on the berth, D-16 on the chair, optics shut and frame perfectly still in recharge.

…

“I come here when I need time to myself,” D-16 says as he leads Optimus higher and higher, climbing over fencing that is so clearly meant to keep mechs out . “Not many mecha come around here, so it’s usually peaceful.”

Which means no witnesses, which means no one will hear you scream as he offlines you! That paranoid voice in the back of his processor screams. And yes, Optimus has his battle protocols on stand by on the very low chance that this turns out to be a trap, but it’s more like… like a habit, at this point. He doesn’t really expect D-16 to be leading him to his death.

Which frankly says a lot about his current state of mind. Feeling safe following Megatron to a secluded area. What would Optimus from a solar cycle ago think of himself now?

D-16 has led Optimus to the top of an abandoned transmission tower. It’s a hard climb, especially when Optimus has to jump from one step to another because they’re so large, but when his pedes finally hit the cement at the very top of the roof, Optimus finds all fears of heights and possible illegal trespassing snuffed away by the view.

This high up, they’ve reached a break in the buildings. It’s like he’s cracked through the shell of highrises, away from the cage- finally, he can see the sky and the stars. Kaon is never quiet, Optimus has learned. There’s always work to be done, always something going on even in the dark hours of the night, but up here, it’s like they don’t exist. All the noise is muted under a blanket of metal beneath them.

He hardly registers D-16 taking a seat at the ledge. Optimus stays standing, taking in the small breeze, the vast night and the stars. His mind is blissfully quiet.

Being at the oilhouse, around the others, is nice company, but it’s draining having to keep up this facade. To keep performing as Orion Pax gets overwhelming.

Maybe that’s why being around D-16 feels so different.

D-16 doesn’t ask him about his past [or, is it more accurate to say his future?] like most other mechs do when they first meet him. He takes Optimus’ crumbs, the little tidbits of Orion Pax’s ‘life’ that he decides to share, and never pries further.

“It is none of my business what your past is,” he explains when Optimus asks. He’s laying down with his optics shut, at peace. “Who you are is all I need. Who you become is up to you. Your past will never define you, not to me.”

“But you must be curious.”

D-16 opens one optic to consider him. “Yes, I am. But I will not sate my curiosity if it means your discomfort. If there are things about your past that you would rather forget- the reason you were sent here, the life you used to have, even the name you were designated upon creation- then I would never make you remember. That would be highly unbecoming of me as your friend.”

It’s so sincere, and the guilt it causes has Optimus’ optics prickling. The way D-16 speaks to him sometimes, like he really cares, almost makes him want to speak his truth.

I’m actually from over four million years in the future. I was transported here by a fragment of the Allspark- yeah, the thing that creates the life of our people. Yeah, just a fragment- I kind of broke it. You were searching for it, and I had to destroy it in order to keep it from you. See, in the future you’re a war-hungry world-destroying criminal who started a civil war on Cybertron. And I’m part of a group of bots who swore to defeat you, because you’re evil.

Only, you’re not evil. You’re kinda nice and a little stubborn but an all around decent mech, so I’m having a really hard time deciding if it’s okay that I like you this much. You’re supposed to be cruel, unforgiving, and manipulative. That’s the only version of you that I know. Is this a ruse, too? Is your kindness fleeting? Will I tell you this in confidence, only for you to use this against me tomorrow? In millions of years? Please promise you won’t. Promise you won’t hurt my friends if I tell you. Promise we’ll stay friends.

I miss my home. I miss my team. I miss my time.

Also, my name is Optimus Prime, not Orion Pax. It’s fine though. You’ll never remember my name in the future anyway.

Maybe it’s the culture shock, or the way the galaxy twinkles above in a way that reminds him of Bumblebee saying Orion , or the way D-16 smiles at him, or the thousand other little things that have led him here, but Optimus finds himself speaking before thinking.

“Ask me,” He says. D-16 blinks, surprised. “You’re… You’re my friend. Friends should know about each other, shouldn’t they?” He cycles through a deep vent. “Any question you have for me, I’ll answer honestly.”

This is such a bad idea, but then D-16’s optics lift and his field goes pleased and kind.

“Alright, Orion. If you insist.”

“I do!”

“This goes both ways,” D-16 sits up and declares. “I would like for you to know me as well as I know you. If there’s anything you’d like to know about me, you need only ask.”

Optimus nods.

D-16 hums and tilts his head, thinks. He’s got an amused little smile on his face as he looks down on Optimus. If it were a touch more sharp, it would be Megatron’s condescending grin. Optimus tries not to let that thought run too far as D-16’s gaze travels his frame.

“I have always wondered… were you always red?”

“Huh?” Not what he was expecting at all.

“Most of us came online as grey or black, and it’s how we’ve stayed. To have your entire frame repainted is time consuming and costs no small amount. It’s… it’s an unnecessary luxury.” D-16 looks him in the optics, finally. Curious and intrigued. “Your colours. Is there a purpose for the red and blue? Or did you just like the way it looked?”

This should be an easy answer, right? It’s not like Megatron knowing the purpose behind his color scheme would cause irreparable damage to the timeline. “Uh. A little of both, I think.” How can he put this? “The red and blue are… a traditional color scheme where I’m from. They’re bright and noticeable. Meant to inspire confidence. I guess…”

When they were promoted in the Academy, he and Elita spoke about how they would paint their frames. Optimus had grown up around Primes, strong and inspiring. He wanted his paint scheme to reflect that as well. Elita laughed, smiled bright and beautiful and strong, and called him a sap.

“I guess I always liked these colors.”

“They suit you.” D-16 says this in a way that sounds like a compliment.

“Thanks.” I think? “How would you paint yourself? If you could?” This seems like the appropriate question to follow up with.

D-16 is quiet for a few moments, thinking hard. “I don’t know.” He finally says. “I’ve never even considered it. It always seemed pointless to think about something that would never come to pass.”

“But if you could?” Optimus presses. He doesn’t know why this is so important to him all of a sudden. “Don’t you have a favorite color?"

“I am quite partial to red and blue.”

Oh. D-16 throws him that rare, teasing smirk, and Optimus tucks his helm when he feels his faceplate heat up.

Luckily D-16 has some mercy on him and continues. “But I don’t think the bold colours fit me as well as they do you. Maybe something more subtle, I would like. Burgundy. Or a dark purple.”

Optimus can’t hide his flinch. D-16 turns to him fully.

“What? Are you saying they don’t suit me?” He puts a hand on his chestplate in mock offense. Thank goodness D-16 is taking this humorously, thinking Optimus is only poking fun at him. “You think I couldn’t pull off a nice deep red frame with some purple shine?”

“N-no,” Optimus chuckles, trying to hide the unease in his voice. “Well, maybe not purple? That would clash way too much with your eyes! How about orange? Or hot pink?”

“Pink.”

“Oh yeah. A very popular choice where I’m from, I think it’d look great on you! You’d have mechs lining up just for a photo- keeping the camera lens on, of course.”

D-16 laughs. Good. It’ll distract him from Optimus trying to calm the whir in his spark at the thought of the miner with purple accents.

“Is customization like this common where you’re from?”

“Fairly common, yeah. Changing your appearance is harmless, it doesn’t change the mech, only allows someone to express themself. There’s no real reason for it to be discouraged. Maybe one day you can do it too!”

D-16’s smile turns bitter. “A wonderful dream. Something most are not too concerned with when they’re too focused on survival.”

Optimus pauses, something inside of him cracking. “Well, that’s true, but… doesn’t everyone deserve that chance?” He thinks of Bulkhead dipping his brush into the bucket of paint. He thinks of Sari over his shoulder. He thinks of the large canvas full of color. “I had this friend- He was something of a painter. An artist, even though it wasn’t in his programming. With his frame type, he was built to destroy, but he told me he wanted to learn to create.

I didn’t see the point of it, honestly; recreating images or thinking of things that weren’t right in front of you. But he said that art is more about expressing oneself, about evoking emotion. I admit I still don’t get it, but shouldn’t everyone get that chance? Shouldn’t everyone be able to put their spark into something, no matter how small? Just for the sake of existing?”

A gust of wind blows from the east, knocking a loose scrap of tin off the building and sending it to the ground below. Neither of them are startled by it. In fact, Optimus is taken by how the white gleam of the stars above give D-16’s frame a shine.

“You are saying that we can make actions that are not solely defined or dictated by our need to progress. Our need to be of use.”

“I like being useful,” Optimus says. “I like being helpful. But it’s nice, isn’t it? To be something more than your designation? To create for the sake of creation?”

D-16 is staring at him in that odd way, but Optimus doesn’t feel any discomfort or unease. In fact, here on this roof with his pedes swinging over the ledge sitting next to the mech who will become the worst dictator in all of Cybertronian history, Optimus feels nothing but safe.

“One day, Orion, I’ll paint my frame in your honor.”

“As long as it’s not purple,” he [half] jokes.

Optimus lets his frame relax further as he looks out at the rooftops. He imagines all the mecha resting from their long days and the few who are still up working. He hears some shuffling, far below, even some distant honks and clangs, but mostly the night is quiet.

“This friend of yours,” D-16 says. “He sounds very wise.”

Optimus can’t help but laugh.

“Maybe not in a traditional sense. I can’t tell you the number of times I had to help him pull his servo out of our jar of ion cookies when it got stuck. But he had some wits. He was very… very humble. Very kind. Maybe the kindest bot I ever had the pleasure of working with.”

"He sounds like a good mech." D-16 sounds sad, probably assuming Bulkhead isn't alive anymore. Which isn't totally wrong- Bulkhead isn't alive yet, won't be for millenia. It's just Optimus here, alone yet not.

Oh, now this is embarrassing, he’s started to leak from his eyes. He rubs it away, grateful that D-16 doesn’t point it out.

After a few cycles, D-16 changes the subject. How considerate . “Don’t you have another question for me?”

By then Optimus has had a chance to clear his intake.

“About warbuilds…” Optimus pauses to let D-16 stop him, but the miner only nods and lets him continue. “How is it that you’ve never been outside the mines, if you were never created for them in the first place?

D-16 turns somber, says, “Most of us are warbuilds, J-009, D-X0, even Hoist, created to defend Cybertron against invaders from beyond the stars. But there was no war to be fought by the time we came online. What good do you think a large fighter build would hold in civil society?”

“Construction?” Optimus guesses, only realizes that D-16 was asking the question hypothetically by the unamused stare he gets in response. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing for the actions of our superiors?” D-16 wonders. “You had no hand in it.”

Because I used to carry a lot of the same prejudices. Because I benefited from your injustice since the moment of my creation. “This shouldn’t be happening to you, to any of you. It’s not fair. I wish I could change something.”

“You are! You and Hook are inspiring others to speak out and hope for a better future.”

So why doesn’t it feel like enough?

D-16 sighs. “Before I met you, Orion, I was content to continue my days here. My functioning was my purpose, and I never questioned it.” The admission is tinged with shame. “But you- you’ve made me realize that I can ask for more, I can hope for a better society for myself, for the people I care about. You’ve made me realize that it’s possible. That has to count for something, yes?”

Does it? D-16’s face is so full of earnestness, full of hope, and maybe that’s enough for now. Optimus smiles, his mood is somewhat lifted.

D-16 pats his shoulder encouragingly. “Is everyone on your colony as dedicated to these ideals, or is it just you?”

“Ha! No, it’s- I don’t know how to explain it. You’re right when you said the struggles of the bots of Kaon weren’t taught to us, at least not to this extent. So seeing the way you’re treated… it’s unheard of.” Things are hard; things were always hard on Cybertron. Fear and resource scarcity rages on, even if the war has been over for millenia. Decepticons still existed, after all. “We have our own struggles, but autonomy and freedom are never doubted.”

Silence again as D-16 processes this information. Should he be concerned about this? The knowledge of a society so far removed from the suffering of the bots of Kaon could rattle him- make D-16 wonder why he bothers putting up with this life. Optimus hopes not. He draws circles on the cool concrete and hopes D-16 only considers this as a new perspective.

“What colony are you from?” D-16 asks.

Oh, now this is a hard one. To be honest, he’s avoided this question any time someone else asked him. Which colony can he say? He knew of a few- some outposts on Velocitron, a colonization effort on Antilla, the one on Paradron. But are any of them even colonies at this point? Is that too far ahead? Does it even matter? Optimus doubts D-16 would know.

I’ll tell you the truth.

“None,” he blurts. “I’m from Iacon.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees D-16’s helm snap to him.

“You what?”

Optimus takes a glance, then cringes at D-16’s severe look. “Well, my turn. What’s your favorite-”

“Chrome cake.” D-16 breezes through. He leans closer. “Orion. You are from Iacon? The capitol? How did you end up here?”

“...I wasn’t going to ask what your favorite food was.”

“Pax!”

“Okay!” Optimus cringes even further. He looks back into the night. “Well… I don’t know what else to say. I’m from Iacon. It’s where I came online, where I studied and worked.”

It’s all I’ve ever known.

“What are you doing here?” He asks again. Optimus takes too long to answer. “Orion, no matter what, it will not change my view of you.”

I was transwarped here because of a time stopping device that made contact with my allspark fragment currently in my chest. Does not sound good at all. Got lost? No, that’s no good either.

“I made a lot of mistakes,” he decides. He fiddles with his digits before clasping his servos together. “I kept letting people down, and then eventually I got lost and found myself here. I’m not supposed to be here, but I don’t know how I’d even get back.”

“Got lost... does it have to do with your job? What was it you really did?”

“I was a janitorial bot,” Optimus mutters, automatic. “I’ve told you.”

“You promised you wouldn’t lie.”

Optimus snaps his mouth shut.

“You are incredibly well-read and intelligent, you said you studied in Iacon, yet you’re also a seasoned fighter. Your hands,” D-16 takes Oprimus’ servos in his own, then, gentle, and turns them over. It has his next invent stuttering. “They are not fit for a data clerk. Much too thick and there are dents in your plating. Please do not lie to me, Orion. I would never harm you, no matter what your truth is.”

Isn’t that the lie of the century. “...I led a repair crew. We… We traveled to different colonies to do basic maintenance jobs. It wasn’t a very glamorous position, most us were considered outliers of society anyway. But we did good, honest, work I think. That would explain my frame. As for intelligence... I did spend a lot of time at an archive.” If one could count the hundreds of megacycles of volunteer work he did in the Hall of Records when he was a cadet.

“Tell me about it.”

For a while, Optimus talks about the basic repair jobs, then boring archive stories, then Iacon in general. Not anything in particular, nothing identifying. He talks about his favorite oilhouse and energon shop. He talks about his days in the academy, but just refers to it as general schooling.

He talks about his friends. He talks about the fun he had.

As they’re laughing about the time Sentinel got stuck in his altmode for almost a decacycle trying to impress a femme, Optimus turns to the miner and asks:

“Do you have an altmode?”

“A what?”

“A… A secondary vehicle mode. Different from your root mode?”

D-16 shrugs. “I do not. It’s simply not needed and requires too much upgrading. Your altmode, though. I saw it.” D-16 comes a little closer. “What is it? Are those vehicles common on Iacon?”

“Um. Well, not exactly. My alt mode does come from another… from a colony. It's an emergency vehicle.”

“And you choose your altmode, correct?” Optimus nods. “It is very fitting that you would choose one that lets you help.”

For a while the conversation shifts to altmodes, the necessity of them for functioning and the reason they’re rare to see in Kaon, then the very rare times entertainers with altmodes hold performances in the city.

“You’re kidding,” Optimus says, now laying down. D-16 is also laying down, although he’s positioned the opposite way. Their helms are both aligned.

D-16 shakes his head. “Imagine it, Orion! Seekers soaring in the sky. Those with wheels doing stunts with blazing fires. I’ve seen it once or twice, and there’s always something new to behold. Once there was a group of femmes who combined to form a large fighter tank! They did laps around the arena and scraped the sides. The sparks that flew rained down like- like the stars themselves were raining down.”

Optimus does imagine it. D-16’s voice is the brush painting a picture in the sky.

“That sounds amazing.”

“They’re better than those gladiatorial matches,” D-16 says with distaste.

“Oh, I remember hearing about those.” Mostly about how gruesome they were, how expensive a ticket was. “You don’t like them?”

“No, no… It’s just. I know it is one of the very few well-paying careers a mech can have in Kaon. It’s not like there’s an abundance of opportunities here. Becoming a gladiator is something with high risk and high rewards. The payout is substantial.” He frowns. “But the bloodshed and baseless violence… It is not to my taste. But I do realize the mecha who participate in the sport are doing so out of the need for survival.”

D-16 is looking at the sky wistfully. He hasn’t realized Optimus is staring at him, speechless.

“I understand.” He says finally. “I bet those Seeker racing matches you were talking about are much more fun, anyway.”

They talk about one day seeing a show together, and Optimus doesn’t hesitate when he agrees. Of course I’d love to go with you, he says. I promise I’ll tell you the truth. D-16 has more questions about altmodes, which Optimus answers to the best of his ability, and [after a lot of egging by Optimus] even lets himself think about the type of altmode he would want.

“Something simple. Maybe a small transport caravan.”

“Really? Nothing flashy?”

“Well I don’t think I’ll be joining the Seeker’s ranks any time soon, Orion. Nor would I want to!”

“I bet you’d be a real flier!”

D-16 throws his head back and laughs.

Before either of them realize, they end up falling into recharge, waking up just before the sun rises. They rush back to the habsuite before they’re found exiting a restricted area. Optimus feels so much lighter, so much giddier. The morning comes, pushes away the purple of twilight and greets him with a pink sky.

.

..

…

..

.

“Professor!”

Optimus sees the professor’s shoulders sag with a heavy sigh. They don’t turn to him and answer instead to the ceiling. “No, cadet. There is no extra reading I can give you regarding Insecticons and their habitats on our former colonies. Such readings are considered-”

“Outdated and obsolete, yes, I know.” Optimus chuckles. “I had a question, actually-”

“Of course you do.”

“I was reading about the Decepticon uprisings you spoke about, Professor. About the reasons people felt inclined to listen to Megatronus instead of the council. If that sort of divide ever happened again… Well, it’s like you said. We need to learn from the past, so we don’t make the same mistakes. A unified Cybertron can only exist if we, if the Primes, foster understanding and listen to the mecha we are protecting.”

“Get on with your question, cadet.”

“R-right!” Optimus clears his intake and stands a little straighter. “Well, the reports that I’ve read, they contradict each other. Some cite the uprisings as taking place during solarcycle twelve of the fifth lunar phase, while others say they happened sooner. Some say that Megatronus worked alone, while others say the movement was led by the people.” He brings out his pad from his subspace and tilts it to the instructor to show his notes. “See? Specifically the Riot of Helex you were talking about. That’s the one with the most variations and-”

“Where did you get this?”

Optimus pauses. The instructor sounds… deceptively calm. Like Sentinel after Optimus beat his score on their aptitude test by one point. “In the… In the Hall of Records, professor. I loaned it out.”

“You’re a cadet.” Their eyes flash to his, severe. “You only have access to the first floor.”

“A-Alpha Trion granted me access.”

The professor looks like they’ve been slapped in the faceplate.

“I didn’t mean to cause such a fuss. I just wanted to know why…” He looks back down at his pad, remembering the whole reason he approached Professor in the first place. “Why there were so many discrepancies and inconsistencies. Like with the casualties and,”

“You certainly ask a lot of questions.” Optimus looks up at the professor. Only now notices their icy stare, and feels the glyphs lag and disappear in his throat. “Not a good trait for a Prime.”

They start to leave, taking the pad with them. When Optimus reaches for it, they hold it away.

“I’ll return this for you, cadet. And I’ll make sure to answer all your questions in our next session.”

“But-” Optimus begins, and then snaps his mouth shut when the professor glares. “Yes. Of course. Thank you, professor.” They nod, pleased, and walk away.

The next solarcycle, he returns to the archives. He says a quick hello to the mech at the circulation desk, Trailbreaker, and continues on to the lift to the upper levels. But when he swipes his identification card at the doors, they don’t open. He swipes again. Then a third time just to be sure he’s not mistaken. Confused, he walks back to Trailbreaker.

“Excuse me,” he says to the mech. “Would you mind taking a look at my code? It doesn't seem to be working anymore. It was just fine the other day.”

They take his keycard and type something on their computer. The screen flashes red for a moment, and they hand it back to him.

“Your key’s working fine, cadet. Your access to certain floors has been restricted.”

“But-” He flounders. “Can I speak to Alpha Trion to get this sorted out?”

“Alpha Trion has been called away on official business,” Trailbreaker says, at least he sounds sorry. “There’s never any way to tell how long he’ll be gone. But you can still peruse the first floor all you like!”

Optimus thanks the bot numbly and takes his keycard back.

He won't be allowed to return to the Archives' upper floors for some time, and he never does get that expanded explanation from his professor.

Chapter Text

The private logs of Optimus Prime, archived between missions.

Chapter Text

Orion Pax,

Your continued work in Kaon is admirable and has not gone unnoticed. We have heard your concerns and empathize with your situation greatly. The safety and security of our citizens is of utmost importance to us and we are closely monitoring the circumstances so that we may respond should they become critical.

It’s because of mecha like you that this great machine called Cybertron continues functioning.

Below that short paragraph there is no official signature, only the seal of the Iaconian Council office. All the bots who had closely gathered around Optimus as he read deflate.

“Should they become critical,” J-009 repeats.

“So are we suffering or not?”

Another bot behind him grinds their denta so hard Optimus hears them creak. “All that time and effort, and this is what we get?”

Many more murmurs arise. There’s barely any room to move a pede in Hook’s habsuite- they’ve all crammed into this tight space to read the first response they’ve ever gotten from a governing body. As the letter [which can barely even be considered a letter, Optimus thinks it’s more like a note] settles over them, everyone’s field bleeds together in a mesh of disappointment, anger, and sorrow. It makes the room that much more suffocating.

“It’s… not the worst?” Says Hook, to Optimus’ right. “See, they admitted that there are issues that they’re going to fix-”

“Should they become critical!” J-009 yells. He pushes himself up, but he can’t go very far and ends up clanging against another bot. “As if everything we’ve gone through isn’t enough!”

“Like Orion’s the only one that matters,” Someone mutters. It brings an uncomfortable hush to the room.

To his left, D-16 inclines his helm a little closer. “Orion…” He says in a way that is meant to be comforting. But Optimus can’t hide the way his servos grip his tablet, the way they shake in barely concealed anger.

Optimus taps on the reply icon at the top corner of the screen and begins his answer.

Chairmecha,

I appreciate your response. I have no doubt that you are very busy, especially considering this is the only response my friends and I have received since we began writing to you all almost a stellar cycle ago.

Truly, their words are truly more fitting than mine, and listening to them would provide much more valuable insight than anything I could give. Perhaps you should read them again, and you’ll understand how dire the situation has become and how appreciative I, along with the other citizens of Kaon, would be for something more tangible than a commendation.

You are sensible and intelligent mechs, and I’m sure that you will see reason. There is a reason you are in office, after all.

We look forward to your response.

Sincerely,

The many mecha who keep Cybertron functioning

D-16 reads as Optimus types in a flurry. Before anyone can say anything, Optimus hits ‘send.’

“Orion!” Hook shouts, but it sounds gleeful.

Optimus shuts the data pad off and crosses his arms. “It sounded like they needed a reminder of who exactly they are meant to be serving,” he says. “And if they’re only going to respond to me and pretend like the rest of you don’t exist, then they’re going to deal with what I have to say.”

B-099 laughs somewhere behind him, her distinct tinkering sound is so familiar to him now. N-28 coughs so hard she drops her oil. Someone else pats his shoulder roughly.

The atmosphere is lifted, somewhat. Good.

“It was still very rude,” D-16 says. Optimus looks over to his friend and sees that he’s got a small smile. “If those bots had any literary capacity in their processor, they’d be very upset.”

…

The day Optimus gets his own slab installed, he rejoices. Now he and D-16 no longer have to take turns on the berth, no more uncomfortable recharges on the crate or underneath the table. It fits his size perfectly, too!

“This is great,” Optimus smiles and reclines. He looks over at D-16 on the other side of the room. “I know it makes the space smaller, I’m sorry. Maybe soon I can rent my own habsuite-”

“No,” D-16 shoots the idea down immediately. Optimus looks at him curiously. “It makes more sense this way. You can more easily save your credits. We still need to get you to Iacon.”

Optimus accepts this with a nod. Although, to be honest, he doesn’t think he’ll be getting to Iacon anytime soon. He’s been here for nearly a stellarcycle and has saved less than fifty thousand credits. If he can continue this momentum, without any major or emergency expenses popping up to hinder his progress, then he’ll have enough money for a ticket to Iacon in-

Twenty thousand stellar cycles.

Maybe there’s another way…

Iacon , he thinks with a sort of nostalgia and yearning that’s become- not forgotten, never forgotten, but buried inside of him. Ingrained in his coding. The small pangs of grief that prickle at his optics when another mech laughs too much like Bumblebee, when a bot rubs their servo along their chin just like Prowl, become manageable.

Optimus learns to live with this routine, finds some comfort in it. He wakes alongside D-16, they fuel together, head off to the mines, work the day away, and then come back to the habsuite to rest. The next day they do it all over again. Every tenth solar cycle they earn their meager credits. Every twentieth they stand in line to wait for ration distribution. Sometimes, when they have a few credits to spare, they join their fellow miners at the local oilhouse.

And the letters- they keep him busy, too. Especially after the little scene they made at Hook’s habsuite. A few have asked that Optimus mark his designation somewhere in their letters before sending them off. Turns out higher castes are more likely to listen to a colony bot outcast than actual miners. It’s an unfortunate truth, but one that Optimus won’t hesitate to use to his advantage. Finally, making some headway despite the fact that it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

D-16 doesn’t hide his concern, especially when he receives another response.

Orion Pax,

Clearly this is something you are very passionate about. We are open to sending a delegate to Kaon in the next decacycle to discuss future community proposals and cooperation, if you are amenable.

“This has to be a trap,” D-16 says. Then he sputters. “Not that I think it impossible for you to be taken seriously, Orion, I only mean-”

Optimus holds in his laughter. “I know, I know. I agree with you. Whoever’s writing this is being way too okay with my nerve .”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t respond to this one.”

“Then they’ll think they’ve scared me.”

“Then at least hold your glossa a bit more, play the part of the docile worker. I just don’t want you to put yourself at risk.”

Optimus types out his response, not realizing when exactly D-16 ended up over his shoulder. D-16 helps in his own way, the glyphs morph like clay underneath his guidance.

“Maybe mention establishing energon banks!” Hook calls from the corner of the room. [Servos over his optics, facing the wall. Optimus can’t get him to stop no matter how many times he tries.]

He submits his response with little fanfare, then when he receives a private request for communication from the supposed delegate from Iacon, he sends another. All this happens in between shifts, in between rounds of oil with his friends at the oilhouse. In between his talks with D-16. There is no moment in which Optimus can pinpoint exactly where he can say “yes, here is where things are beginning to change.” The clock simply ticks away the cycles.

But one day he catches sight of himself in a shop window, catches the gleam of his reflective tape and his scuffed paint, and thinks “this is how far I’ve come.” And he is not overwhelmed.

With the delegate set to arrive in a few decacycles, Optimus hardens his resolve. Maybe Iacon isn’t so far after all.

…

All that to say:

He’s adjusted well enough. Of course, like everything else in his life, this is where things go wrong.

…

“What do you mean you don’t need me anymore?” Optimus demands. He’s just dropped off his equipment at the shack when the supervisor came to him.

N-01, isn’t pleased by his anger, but she doesn’t look happy to be delivering this news either. She crosses her arms and juts her chin, but there , she glances to the side for a moment in a telling fidget that screams guilt.

“I mean we don’t need you anymore,” She says. “We’re making cuts across all sectors, and you’re the miner with the least seniority. So, you’re out.”

“But-” Optimus flounders. “But I’ve made a lot of progress, and my daily energon output it-”

“Is not needed,” N-01 reiterates. She glares at a few bots who stopped to watch the drama. They scurry off, whispering to each other.

“How can energon not be needed?”

“Look, Pax, you’re just not what we need at the moment.” She turns a tad gentle, as if that will make this any better. “What we give you and what you give us are not compatible. Too much has been invested in you, with too little results.”

That would have been nice to know before he was given the metaphorical axe. “So give me a new goal! Whatever quota you set, at least let me try to reach it!”

“Double.”

Optimus halts.

N-01 looks down at him, faceplate and field completely unreadable. “If you’d like to continue here, your quota would increase to double what it already is. You already barely make it some days, so I figured it would be easier for all of us to nip this in the wires than let you embarrass or hurt yourself trying.” Her mouth twitches, so subtle but Optimus catches it. She looks, for a moment, sorry. “It’s done. Go home, Pax.”

No . He can’t find it in himself to move. This can’t be- this can’t be it.

Thudding pede steps approach them. Optimus does not turn to look, but N-01 does. She spots the newcomer and then rolls her optics with an exaggerated sigh. Optimus hears her mutter ‘Of course he’s here.’ She sounds deeply annoyed.

“What’s going on?” D-16 asks when he’s close enough. He looks to Optimus first, notices his sad expression then frowns at the supervisor.

“Nothing that concerns you,” says N-01 cooly.

D-16 bristles. “I disagree.” He steps closer. Slightly in front of Optimus. “I think the wrongful termination of a fellow miner does concern me.”

“There is nothing wrongful about it,” She says, dismissively waves a servo in the air. “I already explained myself once. We’ve entertained this whole thing for long enough, Orion just doesn’t cut it here-”

“There are many a mech who would fight you on that. Orion’s performance and contributions are substantial, you can’t just-”

“You’re in no position to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“But this isn’t fair!” D-16 raises his voice, surprising both Optimus and the supervisor. D-16 gestures to him, passionate. “Orion gives everything he has; you’ve seen it! When we toil away, break ourselves down every chord, every solar cycle, he’s right there with us. You can’t say this is about him not meeting his quota, you would’ve gotten rid of Hook ages ago if that were the case! This is foolish!”

N-01 snarls. “Watch yourself, D-16.” She’s a bit taller than D-16, which means she really towers over Optimus. She loosens her posture like she’s inviting them, daring them, to throw a punch. “If you’re so worried that it’s just your little friend being let go, I can assure you otherwise. How about I get rid of you both?”

That has Optimus reconsidering and withdrawing. She’s bluffing , he silently pleads. She wouldn’t really…

But her tone. Her hardened faceplate. Yes, she would. Optimus starts shaking his helm, starts to say “No, wait-”

But D-16 speaks over him. He’s angry, defensive, escalating this further and Optimus wishes this could all be over. “Just because he’s not of our caste doesn’t mean-”

“Is there a problem?”

The voice is deceptively monotone, heavily modulated behind a mask, the tell-tale signs of an enforcer.

When exactly the enforcer found their way over, Optimus couldn’t say, but here they stand. It’s impossible to tell where the enforcer’s optics are looking, hidden behind their visor, but Optimus can imagine that they’re darting all over, taking in the scene. They have their arms to the side, and Optimus notes the way they twitch to the weapon on their holster.

“No,” Optimus replies. “There’s no problem at all.”

“None,” N-01 agrees. “I was just about done giving my crew their orders.”

The air is still crackling with displeasure, and Optimus realizes it’s D-16’s own field. Optimus peeks over at D-16’s face and nearly flinches at what he sees. In all his time here, D-16 has never displayed such clear anger. He’s glaring at the enforcer with a fire in his eyes, one that makes Optimus nervous.

The enforcer slowly turns their helm, so obviously staring down D-16. Their servo sits on their weapon. A reminder, a threat. “Is there a problem?” They ask again.

From where he stands, Optimus has a clear view of the way D-16’s servo curls into a fist.

“No, he doesn’t,” Optimus answers. He nearly shoves his way in front of the other mech. With one servo, he discreetly uncurls D-16’s fist. With the other, he presses into D-16’s chassis and pushes him back, slightly. “Right, D-16?”

D-16 finally looks down at him. For a moment, Optimus feels genuine fear zap through his wiring. It makes his weapon systems ping- a request to come online, makes his battle protocols shake off their dust and prepare for use. But this isn’t- this isn’t Megatron. Optimus shakes his helm minutely in a silent plea. Don’t.

He thinks for a second he sees D-16’s optics glow a deep shade of orange. A trick of the light? But then the other mech shutters them closed, and when he opens them again they are back to their calm, steady yellow. D-16 sighs.

“No.” His sounds displeased. “I have no issues.”

“I was discussing mining schedules with my crew,” N-01 states to the enforcer. She looks between them both, and says “Orion, you’ll be paid for the work you’ve done thus far, but you will not be reporting back tomorrow. We will keep your information on hand should your services ever be needed in the future. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Optimus says. When D-16 doesn’t answer, Optimus steps on his pede.

“Understood,” D-16 winces, frowning at him.

“Good,” The enforcer’s grip loosens on their weapon. “Now get back to work.”

…

Back home, D-16 paces their small room. Optimus sits on the chair and watches him.

“It’s not fair,” he says for the tenth time since coming back.

“I know,” Optimus replies, also for the tenth time.

“Just because you- I can’t believe- no, actually I can. They’ve done it before, I don’t know why I thought-”

“Hey,” Optimus smiles trying for comfort. “It’ll be alright. So I couldn’t meet the standard, big deal. They said they might call me back later, and in the meantime I can always find another job. I promise you won’t have to go back to supporting us on your own.”

D-16 stops pacing finally. He stares at Optimus like he’s a fool [rude]. “Orion… you cannot truly be this naive.”

“What?”

“They are not- Orion . They have no intention of ever letting you back in the mines. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been blacklisted from working anywhere in Kaon ever again.”

D-16’s frown deepens, but Optimus only looks on, confused.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re ten grams away from quota or ten tonnes. The fact is you’re intermingling with the lower castes, you’re breaking your caste’s design, and you’ve caught the eye of a government official . Of course you’re being put in a position where you cannot proceed with your goals.”

“But that’s-” Ridiculous. Absurd. Totally overkill . “N-01 may not be our friend, but she’s not completely sparkless. She wouldn’t do that!”

“You assume that she has a choice.”

Who would care enough about Optimus, the little colony bot turned miner who destroys his frame day in and day out hoping to get to Iacon in thousands of stellar cycles, to stop him? And if what D-16 says is true, then who would care enough about Optimus to stand up for him?

He has friends here, yes, but they’re all tethered to this life. They need their credits, they need the energon. He thinks about N-01’s words and their implication, how easily she would have discarded D-16 for his defiance. Then he thinks about the femme on the side of the road that he had seen when he first helped D-16 carry his energon ration. No one would put themself in that position willingly.

“I’ll find a way.” Optimus mutters after many cycles of silence. “I will.”

“I will speak to the senior supervisors. They can’t do this to you, this is an outrage.”

“Don’t. Don’t get yourself in trouble over this, D-16. Please.” The other mech looks like he’s going to argue again, but then Optimus says, firmly, “Maybe it is only directed towards me, maybe there’s some force out there that wants to see me fail because I have the gall to be something I’m not. But if that’s the case I’d rather it only be me who gets hurt because of it. I know you’re angry,” Optimus softens his voice a little. “And I appreciate the fact that you’re willing to stick up for me, but let’s not make any rash decisions that we’ll end up regretting.”

D-16 is a logical mech, Optimus knows the moment he’s won; D-16 deflates somewhat, but he’s clearly still upset. “It isn’t right.” He says.

“No. But this has happened before, to hundreds of other mecha. When you really think about it, I’m no different than they are, and I doubt things will start changing just for me.” Optimus laughs ruefully.

D-16 jerks, his mouth opens and closes around glyphs that won’t come out, his face is something close to devastated. Optimus feels bad, suddenly. Maybe that was too harsh, maybe he accidentally suggested that things wouldn’t get better for D-16, either.

He stands up from the chair and walks over to the other mech. “Hey, look on the bright side. At least this will give me more time to write to the senate, get the word out about the community aid we’d like to start.”

No, that wasn’t the right thing to say. D-16 still looks worried.

Optimus places a servo on his arm. Small actions of physical contact comfort D-16, Optimus has noticed. Nothing major, but whenever Optimus pats his arm, bumps their frames together, D-16’s field sings appreciatively.

“Everything will be fine, D-16. One little setback isn’t going to stop me. Hey-” He leans closer and smiles encouragingly. “I’ll find another way to earn credits. You’ll see, I’ll get my ticket out of here.”

Something happens, then. D-16’s entire frame seems to tense, his field withdraws. Optimus hurries to take back his servo when D-16 nearly shoves past him. The grey mech stomps to the door and leaves their habsuite; he slams it shut behind him with a sort of finality that makes Optimus’ tanks roil in regret.

That look on D-16’s face, angry, hopeless, hurt- Optimus can’t explain why, but he’s filled with the overwhelming urge to fix it. He wants to run after D-16. He wants to shake him by the shoulders and say everything’s going to be fine! He wants to hurry up and find a new credit income. He wants to skip this period in time where apparently his and D-16’s friendship is grounds for social ostracization. He wants, he wants-

Optimus does not go after D-16. He grinds his denta with worry, but decides to let the other mech have the time to himself. He imagines D-16 on the rooftop [which has slowly also become theirs ] and sighs.

Chapter Text

Now that Optimus is unemployed again, he’s back to his old old routine. Waiting around during the day while D-16 mines, sometimes going into town for supplies or even just a walk, or rereading the same five data pads on the shelf.

There are two that hold a catalogue about basic Cybertronian history [ancient history, from Optimus’ point of view] one about basic frame maintenance, and two that have so little memory space, they only hold one short story each.

The first one is called ‘Sunrise.’ An unnamed miner works his days away below the mines, but he wishes he could see the sun. He’s tempted by his friends to climb higher, climb to the surface where it’s rumoured to be paradise. But the bot does not go with them, for he knows it is forbidden. 

“As he held his drill in his servos, as the steam cradled him, the little miner took notice of the warmth he held and the bright yellow of his colleagues’ helms all around him. Yes, the miner was surrounded by the sun this whole time! And he would continue to spread its warmth by providing his noble service to all of Cybertron, so that future generations would enjoy the fruits of his labour.”

The story ends with five paragraphs describing the demise of the friends who “defected.” There are glyphs that Optimus doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t want to ask.

The second is called ‘Fool's Gold’ and follows a bot who hopped from job to job, never satisfied with his title. First he was a construction bot, then a miner, then a shopkeeper, then an oilhouse worker, then a dockworker, then a million other small occupations.

“Why should I subject myself to this!” Cried the ungrateful mech. “My frame is too fragile for the mines and my servos are too small to hold tools! I belong with the gold skyscrapers of the elite!”

The mech ruins every job he has. There is another character, an intelligent high caste enforcer who tries to help her friend, but she fails. Until one day the mech, blinded by his greed, spots a tank of liquid gold sitting on the side of the road, and dives right in.

“And so the foolish bot falls and boils, he hasn’t even the opportunity to scream. And the next morning when all the citizens walk over the newly paved shining copper road, not one notices his absence.”

Optimus doesn’t read that one more than once.

The stories are awful, to put it mildly, from a literary and personal point of view. But purchasing new ones is over a thousand credits, so Optimus settles for practicing the glyphs over and over and relying on information the others can provide him.

He's pulled from his reading when the door clicks open.

“D-16!” Optimus hurries to stand when the other mech walks through the door, placing the data pads on the table. He almost walks forward, but then hesitates. “Hey. How was your day?”

“Fine.” D-16 greets him with a nod. He shuts the door softly and doesn’t say anything more.

“That’s good.” Optimus persists despite the horribly awkward atmosphere. “I spoke to J-009 today. He was showing me some more glyphs. I was hoping we could go over them-”

“I am tired, Orion.” D-16 mumbles. He still has his helm down, hasn’t turned to face him since he walked in. “Perhaps another time.” He slumps into his slab and his optics go dim. He’s in recharge within a cycle.

A sense of hurt runs through him before he can help it. It’s been like this every solar cycle since he lost his place at the mines. Why. Can’t D-16 see he’s doing his best to get them out of this situation?

…

What happens next is an accident, he swears , it’s the faulty board’s fault anyway!

He’s dusting the room for the millionth time, trying to get his mind off of this whole… thing with D-16. Hoist had shown up earlier, he rambled for a few cycles about him, D-16, ‘trouble in Protihex’ [whatever that meant] and ‘fixing it,’ because apparently D-16 has been in an awful mood. But when Optimus pressed for information about what might be bothering D-16, Hoist only threw up his servos and said “No! Nope! Not getting any more in the middle of it. You figure it out before you have half of the miners in this sector at your door!” and left.

I would fix it if he would just tell me what’s wrong! Optimus scowls. I tell him I’m trying to find a job and he won’t hear it, I tell him I want to spend time with him, he ignores me! He wipes at a dusty spot harder than necessary.

The confusion has morphed into frustration and anger. It feels almost wrong for it to be directed at D-16, causes a whole other jumble of emotions to fight within him, which makes him even more frustrated and angry.

So he takes these emotions out on the dust in the corners, on the top of the shelf. He thinks about all these things as he balances on top of the crate, trying to reach the far edges of the shelf without moving the data pads.

This is when Optimus loses his footing. There's no time to react when the crate starts to wobble, then slides out from under him. He flails and desperately tries to hold onto the shelf, but it doesn’t do any good. The shelf snaps and comes tumbling down with him.

He scrapes his side against the crate on the way down. If that wasn’t enough, the shelf, then various tablets, fall on his helm in quick succession.

“ Ow… ” He hisses and rubs his helm, sits up. Great. Add that to the list of things D-16 is going to be angry at him for. Now he has a shelf to fix, a pile of data pads to put away, and he's aching everywhere.

He stops. Shakes his helm. Scans the floor multiple times, just to be sure he didn’t cause permanent damage to his optical sensors. But no, he’s seeing perfectly fine; there are piles of tablets surrounding him. More than five. More than ten.

Optimus looks back to the wall where the shelf hung. Along with the lack of a shelf there’s now a severe lack of wall . A gaping hole.

He picks up the one closest to him and turns it over in his hand. It’s cracked, chipped at the corners, and caked in dust. The others are in similar states of disrepair. These can’t be D-16’s, because D-16 is meticulous and would never let his belongings get in such bad shape.

Curiosity has Optimus clicking the button on the side to turn it on.

“Rr… Write… Written-” Optimus mumbles to himself. He frowns at the glyphs as his HUD comes to life, comparing them to Kaonese that his friends have taught him. Footnotes appear and overwrite each other, trying to translate them.

Written/ Spoken within [?] Tarn , says the first. Maybe. Optimus takes another tablet and turns that one on. Housed-Below Under Performed . Possibly? The next. Pushing Up Lug Nuts . Hey, that one is actually closer to the Kaonese he’s been learning!

Optimus starts skimming through the first, then the second, then the third, and before he knows it, his HUD is overtaken with overlapping windows and notes. Each one referencing each other to try and figure out what he’s looking at. He can feel his optics spinning and darting from one tablet to the next as his processor sings, finally something new, something exciting . This is just like the day Alpha Trion allowed him access to the second floor of the archives.

Connect the dots here- except, no, the context is all wrong. Look back at the fourth text on the second pile, note how it references grounders and fliers alike, so it must be a neutral term. Relate it to the text from the second tablet on the third pile, and yes, there we go, it’s coming together.

This is how D-16 finds him, much later. The cleaning rag is thrown to the side and he’s surrounded by what’s left of the broken shelf and an array of tablets. Optimus doesn’t even hear when the door opens, his attention split between the two data pads he’s holding.

“Orion,” D-16 chokes. Optimus startles and looks up. D-16 is gaping at him. “What is that.”

“Um.” Optimus looks at the cover again. “Justice-Written of Tarn. I think? I don’t think this is written in the Kaonese you’ve been teaching me, but I’ve been able to work out some of it.”

Footsteps, then D-16 is standing above him. Looming, imposing, threatening. Danger. The bigger mech looks… frightened.

“Where did you find these?”

“Your- your shelf. I was cleaning, and it broke off. These were behind the wall.” D-16 looks at the shelf, then the wall, then back to him. It’s through sheer willpower that Optimus does not hunch his shoulders. Right, D-16 is still angry with him. “I’m sorry,” Optimus says and goes to give the pad back.

D-16’s servo trembles ever so slightly when he takes it. His next intake is shaky. “These are contraband. No one knows I own these.”

Optimus understands immediately. “Oh.”

That’s why they were hidden away, neglected until they were nearly non-functioning. Better they be forgotten than out in the open if an Enforcer stopped by. But D-16 is a practical mech. If he really wanted to escape trouble, why bother keeping these around at all? Why not just dispose of them in a ditch outside the city where no nosy little Prime could ever find them?

“You read all these?” D-16’s gaze sweeps over the piles that surround him.

“I tried,” Optimus tilts his helm down. “I wasn’t really reading so much as deciphering.”

That gets a half hearted laugh out of D-16. Optimus begins to smile too, then worries his lip. D-16 isn’t angry at him snooping through his things, he’s scared because Optimus has caught him harboring illegal material. But what is it about them that makes them so illicit?

It’d be better if he didn’t know. Better if he put these all back inside the wall and forget he ever saw them.

“I’d like to know what they’re saying,” Optimus mumbles and holds one of the pads closer to himself, looks away. “If… If you’d be willing to teach me.”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but D-16 kneels beside him, joints creaking all the way down. D-16 holds the data pad and turns it on with all the reverence of a dying mech holding the cure for the Cybonic Plague.

…

“ Essays of Tarn ,” D-16 reads the title. “You got the literal translation right, although the first glyph is more of… an ode. These are speeches and orations collected from different authors of Tarn. See here-” D-16 points to the first glyph, Optimus follows. “This mark at the bottom is used for negative connotations, but in this case the author uses it for…” D-16 scrunches his face. “Well, it’s like- I don’t know how to explain it-”

“Defiance,” Optimus guesses. “Audacity?”

“Yes,” D-16 nods. His optics look, for a moment, a brighter shade of yellow. “Yes, exactly. The state of Tarn borders Iacon, so they are on an even tighter leash than us here in Kaon. The very act of collecting these speeches and public addresses, putting them in a format readily available without going through the proper censorship panels is considered unlawful.”

Optimus frowns as he adds this to his notes. “And this one?’’ He raises another pad.

“ Critical Thought Experiments . I’ve read this one twice; mostly hypotheticals about society’s downfall if the current governing body is left unchecked.”

Propaganda, possibly? Well, makes sense that they’d want that out of the way. Otimus nods.

“This one?”

“ The Unabridged History of Cybertron . Exactly what the title says, it goes into more depth than the other data pad that I had on the shelf.”

Optimus perks. Okay, definitely saving that one for later. He makes a note, and points to another. “This?”

“Ah-” D-16 turns shy. “ Moonlight Rendezvous . It’s a… romantic tale. A seeker and a grounder fall in love as they travel throughout Cybertron searching for a hidden artifact.” He shakes his head. “The artifact takes less precedence than the romantic pot. The castes of the two were never outright stated, but the censorship panel saw the potential for citizens to see two mechs from different worlds and be inspired to start… fraternizing.”

Optimus does not want to ask about that one, he thinks his faceplate will never go back to anything other than deep red. He picks up another. This one he couldn’t even make out a single word. “This one?”

“That is just our language system.” D-16 says, expression turning somewhat fond as he takes it, begins scrolling through the pages. Rows and rows of glyphs and presumably, simple sentence structure. “It’s how I learned to read and write.”

He looks so calm, Optimus almost can’t ask his next question. “And this one was outlawed?”

That sad look returns to D-16’s optics. “Teaching literacy outside of designated institutions is forbidden. We lower castes are not… fit for academic roles, much less teaching ourselves. They say it’s so we may focus all our processor towards our work, and not unnecessary distractions.” The bigger mech shrugs, field dismayed.

“Reading was a distraction?”

“The material.” D-16 says.  “And… If a mech knows how to read, then they can understand the policies that are being made.”

Notes and notes and more notes. Optimus compiles them all together and shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he mutters.

“Give it time. You’ll get the hang of the language.”

“Not that . I just-” Optimus starts and then stops. “How could they get away with this? Controlling what you read, how you read it, even the act of informing yourself! It’s not right!”

D-16’s next answer surprises him- it comes through their comm link. <Thoughts are even more dangerous than actions. You can kill a person, but not an idea. It’s why I caution you against being so loud.>

Everything he’s done so far, speaking out, helping Hook, it was a danger to D-16 from the start. Of course it was. Maybe that’s why D-16 had gotten upset. But then…

“Why do you have these?” Optimus asks.

He feels D-16 stiffen beside him. “They were not illegal when I bought them,” he defends. “I won’t go around distributing copies, but… I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them when the destruction was called. I erased the serial numbers and broke their connection to any satellite signals that might have snuck into the hardware. These are poets, philosophers, idealists, and  a part of their spark lives in these glyphs.” D-16 raises a pad, the one with their alphabet, and gently rubs a thumb over the screen, dusting it off. “I may not be as brave as you or Hook, but this is my own act of defiance. I won’t let their words die. They will live inside me.”

There must be something wrong with Optimus, because this image of D-16, still caked in dust and residue from the mines, features softly illuminated by the blue glow of the data pad and enhancing each sharp edge… Optimus thinks he’s never looked better. He wants to keep hearing what D-16 has to say, he wants to rub the dents out of his plating, talk philosophy and history and anything else the other mech might come up with, he wants to refuel together over a shared data pad. He wants, he wants, he wants.

“But-” Optimus shakes his head again. “But it shouldn’t be a crime for you to search for knowledge and expand your views! That’s- It’s-” It’s a lot of things, but the word that mostly comes to mind is familiar.

The other mech smiles, tired. “I imagine things are very different in Iacon.”

How badly Optimus wants to say yes, things are nothing like here. We promote truth and freedom and honesty and equality . The faces of his professors and Ultra Magnus and Sentinel come to his mind, unbidden. Were they really that different?

“We listened to each other,” Optimus says. “And we helped each other. We spoke freely, at least, that’s what I tried to push.”

D-16 spares him a glance, he seems to be listening.

“I told you I worked at an archive once,” Optimus starts. He looks at his own servos and plays with them, lost in memory. “I was… fired. Because of the questions I was asking. Because of the material I tried to learn. Maybe I should have learned by now that digging will only get me into trouble. But I don’t regret it, especially after meeting you, D-16. Not after what you’ve shown me.” He straightens at the shoulders and looks directly in the other mech’s optics.

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” Optimus says. “Nobody should be held in chains just for being born.”

A whirr, the sound of D-16 vocalizer resetting, and he whispers, “Yes.”

…

The day turns to night and still, they do not rise from the floor. There are still many more pads to go through and Optimus’ curiosity has not yet been sated.

“What’s this?” He asks. “What about this one?” And “What does this mean?” He worries that he’s annoying D-16, pushing buttons he shouldn’t. Maybe he should stop.

But D-16 keeps meeting him, keeps answering with ernest. “An old tale about the possibility of life on other planets.” and “A political satire.” and “That word means hatred and love at the same time.”

Optimus picks up another pad. “What’s this one?”

“Poetry.” Is it just him, or is D-16 turning a bit red? “It’s some of my favorites. I must have reread it a hundred times by now."

“Read it to me?” Optimus asks, because although he may not understand the arts, he understands showing interest in a friend’s interest. And… he doesn’t want to recharge, not yet. He wants to stay awake with D-16 just a little longer. Hear his voice work over the gnarly glyphs and commit them to memory.

Some poems are short, some are long, and most of them Optimus doesn’t understand. He offers slight praise at the end of each one, mostly just asking D-16 his interpretation and letting the bigger mech speak. He finds that D-16 has quite a bit to say when it comes to discussing a poet’s intended interpretation versus his own. When D-16 reaches the end of another, apparently about a bot reconciling the end of the world with their lover, he pauses. Something so fragile that Optimus doesn’t dare speak for fear that he’ll break it.

“Orion,” D-16 whispers, like something is beginning.

“Yes?” Optimus asks, just as quiet, because when someone whispers to you you must whisper back.

D-16 begins leaning closer, and Optimus does the same, thinking this must be something really important. Is D-16 afraid that someone might overhear them? Maybe the neighbours on the other side of the wall or an enforcer at the door? Optimus gives the miner his full attention, even as D-16 hesitates. He starts, stops, looks around the room, then starts and stops again. Through it all, Optimus does his best to keep eye contact. This is the most amount of time D-16 has spent with him in weeks, he won’t run now.

“Will you visit?” D-16 finally asks. [It sounds forced and grated.]

“Hm?”

“When- When you’re gone. After you’ve gone back to Iacon. Will you visit?”

The question is soft and D-16’s optics are even softer. His EM field is held close, like a master would hold a cyber-dog on a leash. But Optimus can still feel its edges, the anxiety that bleeds out.

No , Optimus thinks. I won't. Because when I get home, you’ll be my worst enemy. When I get home, you’ll hold your blade to my neck cables and probably drink the energon from my wounds. I won’t visit you, D-16. But I'll miss you.

What he needs to do is deny this, tell D-16 that while they may be friends, Optimus will probably be too busy for anything other than occasionally comm. This is the perfect opportunity to get out of Megatron’s life and keep this timeline clean- well, clean up the muck he’s already leaving, with the Senate and all. There are no records of Orion Pax in the future. Optimus is sure he would have remembered if there were.

D-16 is beginning to look worried. It’s like Optimus’ spark twists at the sight. He needs to answer.

“I’d like to,” Optimus says like the damn fool he is. “If you’ll still allow me your company.”

The worst part is he doesn't even regret it. D-16’s field loosens, it sings with relief and the other mech smiles. Oh, Optimus connects the pieces as D-16 inches his hand closer. Is this what made him upset before? Optimus reaches out and pats his servo reassuringly.

“For you, dear Orion, my door is always open.”

Chapter Text

D-16 is long overdue for a new shoulder plate. He can deny it all he wants, but one can only buff and rebuff and smooth over their scratches before having to admit the inevitable and swap it out. That doesn’t mean D-16 won’t fight it.

“A frugal life is not devoid of pleasures, simply lived with caution and care. Forgoing physical possessions in exchange for meaningful interactions and relationships.”

“Don’t quote Blastoid at me!” Optimus snaps back and sways on his pedes. He can’t quite reach the bottle of lubricant on the shelf, and he bats away D-16’s hand when he tries to help. “A bot whose processor can be summed up to merely the fragments of scholars, bereft of a single individual thought- can he ever claim to be his own mech?”

“And yet you repeat the words of Straxis!” D-16 says with a smile like this is one of their usual debates. “Hypocritical, no?”

Optimus is not smiling, because this is not a fun hypothetical debate, this is D-16 denying himself a very useful upgrade for the sake of- of frugality. He gives up on reaching the bottle and looks at D-16. “The point stands! Spending your credits on things that will better your life, things you need-”

“-Don’t need it-” D-16 mutters.

“-is not exhausting your resources! You need a new shoulder plate- you need a new set, so you should get them.”

The way D-16 brushes the topic aside makes him angrier. “A miner’s plating is incredibly thick, it can last thousands of stellar cycles!”

“And how long has it been since you replaced yours?” Optimus asks. He crosses his arms and raises an unimpressed eyeridge.

D-16’s optics flicker to the side. He mutters “...A thousand stellar cycles?”

Oh, he is definitely low-balling the amount. Optimus can tell. “I see.” Optimus nods then starts to march to the door. “You’ll be getting a new one.”

“No, Orion-” D-16 grabs his arm to make him stop. He starts making small rotations at the scapula like he’s trying to prove just how fine he is. “I really don’t need-”

It’s at this moment that the miner hisses in pain and grabs his right shoulder. It’s the very ache that brought on this conversation, the one that won’t go away no matter what they try. Optimus helps D-16 onto the floor as he rides out the pain. He’s merciful enough to wait for D-16 to stop twitching at every invent before rubbing it in.

“You were saying?”

To his credit, D-16 sounds only a little winded.  “An entirely new set of plates costs-”

“I have more than enough credits saved.”

“No! You can’t waste your credits on this, I won’t let you.”

“It’s not a waste!” Optimus nearly yells. He doesn’t want to, he just wishes D-16 would take this more seriously. He can dismiss it and tough through it and oil his joints all he wants, but Optimus won’t stand for it. Every time D-16 comes home a little slower, more pained, something inside of him clenches and twists.

“I’ll get a new one when I really need it,” D-16 says and stands again.

He makes his way to the door, leaving for the mines again, and Optimus follows him. He doesn’t bother holding in his field and lets the displeasure crackle towards D-16. At the threshold, D-16 smiles like he normally does when he’s trying to be comforting.

It doesn’t work. Optimus crosses his arms and glowers from beneath his visor.

“We can discuss this more when I return.” D-16 places a hand on his shoulder.

“We can, and we will,” Optimus sighs, and because he still has some manners in him, he does not slam the door in D-16’s face.

Alone in the habsuite, Optimus grits his denta and makes a decision. They won’t be discussing it tonight. He knows that getting D-16 to agree to a new shoulder plate will take another decacycle at least. If the big mech wants to be stubborn, well, Optimus had dealt with Bumblebee avoiding his decontamination showers back home. He can outwit this, too.

…

The metalsmith’s building is sharper than the surrounding markets. Larger, too, probably a testament to just how in-demand the service is. The walls are a sleek grey, meeting chunks of obsidian black at the vertexes. Those chunks curve outward, forming razor sharp edges that gleam in the sunlight. It comes off as chaotic and unwelcoming, but Optimus has long since grown to appreciate the brutal order of Kaon architecture.

Not that he’s ever entered before- there’s never been any reason to. He’s only ever walked by, gazed up in half awe, half intimidation. Now as he walks through the entrance, he tries not to let either show. The only comfort is that he knows the metalsmith, N-77, from all the times they’ve crossed paths at the central market.

Not that he’s ever talked to her before- there’s never been any reason to. But at least he knows what she looks like.

N-77 is hunched over her workbench hammering a sheet of metal into shape when he walks in, facing away so Optimus can only see her lithe back and the wings that lay in rest against it. She’s some type of flight frame with a long, pointy, crested helm, and a deep purple frame.

“Miss.”

He jumps in alarm at the voice. Only now does he see another bot at the far corner of the room, a femme just a little taller than Optimus with a bulky white frame.

N-77 stops hammering. She looks over to the femme who spoke.

“You- you have- a customer! Miss!” Squeaks the white bot.

Poor femme, Optimus thinks. She’s shaking like a newly sparked protoform! Is N-77 really so stern and formidable? When she turns to face him, goggles and facemask still deployed and covered in grime, Optimus gives his best smile.

“Hello!” He waves. “I was hoping to get some new shoulderplates made.”

She looks him up, then down, then up again. When she speaks, her voice is heavily modulated and garbled. “I don’t do civilian plating.” She begins to turn back to her work bench.

Yikes. Optimus does not let her flat voice deter him. “Not for me, It’s for a friend of mine. He’s a miner.”

N-77 is quiet for a moment, then all at once her masks retract. She faces him again, wide grin and strange gleam in her optics. One that screams trouble. Optimus squares himself as she approaches, reminding himself You’re doing this for D-16, this will be worth it.

“Oh,” She coos and clasps her servos together. “You’re D-16’s bot, aren’t you? This should be good. Come in, come in! Azimuth,” she gestures to the white femme. “Be a darling, get me my samples, would you?”

…

N-77 is, if nothing else, admirably dedicated to her craft.

That is the nicest way Optimus can say that she’s a perfectionist more obsessed with showing off her astounding, shining finishes instead of the usefulness of the product. Azimuth brings out dozens of shoulder plates and N-77 presents each one, particularly happy with the way they reflect and gleam in the light. It takes a megacycle to go through her shorter list of recommendations.

There’s a basic thick iron plating, same as D-16’s current model, meant to endure and adapt and not much else. Another that is a shade darker, but apparently lighter and allows for more dexterity. There are newer models, too. Black tungsten ones with extra holsters along the back to better store equipment [or weapons.] Extra strength pieces that have double the longevity and triple the hitting power.

“A favorite,” the metalsmith says, “For those interested in becoming gladiators down the line.”

Optimus’ engine stalls.

“He’s not interested,” he chokes.

N-77 raises an eyeridge, then shrugs. “Fine, fine! I thought big and rugged would have been your type, but I guess you smaller builds can only handle it so rough, huh?”

“What-”

Without looking back, she gives more pieces to Azmiuth for her to take away. “Here,” She gestures to the table, now with fewer choices. “These are a little more upgraded than D-16’s current array.”

Another thing that strikes Optimus is just how large each piece is. Even the smallest one is the size of his arm. He tries not to think about that as he walks around the table and considers each one. These are models that D-16 could realistically be seen with. A long, black tungsten model catches his eye, very similar to the one D-16 already has, but comes with a row of spikes along the outside.

“These look rather…” He touches one and is immediately pricked by it. “Uncomfortable.”

N-77 shrugs and says, “They’re more for show than anything.”

Show of force, definitely. “This one,” Optimus points to a dark grey steel model with a hatch for biolights at the very top. “I think he’d like this one. Do the added features require more fuel consumption?”

“Not much. Actually, I had miners in mind when I made these. They run on solar power- there are panels built into the back. They charge when they’re out in the city, running their errands, then they’re ready for use underground. Or, you know, in any other dark situation that may call for it.”

That is surprisingly well-thought out. “Like a power outage?” Optimus thinks aloud, and then hears Azimuth cough. They aren’t common, but happen every few decacycles and make the early twilight hours a hassle. He turns it over in his hands. “He’d definitely like this one.”

“What about you?” N-77 asks. “What do you think about it? The color? The feel? Is it grabable?” With each question, she gets more and more in Optimus’ space. Her expression is deathly serious, and Optimus swallows.

“It’s alright?”

She presses closer. “Is there anything you’d like to see D-16 sporting?”

He shakes his helm and takes a careful step back. “Anything he’s comfortable with?”

N-77 rolls her optics and huffs in annoyance. She pulls away and rubs a servo down her faceplate.

“They’re… very nice?” Optimus tries. Is she wanting more detailed feedback? “I’ll ask D-16 what he thinks about them after I give them to him.” This still doesn’t make her happy, but Optimus really doesn’t know what else he can say, other than commending the shine.

Finally there are only a few left. As Azimuth sets up the last four to display on the table, N-77 looks Optimus up and down. She cocks her hip against the table and says, “I could fashion something for you as well. It would be smaller and cheaper. Something that would match your partner.”

His armour is Academy-grade. In his entire lifespan, Optimus has only ever had to fully replace a piece when, after visiting an organic planet, a small splatter of goo landed on his arm plate. And that was more for decontamination purposes rather than damage. He’s standardly durable for his time, suspiciously so in this one. Even Hoist has made a comment or two during his visits about how well Optimus has held up despite the ‘severity of the workload that would normally make a civilian buckle ten times over.’

“Maybe next time,” he says. “I’d really just like to focus on D-16.”

Azimuth has finished setting up the table and is now grabbing cleaning supplies. N-77 says, “That sure is nice of you. I’m surprised D-16 is even letting you do this for him- Shoot, I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen him come by for a simple plating upgrade. He’s so… utilitarian like that.”

“Don’t I know it.” Optimus mumbles. “He doesn’t know I’m here, actually. I’m hoping this can be a sort of surprise, that way he can’t say no. I’d appreciate it if we kept this between ourselves, at least until I can give it to him.”

“Oh! Any special occasion?”

“Not really.” They’re nearing his second stellar cycle since meeting, but that’s not really something to be celebrated. In fact, Optimus tries not to think about it too hard or else he’ll despair. “He’s just been pushing himself so hard recently, it’s the least I could do. Honestly he deserves more, but I think this is a gift he can’t refuse.”

“A gift!” N-77’s mouth twitches at the corners like she’s trying to bite back a grin. “Something you’re… proffering?”

“Sure?”

The grin is unleashed, and so is a little squeal. Optimus wonders on it for a moment, but then there’s a loud crash and a bang. Behind them, Azimuth has dropped her broom and knocked over some metal sheets on another desk.

Optimus starts to go to her, concerned. “Are you alright-”

“She’s fine!” N-77 grabs his shoulder and turns him back towards the samples. “She’s clumsy. So, back to your profference. It’s an honour to be able to help you!”

Optimus Prime does not feel regret for any decision he’s ever made. There is sorrow, a healthy dose of hindsight in which he realizes he could have handled certain situations better, but never outright regret. It doesn’t do any good, after all. Why mourn mistakes when you can learn from them and take it in stride?

That being said, the anxious feeling at the pit of his spark as N-77 goes from passively interested to outright obsessed is coming very close to it.

…

Optimus has finally decided on a design [solid black, reinforced titanium, more durability, a little heavier, extra biolights at the top] when Azimuth calls for N-77 again.

“There’s another customer, Miss-”

“I’m busy!” N-77 replies without looking over.

“You really should take care of your other clients,” says Optimus, hoping to get away from the weird focus that N-77 has put on him. “I’ll just wait-”

But N-77 grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. “Nonsense! We’re almost done. Now that the look and feel are decided, I just need some measurements. It’d be better if D-16 was actually here, that way I could get his exact sizing, but I can make something relying on previous orders I’ve made for bots with a similar build.”

“I have his measurements,” He says and writes them down on the pad N-77 has pulled from her subspace. Good thing he had the forethought to measure D-16 during recharge. [Not that he’ll be telling N-77 this. That’d be creepy.]

Behind them, Azimuth is telling the new customers that she can help them with whatever they need, but they grumble, dissatisfied, and not long after Optimus hears the door open and shut again.

N-77 takes her pad back and looks over the numbers with what can only be described as delight in her optics. “Oh, Orion,” She sighs. “You don’t know how helpful it is to have a bot who knows what they’re looking for. If I didn’t already have Azimuth, I’d consider hiring you.”

Optimus perks. “You know, I actually can-”

“I said consider.” She taps his helm with her data pad with a tsk. “You may have mining experience, but metal work requires a bit more… finesse. Oh, don’t look at me like that!” She says placing a servo over her cheek as she looks down at Optimus, who has begun to frown. “You look so cute when you get all pouty. D-16 sure is a lucky bot.”

Optimus sputters. “What-”

But N-77 is already waving him away with a delighted laugh that borders on a cackle. “Alright! Now you leave the rest to me, Orion! I swear by my honour as a metalsmith, this project is in very capable servos.”

Optimus gives her a half hearted smile and a thumbs up, which N-77 reciprocates enthusiastically. “You can see Azimuth for the payment.” N-77 takes the sheets of metal and points him over to Azimuth, who is waiting at a register by the door.

The total comes up to a whopping five thousand credits which makes him cringe internally. A decent chunk of his savings; he can understand why D-16 was so against him purchasing them. It’ll be worth it though, when he goes home and presents the gift to D-16.

As he transfers over his credits, he catches Azimuth looking at the register, then back up at him, then back down.

“...Everything alright?” He asks after the third time she misclicks on the screen.

Azimuth jumps and looks at him with wide optics. Her faceplate turns a bit red; it’s even more pronounced by her white frame. “No- Yes! Um. Sorry, I was just-” She looks around. “Um, so you’re D-16’s- he’s your- you’re his friend?”

Optimus smiles indulgently, not wanting to make her more nervous. “Orion Pax.”

“Azimuth,” She introduces herself, then stutters. “But, you knew that already, duh. Sorry- I’m not- Um. Sorry.” She squeaks.

“It’s alright?”

“I’m from a colony, too!” She blurts.

Optimus keeps his smile steady despite the way his insides freeze. Civilians are few and far between in Kaon. They don’t tend to hang around the mines or places that miners frequent, and he especially has never run into a bot from a colony.

This could be trouble. His friends, other warframes, take him for his word when he describes what his ‘life’ was like in his colony- they don't have any frame of reference. But this femme does. One wrong word, one misremembered historical event or social misstep, and she’d be on it like a cyberhound who’s caught a scent of fresh energon. The more paranoid part of Optimus’ processor whispers maybe she already has.

“Is that right?” He sounds smoother than he feels.

“Yeah,” she nods. She rests her arms on the counter and leans forward. “I-I’m from Antella. A few parsecs away? It was kinda small-” It was the largest exporter of zinc Cybertron ever had. “I had to leave after, y’know, the whole Quintesson thing-” She’s referring to the Cybertronian revolution against the Quintessons which, according to the history pad D-16 had been hiding, had only been won about two thousand stellar cycles ago. “-There wasn’t much left of it in the end. I- I was one of the original protoforms to come online on Antella!” She smiles shyly- slightly proud? Is that something Optimus should be commending her on? Maybe being an original colony bot is… something to be proud of?

“That’s, uh, really cool!” He says, and then cringes at how forced it sounds.

Azimuth’s faceplate turns even more red. “Are you… also an original?” Before he can answer, she shakes her helm. “S-Sorry! I’m talking too much, I’m sorry. Let me finish your transaction-” Her servos tremble over the screen.

“No, it’s alright,” Optimus says. “I’m not. An original, that is. What was that like?”

“Well, b-back home it made me a bit of a celebrity,” she smiles. “I was there since the beginning, um, I knew the ins and outs of everything. I’m a- or, I was a watchmaker. But bots had me keep track of all sorts of things! Like, you know how our internal chronometers run differently than a natural Cybertronian’s?” He does not, but he nods anyway. “Well, I created coding t-to fix it! Like, we were able to know Antella’s and Cybertron’s time simultaneously! No conversions, merchants were able to come and go without stressing about missing important meetings due to time differences- oh, and I kept meeting minutes, too!” She is, for the first time today, standing a little taller and a little more confident.

Which is why he doesn’t tell her that in the future, Cybertron runs on standard galactic time, muddled together with other planets in the galaxy. Much more efficient. “How did you end up here?” Optimus asks instead.

Azimuth deflates. “Well, the war destroyed Antella, and the Senate enacted the Displacement Rejuvenation Act. You know what that was like.” Again, he does not, but he nods anyway. “Good on paper, supposed guaranteed rights, but no actual required integration policies. I was placed in Iacon, and the mechs there aren’t exactly…fond of refugees from colonies? Especially ones like me…” She shrugs and trails off, Optimus frowns. “It- makes sense, I guess. It’s not like we were that important during the war. We kept getting taken over and then taken back, we were such a liability and…” She trails off, optics sad. The look she sends Optimus is resigned, You know the rest. What can you do?

Not wanted in Iacon for her supposed inadequacy and deemed worthless, so she was cast out. The worst part is Azimuth seems fine with this. Something in Optimus breaks, and then rages. It’s not fair!

“You’re a refugee,” he says, slow and steady so as to not overwhelm her, but firm. “A vulnerable class that Cybertron should have bent over backwards to help. What does it matter that you needed protection- You and everyone else on Antella lost your homes and livelihoods, that’s not your fault.” It might be the incompetent Senate’s fault, actually, but he won’t say that. “I’m sorry. You should have been welcomed everywhere.”

Azimuth looks away, shy again. “It didn’t turn out so bad for me! I took odd jobs here and there, and eventually I came to Kaon. And I found Filch- uh, N-77- and ever since, I’ve been here.”

Optimus notices the slip up. “Filch? Is that N-77’s name?”

Azimuth bites her derma and shifts a little closer to whisper. “Yeah. But don’t spread it around, okay? She’s only told me so far. We colony bots may not be in the Senate’s favour, but Warbuilds like them- they get in trouble for going by anything other than their designation. It’s a sign of deviation, or whatever.”

I asked for a designation, he remembers D-16 from so long ago. Not a name.

Optimus frowns. “That’s ridiculous. How much trouble could it be for wanting your own name?”

“Five thousand!” In a blink, Azimuth has stepped back, straightened up and yelps, “F-five thousand credits! Is your total!”

Optimus tries to calm the minor threat alerts that have popped up in his HUD, what in the world, he’s about to ask, but then he notices the way Azimuth’s eyes keep darting to his left- to the direction of the door. Her optics are wide, her entire frame locked. Optimus knows better than to look.

The two enforcers are silent as death, creeping into his peripheral vision as Optimus hands over his credit chip and pays. They are polished and neat, frames practically glowing in a way that seems wrong in the middle of this dusty shop. Azimuth’s looks a shabby grey in comparison.

The femme herself looks like she’s going to give herself a hard reboot any second, so Optimus says, loud and monotone, “And when will they be ready?”

“Oh, n-not long!” Azimuth gulps. “Five solar cycles, at the most. Miss N-77 works incredibly hard. Very efficient. And. The pieces will come out just perfect, don’t you worry.”

“I won’t,” Optimus nods.

The enforcers are still lingering, Azimuth is still shaking, so Optimus asks her for a timeline. When will N-77 begin? When will the tungsten reach its melting point? Then a price breakdown. She goes over the costs for materials, for labour, for time- all painstakingly boring. By the time she explains the sourcing of the metal ingots to local miners, the enforcers have left.

Five cycles pass before both he and Azimuth exvent in relief. As is always the case when enforcers are gone, they leave behind a thick sense of anxiety.

“Be careful!” Azimuth hisses, barely moving her derma. Her eyes are haunting. “I know you like- like talking big, with Hook. I know you’re… you’re very nice and you want to help. But sometimes keeping quiet and lying low is better- safer! Not so much for us, but for them.” She inclines her helm towards Filch, who has stopped her welding and turned to look at them. Can she feel their stares? Or is it just the weight left in the room? “We civilians get a little more leniency when it comes to this stuff, but warbuilds…”

We put them in danger by just existing near them, Optimus surmises in his head.

“Azimuth!” Comes Filch’s voice, now modulated again. “Leave the nice bot alone and come help me!”

“Coming!” She turns back to Optimus and smiles, still nervous but definitely a bit lighter. “It was nice meeting you, Orion. And, um, sorry you’re having trouble looking for a job. I know what that’s like. If you haven’t already, maybe you could try trading something at the market? That’s how I survived my first few decacycles here, before I met-”

“Azimuth!”

“Y-Yes, Miss!”

Chapter Text

Five solar cycles. That’s not too bad. Optimus will just have to keep D-16 busy [not difficult] and make sure he wasn’t pushing himself too hard before getting his new shoulder plates in [moderately difficult.]

Optimus had meant what he said about having enough saved, but D-16 was justified in his worry for his funds. Their energon rations, living expenses, and little emergencies like D-16’s shoulder plates- it all added up. Eventually, he was going to run out. If he ran his calculations right, it would be less than ten decacycles.

Azimuth’s words ring in his processor as he walks home. Trading, huh…

“I have a useless rock sitting in my subspace,” he mutters to himself as he passes a pawn shop. The window displays all sorts of goods, no doubt questionably obtained. “That might be worth something.”

As soon as the thought is finished, he recoils, filled with shame. No, he could never trade the Allspark, any piece of it. How could he even consider it?

But what good is it doing you now, whispers a voice, his doubts. You haven’t pulled it out in nearly half a stellar cycle; it hasn’t responded since you got here. Just say it’s some rare jewel from a colony, sell it, get to Iacon, and then figure the rest out from there!

No. Absolutely not! Optimus is not about to trade away what might be his only link home for a few meager credits- definitely not one of the most important pieces of Cybertronian history!

His walk turns into a march, a habit of his when he has too much on his mind.

The representative from Iacon is coming soon, that too is taking up space in his processor. The details were still vague, it would most likely end up being a talk of platitudes rather than actual open dialogue, but maybe Optimus could make a request.

A visit to Iacon, to a city outside of Kaon, to speak with- with someone who might know more about interdimensional time travel. Swatch should be alive, right? Or maybe Quark of Rodion. Optimus might not be extremely well-read on the subject of interdimensional travel or the space-time continuum, but he knows the names of a few scholars who he could look for.

It’s routine that controls his pedes and leads him from the busier main roads to side streets, then seedier alleys. He’s walked this same path with D-16 many times- a more scenic route home as D-16 calls it. Where before, Optimus would have gone the long way around, now he’s sure he’ll be left alone with a chance to clear his head.

Which is apparently too much to ask. Because Optimus, so distracted by the possibilities in his mind, doesn’t register the bot behind him until the last moment.

A deep vent, a sharp, piercing growl. Optimus knows who it is before he even turns around.

“Hello D-X0,” Optimus says with a straight face.

“Pax!” The other mech greets, friendly- too friendly. He’s smiling too wide, too many teeth, and opening his arms like he’s seeing an old acquaintance. Optimus takes a step back. “It’s been so long, my friend.”

Not long enough. Optimus quickly glances at their surroundings. A tight alley, between an abandoned office building and a low-rated sweetened energon shop. No windows besides the one maybe ten- fifteen meters above. In the very, very far distance is the sound of pedesteps, of other bots. Should things turn south, he’s better off running than calling for help.

“I didn’t think grey was your colour,” D-X0 hums, then explains, “At the metalsmith. Saw you buying some of the big bird’s wares.”

Ah, so he was the mech that came in while he and Filch were speaking. “It wasn’t for me.”

D-X0 laughs and snarls something in Kaonese. This one Optimus knows. Something that roughly translates to ‘errand boy.’ Rude.

“How kind you are. I was surprised to see you at all, actually,” D-X0 shrugs and puts his weight on one leg. Somewhere behind Optimus, something small falls to the floor- it sounds like a tin can. It makes him startle and jump. “D-16’s got you on a tight leash these days, hasn’t he? Possessive, if you ask me. Is that why you snuck away while he’s at work? I don’t blame you.”

Good thing no one is asking you, is Optimus’ first thought, followed by What in the frag are you talking about?

“Is there something you need, D-X0? Or are your days so boring that you have nothing better to do than hang around creepy alleys?”

There’s a twitch to D-X0’s grin. He’s annoyed. “Ouch! Can’t I just say hello? Maybe offer my condolences for your, ah, unfortunate dismissal? But what can you expect, a fragile little colony bot playing with the big strong machines. It was bound to happen eventually.”

“I’m sure you’re happy about it. Now this fragile little colony bot won’t stand in your way of getting 700th place in the sector.”

The grin completely drops. “Watch it.”

“Sorry. It was more like 800th, wasn’t it?”

“You little-” D-X0 snarls and steps forward like he’s going to rush Optimus, but then visibly forces himself to calm, palms open and everything. “I’m not here to fight, Pax. I’m here to help.”

“Help.”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“That’s right.”

“Not too long ago, you were calling for my helm on a pike.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You threw me into barrels of oil. You nearly struck me with your auger in the mines!”

“Transmission fluid under the hood.” D-X0 waves a servo while Optimus sputters. “I overheard you talking to the bird. I came to offer you a job.”

“A job.”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say? Yes, a job. Are you that stupid?”

Optimus grits his teeth and does not rise to the bait. “And what kind of job could you have for a lowly janitor?”

D-X0 surveys the area and tilts forward, saying the next words lower like he expects someone to be listening in. “Excavation. There’s a restricted cave system not too far from the mines. Rumor has it there’s a deposit of energon crystals just waiting to be found if we dig deep enough, and plenty of folks willing to pay for good energon. We’ll be mining after hours, though. No fancy gadgets that an enforcer or supervisor can trace back to us.”

Because Optimus is an idiot, and also not, he points out, “What you’re suggesting is an unauthorized mining operation, and then profiting off of stolen goods.” Incredibly illegal.

D-X0 actually looks annoyed with him. “Oh, please. I thought you were all about helping bots, Pax. We fill our carts to the brim every day, but why isn’t there ever enough when it comes time for ration disbursement? We destroy ourselves in the mines, only for your people- the high and mighty of Cybertron and her colonies- to take everything and leave us with scraps. You think it’s wrong that we take back what’s ours? Provide for ourselves?”

It’s a nice sentiment, but entirely too selfless to be coming from someone like D-X0. “And you’re trying to recruit me because you found it in your spark to feel sorry for me?” Optimus doesn’t hide his suspicion.

A chuckle. “Not in your dreams. How fortunate for you, this cave is tight, too small for any of us, but the perfect size for a runt like you. You are… useful, in that way.” The fact that he’s almost complimenting Optimus isn’t lost on either of them; D-X0 looks less than pleased that he even said it. Optimus is not pleased receiving it, either.

He’s essentially being asked to risk his chassis- risk a no doubt horrible punishment if they get caught- for this mech who hates him, who would rather see Optimus offline in a ditch somewhere? No thanks. “Thank you for the offer,” says Optimus who has already begun inching backwards. “But I’ll pass.”

As he turns to leave, Optimus catches the expression D-X0 makes. First shocked, then desperate.

D-X0 calls out “You can’t be serious.” and “Fine! Yes, we need you on this, Pax. Happy?” and “50,000 credits, Pax!” and “Oh, I see how it is. Too good to get your servos dirty this way, eh?” and “This is where you cross the line? But you’re alright mingling with the council, with the very Senate that keeps your precious D-16 in chains?” Still, Optimus does not turn.

Until finally:

“Or do you just not care about him as much as you want us to think you do?”

Optimus halts. D-X0 wastes no time to continue.

“He’s always been a hard worker,” The green mech says. “The perfect miner, clocking in and out right on the dot, making quota, the perfect cog in the great Cybertron machine. He hardly even drank oil, he was so boring,” D-X0 sneers. “Then one day, a stellar cycle ago, he started pulling three, four shifts in a row. He was the first to start, and the last to leave. We all thought he was grinding for a ticket to Iacon, or attempting suicide, although there are much more efficient ways of that.

“But suddenly you showed up at his side, a little colony arm piece. You were the reason he was doing all this.” He spits another word, the one that Hook had said meant friend, but it sounds condescending and disgusted coming from D-X0. “You preached your ideals, how we were the same, but the moment things got hard, you became exactly what I always knew you to be! D-16 is back to living in the mines while you doddle away like the spoiled high caste trash I knew you were.”

“That’s not what’s happening. I would never do something like that!” Optimus snarls, engines revving, vibrating with anger. Insulted by the very idea that he would stand by and let his friend be hurt. [But isn’t that what he’s doing, even if it’s not by choice?]

[There’s a light in D-X0’s optics that, if Optimus were more aware in the moment, he would have noticed.]

D-X0’s plating reflects off a ray of sunlight that’s managed to squeeze in the alley. He spreads his arms, and the movement blinds Optimus for a nanoklick. “Prove it! You say you want to help the mecha of Kaon, well, put your credits where your intake is, Pax. Put even an ounce of effort that you put into those silly little words into an act that will actually better the lives of the mecha you claim to fight for!”

He’s trying to get a rise out of Optimus, and slag it all, it’s working. Optimus realizes his fists have balled.

“I will consider it,” Optimus grits his dentae and doesn’t trust himself to say anything more. You think I don’t know how worthless I am? You think I enjoy watching him do this to himself?

D-X0 shakes his helm and heaves a dramatic sigh. He spins around like he’s going to leave, but Optimus sees it for what it is, a bluff. “You do that, but we’re meeting tomorrow night regardless of your morals. I suggest making the decision soon. If not for you, then for D-16.” He mutters, low enough that Optimus almost doesn’t catch it: “Goodness knows he needs it, especially with all that’s happened lately.”

A sharp, piercing sense of unease that Optimus does his best to hide. “What are you talking about?”

[Since D-X0 isn’t facing him, Optimus doesn’t see the delighted grin the green mech sports.] “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what.”

“Oh, D-16. Truly a noble fool, isn’t he?” D-X0 turns again, this time he looks at Optimus like he's something pitiful rather than crude oil stuck to the bottom of his heel. “He’s had his rations cut. Something about a quartering fee? For harboring a non-Kaon citizen without the proper documentation. Not to mention the amount of times he’s been hounded by enforcers- at least twice this week…”

Sometimes lying low and keeping quiet is best. Safer. For them. There must be a sinkhole that’s opened below Optimus, because suddenly he has a hard time steadying himself.

If D-X0 notices, he doesn’t comment. He starts to walk away again, but this time Optimus stops him.

“Wait!” Optimus calls, hates how his voice borders on desperate. “If… If I were to agree…”

“We’d meet at the northernmost supply shack. Tomorrow night, like I said.”

Optimus can’t even be annoyed at the way D-X0 added that last part, with that hint of Are you stupid? Instead he bites his derma and asks, “So soon?”

D-X0 shrugs. “It’s the night before ration distribution. Most of the law-keepers will be too busy guarding the energon crates- they won’t be paying any attention to the abandoned zones.”

“You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“It wouldn’t be any of your business if I had.”

Which is as good as a confirmation, as far as Optimus is concerned. So D-X0 has some experience with this, they wouldn’t be going in completely blind, and there was at least some thought put into this plan.

“I…” Optimus resets his vocals. 

But is this really enough to make him agree? He’s smarter than this- he needs to analyze D-X0’s plan, he needs to consider what D-X0 wants from this, who the other members of his party are, and how likely it is they’ll make it out of this in one piece. There’s a reason he was top of his class at the Academy; Optimus did not just go jumping into the first opportunity that presented itself when situations got tight.

“I’ll join you. I’ll help you.”

It’s only the thought of D-16, of his continuous sacrifice, that keeps Optimus from taking back his words as he watches D-X0 smirk.

“I knew you’d make the smart choice,” D-X0 commends. “I’ll send you the coordinates. Oh, and I should stress the… confidentiality of this whole thing. We don’t need more hands on this. I’m risking enough just asking you. Breathe a word about this, Pax, and you’re done for.” 

…

Obviously, Optimus tells D-16 the moment he gets home.

“A job,” He repeats. And oh, D-16 sounds as close to angry as Optimus has ever heard him. When he takes a seat on the crate, he grunts. “And what kind of work would D-X0 have to offer?”

Optimus clears his intake before answering. “It’s some kind of unsanctioned mining operation.”

“I’ve heard of those,” D-16 mumbles. He’s starting to roll his shoulder again, so Optimus rushes to get the lubricant and begins applying it to his joints. D-16 hardly notices; his gaze is elsewhere. “Underground Mining is punishable with ration denial at best, death at worst. It is considered a serious offense, although few are hardly ever taken into custody. Everyone is hungry, and with enough energon, you can convince even the highest enforcer in this sector to look the other way.”

That relieves some of the apprehension Optimus has been feeling all day. So, not a total death wish?

“He said the energon would be distributed among citizens,” Optimus says. He finishes with the lubricant and walks to the cabinet to pull out a brush. D-16 has more grime in him than usual today, and Optimus can only imagine an enforcer- maybe more than one- harassing D-16. The image makes his servos shake. “I don’t know how much I believe it, but… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? I already know how to mine, and this can be my chance to earn a few more credits.”

“No,” D-16 snaps his helm to him and- well, he doesn’t snarl. And he doesn’t growl. But there’s a force to his words that makes Optimus pause. “Absolutely not, Orion. This is far too dangerous.”

“You just said these hardly lead to arrests.”

“The work-”

“Is something I already know how to do,” Optimus frowns and points to D-16 with the brush. “You were the one who called me resourceful!”

“We do not need-”

“Yes, we do.”

“Because you’re so desperate to leave,” mumbles D-16, his field going sharp and angry.

The accusation stings, but Optimus doesn’t back down. “Because you’re destroying yourself!” At this moment, D-16’s shoulderplate twitches. The miner grits his teeth, the only physical indicator that he’s in pain. “You’re working more shifts just to get us by, it’s destroying your frame, no matter how much you want to deny it, and it’s because of me!”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? What about the fines?”

A flash of panic in D-16’s optics. “You- who told you?”

So D-X0 was telling the truth, Optimus realizes, and it comes with a burst of betrayal. D-16 has been lying, hiding this from me, why, lying, deceiving, decepticon- “How much are they taking?”

“Not much.” D-16 looks to the side. Lying, again.

Once, Bumblebee had set up a paint bomb meant for Bulkhead in the common area of their ship. Prowl had accidentally set it off, and what followed was the longest prank war Optimus had ever had the displeasure of deescalating, but deescalate he had done. With buckets of solvent, time, a minor break down, and a whole lot of patience when punishing both Bumblebee and Prowl for taking things too far.

He calls on some of that patience now. He’d like to throttle D-16 until he drops this stupid act- protecting Optimus from the truth like he can’t handle it- but he steps closer instead. “And what about the enforcers that have been on your case?”

“I- Don’t know what you mean.”

“So look at me.”

It takes a few moments, but D-16 eventually does. His optics are narrowed, but he looks more sad than angry. And tired. D-16 always carries this exhaustion with him, and Optimus wishes he could- could take it off of him. He wishes he could go back to the mines with D-16, share the burden again. He wishes D-16 wasn’t in this position at all, and hates himself even more for being the inadvertent cause of it all.

“Tell me it’s not true, that it’s not the reason you come home worse for wear. Tell me they aren’t after you.” D-16 starts to open his mouth, then Optimus says, “Don’t lie to me.”

“...It hasn’t been anything I can’t handle.”

Optimus’ face falls before he can stop it. What have they done? What have they said? He knows without even trying that getting more information about this from D-16 will be like pulling denta. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You shouldn’t be worrying about this.”

“You shouldn’t be hiding this!” Optimus says, exasperated. “If something happens to you, I wouldn't even know where to start looking! Is it so wrong that I don’t want to see you hurting yourself, that I want to help?”

“And what about me?” D-16 challenges and leans back, but doesn’t get very far. “Do you believe I’d have an easier time watching you risk your spark on a foolish quest like this? I’m perfectly capable of providing for both of us!”

“Until the day you keel over and your frame goes completely grey.” Optimus crosses his arms. “You can’t ask me to stand aside. I’m able to help you, so I will. I’m not asking permission.”

For just a moment, D-16’s optics spin faster. Fear, desperation, then anger. Yellow, dark yellow, a hint of orange? “Well don’t ask me to go with you,” D-16 huffs. “I’m not going to play any part in this.”

This works for him, since D-X0 specifically said not to bring anyone else, but it still hurts. “I wasn’t going to ask you to!”

D-16 stays seated, at least, albeit very upset. He doesn’t storm out the door like last time, and glares at some far off speck of dirt on the floor. When Optimus steps towards him again, trying to brush the grime off his chestplate, D-16 flinches away. Maybe Optimus should give them both some time to cool off, he could even let D-16 brush his own plating for once, but he can’t bring himself to leave.

D-16 is stubborn, worrisome, and over protective. He takes on too much and won’t let anyone- won’t let Optimus- help, even when he really needs it. All of that is indicative to how much he cares, and Optimus can’t hate him for that.

No, he can only hate himself. For failing a friend [again]. What good is a Prime that can’t help? What good is a Prime that makes things worse?

He scrubs the grey mech’s plating, watches the red dust sprinkle onto the floor- he’ll have to sweep that too.

All the while, D-16 is silent. It’s awful and overwhelming and reminds Optimus of their more recent non-argument, when D-16 pulled away because he feared Optimus would abandon him and leave for Iacon-

Optimus pauses. Could it be…? Is he still...?

He finishes scrubbing at the point where D-16’s plating meets at the elbow, but doesn’t take back his servos.

“I’ll come back,” Optimus says quietly. D-16 meets his gaze, surprised, and Optimus repeats, “I’ll come back.”

The effect is immediate. D-16’s plating, wound tight and rumbling with tension, relaxes with a faint hiss. Something's tapping at his servo- it's D-16 own outstretched palm, hesitant and seeking, and Optimus responds by gripping it firmly. It makes the miner’s EM field pulse with hope and sorrow, and makes Optimus’ do the same.

This friendship with D-16- he should let it go. Just associating with D-16 is causing the miner pain, clearly, so he needs to find a way to put distance between them somehow. But then, Optimus is not one to accept the bleak and unhappy. [And isn’t that the problem?]

He snaps out of his thoughts when D-16 brings their joined servos up. He presses his face into Optimus' servo, nuzzling it, determined. D-16 shuts his optics as he leans into it and sighs, and Optimus’ spark twists- but not with sadness, something much softer, much scarier.

D-16’s servo completely encompasses his own- he could crush Optimus in his grip with just a little pressure. But D-16 is, as always, so gentle, so warm, and his touch can only be described as reverent.

That fluttery feeling in his spark growing, as he watches [and only watches, he can't move, can't breathe, doesn't want to] D-16 bring his lips to each finger. Each kiss lasts a klick, or maybe an eternity. Soft as a feather, heavy with intent.

D-16 opens his optics. There’s a fire in them that heats Optimus to his very core.

“See that you do.”