Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The drill halted with a shriek.

At first, they thought it was old wreckage—scrap from one of the many battlefields buried beneath Cybertron’s crust. But when the smoke cleared and the dust settled, what remained was neither dirt or rust.

One of the miners—a younger mech, no more than a few vorns into service—stumbled back from the pit’s edge. “That...is that a body?”

Finding the remains of dead mechs was nothing new. The war's aftermath had taught them that finding another grayed-out frame was normal. Even now.

But something was different.

No one moved as silence prevailed.

Limbs twisted. Paint scorched. Mask half-shattered. The body would tower over them if left standing, but the shape was unmistakable.

There was a faint glow pulsing in the center. Faint. Blue.

But alive.

“Get a medic,” someone hastily called out. “And call the capital. Now.”

No one said his name. Not until the flickering light confirmed the impossible.

The bots moved quickly as a medic soon arrived from the temporary camp nearby.

Several hooks latched on, dragging the frame from beneath the ruins.

Velocity stepped forward, her spark pulse accelerating. As the medic assigned to this post, she was responsible for any injury or unexpected accidents.

But this wasn't a situation she was trained for. Despite that, she was already busy assessing the figure of someone she had only seen in books and statues.

Her optics scanned the body, her hand slowly patting the spark chamber to wipe away the dirt.

Through the glass, she saw it. The Matrix of Leadership sending waves of warmth—keeping the bot below her alive.

That was all the evidence she needed, falling onto her back.

They found him.

They found Optimus Prime.

…ᕤ ⁠༶⁠ ᕦ…

No public announcements were made. No parades. Just a heavily shielded transport craft cutting across the night sky toward the spires of New Iacon.

Velocity had been brought back to specially monitor the Prime until her mentor, Knockout, took over the moment they stepped into the city.

“You did well, Lotty. I'll take it from here,” he had said, Breakdown in tow.

Optimus's frame was taken to a hospital while she was left stunned for cycles. By the time she snapped out of it, all she saw was a statue.

Below, the words, “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” was etched into the durable alloy. Her digits traced the words reverently.

She had grown up believing in those philosophies. Now she didn't have to believe in cold sentences and phrases. The real thing was here!

Her derma curved upwards, excitement coiling in her joints. She could just shout out his name and say, “Primus be praised!“

But Velocity restrained herself. The moment could wait till Optimus was awake. Then she could fangirl all she wanted.

It was unfortunate she had to return to work, reluctant to part with the city. But duty called and orders must be followed.

By the next morning, she had gone back to the development site for the new energon mine.

…ᕤ ⁠༶⁠ ᕦ…

Prowl walked down near empty corridors, his expression stiff and his movements even more.

Many knew him to be a stoic mech, yet his body language was far sharper than usual.

The bot didn't care about the weird stares, pushing past the medics and forcing open the door to one of the rooms.

“It's rude to come in without knocking,” a sarcastic voice stated without much fanfare.

Knockout glanced up from a data pad, frowning minimally. “Where is he?“ Prowl ignored the way the former Con bristled. “Where do you think? With Primus?“ He stepped aside, revealing a badly rusted Optimus.

He wasn't sure what to feel. Perhaps happy? Conflicted? His neural net froze like a glitch in his system. In the end, he felt numb.

His frame was still, just staring. “So it was true.“

“You don't sound very happy,” Knockout noted, crossing his servos. “No tears? What about a dramatic reunion? I expected more from the poster boy of 'protocols' and 'law'.“ Prowl didn't respond.

He raised a servo, tempted to touch the Prime and see if it was a hologram. Maybe a cruel prank by Hot Rod.

He already knew the young mech wouldn't, but the thought was there.

“What's his condition?“ Prowl questioned, one pede tapping the floor impatiently. Knockout rolled his optics. “His frame is badly rusted and a few of his actuators are gonna need a replacement, but he's otherwise in mint condition…somehow.“

It was probably thanks to the Matrix. Optimus had been revived just from obtaining it. Of course it would keep him alive after practically an eon.

Prowl grimaced, fists clenched tight. Everyone thought the Prime had died in that explosion. They had pushed away their grief from losing him, tried to honor his death as a noble sacrifice.

Only to realize, after things had gotten to this point—that he was alive.

The thought was so ridiculous he almost laughed. He ran a hand down his faceplates, venting deeply. Knockout wasn't the sentimental type, but even he could somewhat understand the conflict.

The larger mech bent down, optics swirling. He wasn't sure anymore. He wanted to be happy about it, but he couldn't. He hated how much he resented Optimus for being so…selfless.

Did he even have a right to be angry anymore?

Knockout rested a palm on his pauldron, urging him to sit down. “Don't make me have to take care of you too. I've got enough on my plate already,” he grumbled, glancing at the unconscious Prime.

Prowl vented again, slower this time. He hesitantly reached forward—then he lowered his hand before it could get close to Optimus.

“How long will he be in stasis?“ Knockout took a moment to answer. “A few more solar cycles. Now that he's getting sufficient energon, max would be five.“

That was soon. Too soon.

Without another word, Prowl stood up. “What did the New Regime say?“ Knockout shrugged.

“Just told me to stay silent for a while.“ He paused, optics narrowing. “If you're worried I'll announce to the world Optimus fragging Prime is alive, don't.“

There was a beep from one of the machines. Knockout stopped to take a look. “I'm not stupid enough to light a fire in a fuel tank. I'll wait—if I'm allowed.“

“Good. It's better that way.“ Prowl nodded, turning to leave. He stalled for several kliks by the entryway.

The worst possible scenario would be for the Old Guard to hear about this. He had to keep it hidden for as long as possible no matter how grating it felt on his conscious.

With one last look towards the bedridden Prime, he stepped out. The door shut behind him, cutting off his link.

In the room, Knockout shook his helm.

“You should've just stayed dead,” he muttered quietly, voice holding neither disdain nor resentment—but pity.

“Now you'll have to deal with this slagfest.“

Knockout took out a medical kit from his storage compartment.

Before he could do anything, a quiet groan no better than scraping metal made him pause.

The former Decepticon jerked up, optics wide.

Optimus's previously offline optics were now activated, the soft blue hue contrasting with Knockout's orange.

“Oh to the Allspark–” A shaking servo held onto his own in a surprisingly tight grip.

The Prime used the other one to lift himself up, trying to stand. “Wait! No, no! Don't get up yet–!“ His entire frame collapsed quickly—and the medic was unfortunately dragged down with him.

“Gah!“ Knockout grunted, attempting to push the godforsaken Prime off him.

Optimus was too disoriented to comply, white hot pain shooting through his entire frame.

Where was he?

His frame shook violently. He couldn't understand why, only that the tremors made his chassis twitch in a tremendous amounts of suffering.

It took a moment to recognize the strangled cries of “Get the hell off me!“ And “You piece of scrap!“ To fully register in his processors. With difficulty, he rolled off the mech.

“Frag! I just finished getting polished a few cycles ago!“ Knockout could care less if Optimus was staring at him with shock—which he was somewhat doing in his sluggish state.

He looked at his scratched, once perfect red plates stained with rust in abhorrence.

“Kn..ock..t…?“ The Prime called out, too slurred to be understood. The former Con still responded, fury biting into his EM field.

“Yes, congratulation, you've crushed me.“ He growled, pushing himself upright. “Ugh, just look at what you've done! Do you even know how much shanix I spent on this!?“

Optimus said nothing. He couldn't because in the next klik, his optics fluttered before shutting down.

Knockout instinctively caught his helm before it could kiss the ground.

“Haahh..dammit.“

How was he supposed to get the warframe back on the berth now?

He stared at the ceiling, then slumped with Optimus's helm in his lap.

"Rust for brains…you always make my job harder.“ He grumbled—at least he had an excuse to call for Breakdown.

But for now, he wanted to process what was happening.

The former Autobot leader was more resilient than anyone gave him credit for.

Chapter Text

Every single joint was in pain.

There was no sudden awakening. Rather, it was a slow, aching return to sensation. No matter what he did, he just couldn't will himself to get up.

A low hum reached his sensors—steady, but unfamiliar.

There were no voices. Not even any insinuation of movement. Just that sound, looping in the background.

He tried to speak.

Static rasped from his vocalizer. A fractured, broken groan followed—and then utter agony. He gritted his denta, hands gripping the berth as he kept himself from crying out in pain. It would just make things worse.

Yet even that pulled on weathered servos, and quiet grunts escaped his derma anyway.

His optics flickered online for a brief second. Blinding light flooded in. Then black again.

This isn't right.

He remembered fire. The sensation of his limbs tearing. That overwhelming force melting his frame.

And then...nothing.

A hollow, empty nothing.

How long had it been?

Where were–?

He tried to ask aloud, but the thought itself was too raw to form. His spark stuttered, flickering once before stabilizing.

A pair of doors shuttered open. He barely processed the noise, too focused trying to recover from the shock of awakening.

Half his servo was on the berth as he managed to lift his upper body with only one goal in mind.

“Rat..chet..“ he rasped, practically pleaded.

He needed to see the medic.

A hand forced him easily back down. “Frag, you're unbelievable…“ a haughty voice muttered, the owner clearly irritated.

Optimus almost mistook the voice for his old friend, but then he remembered what happened before. “Knockout…” His optics re-activated, the sight of a red mech appeared in his line of sight. He was prepared to get into a battle stance despite the strain, but froze.

Next to him was…”Prowl?“

The former Autobot didn’t answer.

He only regarded Optimus in a detached manner. It made the Prime tense.

His optics struggled to focus while data overlays crawled at a snail's pace. His HUD kept flashing red, repeating lines about damaged interior.

“Why–” he tried again, his vocalizer struggling after vorns of no maintenance.

Knockout sighed, running a diagnostic. “You really did a number on yourself. Buried under half a city yet still here.“ Optimus felt confused as to why the Decepticon was speaking so nonchalantly. “Honestly, I don’t even know how you’re still functioning.”

The Prime attempted to sit again, slower this time. Knockout didn’t stop him, only muttered something under his breath and stepped aside. The berth creaked under his weight.

“What…happened?” He managed. And why is a Decepticon here instead of Ratchet?

Prowl’s optics narrowed. “We thought you died. The Autobots, Neutrals, and..." He paused. "...Everyone.“

There was silence. Knockout busied himself, tapping on a console, the faint click-click of buttons echoing in the metaphorically cramped room.

Optimus tilted his helm up, wanting to speak, but he began to cough violently. The searing pain surged through him as he fell onto his side—barely held up by Prowl who's expression shifted to concern.

The frustration was there as the mech shut his optics, venting deeply. “I'm fine…” he muttered. “Prowl…where are the others?”

The silver mech paused for several kliks.

“They’re gone,” he finally answered.

Optimus’s spark dropped. The words hit harder than any blast.

“Not dead,” Prowl clarified, seeing the rising despair. “I can't tell you everything yet. Just know some refused to adapt. Some...couldn't.”

Refused to adapt?

Optimus tried to process what was being said. Refused to adapt to what?

Knockout chimed in again, voice syrupy and smug—but undeniably disgruntled. “Iacon’s changed since you last saw it, Prime.“

He stared at him, confusion enveloping his neural net. “I don't understand.“

“You’re not in a battlefield anymore. You’re in the capital.” Knockout gestured around the room. “The Prime Ward. Built in your honor.”

Optimus blinked. “What?“

How long has it been?

He turned to Prowl again, the question swirling in his optics.

The mech looked away, voice quiet. He hesitated long enough that he could feel the anxiety radiating from the Prime's warframe. “It's been over 100,000 vorns.“

A beat of silence.

Then he moved.

Optimus stumbled off the berth, ignoring the way his limbs creaked and threatened to break with each step. The lines connecting him to the support machines snapped.

He was slower than he should have been. Faster than anyone expected.

His pedes scraped against the floor, heavy and uncoordinated, dragging corroded limbs with stubborn resolve. Every servo shrieked, internal braces groaning in distress.

But something deeper than pain kept him going—a glowing pulse that radiated cold warmth.

The door stood ahead, sealed shut as if it didn't want him to leave.

He dug his digits into a thin crevice, and with surprising strength, forced it open.

Prowl tried to pull him back.

The sound of mechs conversing flooded into the room—into their audio receptors.

Outside, the world lived.

The hallway stretched wide, sterile, polished. It gleamed with the shine of order.

Medics moved in coordinated flows rather than the panic he often correlated with hospitals—if there were any to begin with. Mechs of all shapes, all colors, busied themselves among the wounded.

Some had badges signifying their chosen factions—a few he couldn't recognize.

And then…

…They saw him.

Everything stopped.

A wave of shock passed between them. Movement halted mid-step. Tools slipped from shaking servos. Every optic in sight locked onto him.

Optimus saw the awe, confusion. Reverence?

Some instinctively stepped back, as if faced with something impossible. Others stood frozen, systems struggling to recalibrate what they were seeing with what they knew.

He stood there—trembling. His armor was marred from age and prolonged battles, but he was there. In front of them. Alive.

The Matrix pulsed faintly beneath his chest, its glow just barely visible between dented plating.

A relic.

A myth.

A ghost of the past—resurrected.

Prowl grimaced, quickly tapping codes into the door console. It snapped shut just as the Prime stepped forward.

Silence persisted in the halls. “Was that…?“ Somebot began, optics wide.

Another laughed awkwardly. “Nah, it must be Ultra Magnus…” they reasoned.

Inside the room, the large mech stood still—perhaps in disbelief.

“Optimus-!“ Prowl cried out, pulling him from the entryway.

“You barely have the strength to stand, what do you think you're doing!?“ He was angry, but more than that, he was frustrated. Both at his carelessness and Optimus's own.

The Prime didn't look at him.

"What...happened?" 100,000 vorns. It was neither a long nor short time for a Cybertronian. But it was still enough time to change an era, and this strange....peace, the hospital(?), the younglings that looked no older than Bumblebee at the beginning of the Great War...what...

Letting air circulate through his vents, Prowl shut his optics before answering. “The war ended.“

Knockout watched from the side, shaking his helm. “That's one way to tell him,” he muttered quietly so no one could hear.

The former Autobot leader looked down at his palms, the metal creaking as he gradually closed his digits over them.

“I see," he said slowly, almost numbly.

He walked back to the berth. With a hiss of steam and the grinding of shifting gears, the mech sat.

The force of his descent was enough to shake the room.

Prowl came closer, only stilling when Optimus raised a servo, placing it on his shoulder.

The older bot looked worn, gentle.

“I'm proud of you. All of you.“

The words were meant to uplift. All Prowl could feel was an empty pit in his spark.

But he gave a reply.

“Thank you.“

He didn't deserve those words, yet he accepted them anyway—because it was necessary. Just like everything else.

And Optimus? 

His gaze was filled with a cold warmth, incomprehensible. Proud, but empty. 

Why didn't he die?

Chapter Text

Sneaking into a medical ward was probably not the best idea he’d ever had.

Actually, it ranked somewhere between “racing Blurr and winning” and “trying to prank Ultra Magnus.”

Crawling through an outdated maintenance duct that rattled every time his frame shifted had his pulse jump with every movement.

Hot Rod was not supposed to be here and he knew it

Prowl advised him to stay away because of what happened last time. He knew the mech was hiding something more from the way he averted his gaze.

And the rumors had been impossible to ignore.

“Red and blue armor,” someone had whispered. He knew it couldn't have been Magnus. They were sparring together and the bot hadn't left his office since.

Not to mention, the red, blue, and silver said to be iconic of Optimus Prime became akin to something sacred. Not many mechs decorated their frames with it.

There was also the silence. Tight-lipped supervisors. Locked access. Sudden orders from Prowl for everyone to stop lingering near the Prime Ward. No one dared question it—no one but him.

Hot Rod had been raised on stories of Optimus. The mech who was chosen by the Matrix. The one who led, who sacrificed, who stood for something.

He’d been too young to remember much of the war—just scraps, echoes of speeches that still made him smile in excitement. But the aftermath? That, he knew. He thrived in the peace they worked hard to forge. For the legend that was…is the Prime.

Yet the longer he crawled through the vents, the more anxious he became. He didn't want to get lectured by Prowl again, especially not by Magnus.

Jazz was…he was chill at least, but he was always by Prowl. It was inevitable the chatty bot would reveal something damning.

But the moment Hot Rod squeezed himself through the last stretch of the vent and landed with a metallic thunk on the floor, all thoughts of consequence vanished.

Because there he was.

The room was dim, but not dark—lit just enough for his optics to adjust. Medical instruments lined the walls. Monitors pinged quietly.

And in the center of it all, lying on the reinforced berth, was a figure he could never forget.

The room seemed to freeze in time.

The mech didn’t look as proud and imposing as before. His plating was scorched, his frame battered. There were gaps in his armor and strain in the way he held himself, like his very existence was a labor.

But the moment Optimus turned his helm, optics tired but aware—Hot Rod’s vents hitched. His aura was still just as powerful.

“I…It's really you,” he breathed.

Optimus was sitting up on the berth now, massive form hunched forward slightly.

He looked at him. Slowly. Warily.

“…Did you just come in…through the ventilation?” the Prime asked—unmistakably confused.

Hot Rod froze mid-step, suddenly feeling very out of place. “Uh…yeah,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, flushing in absolute mortification. “Don’t worry, I checked the structural integrity first.” he attempted to joke to release some of the tension.

The silence dragged. And then, Optimus let out something between a groan and a chuckle.

His voice, rough but calm, filled the space. “You’re not a medic.”

“No! I mean, yes–sorry, I just…I had to see. I wasn’t sure if it was real. You were real.” Hot Rod took a few steps forward, then paused, rubbing the back of his helm. “You, uh. You look better than the rumors said.”

Optimus gave a dry, amused vent. “What exactly are they saying about me?”

“W-well,” Hot Rod stumbled to find the right words. “Not really anything if I'm honest…I didn't mean anything by that...”

A pause stretched between them.

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

Hot Rod winced. “No. If they did, they'd throw a fit. But they're not here right now, and I figured…we could…talk? Like, what's it like? To be a leader?“

Optimus’s expression didn’t shift, but something about his posture straightened. “Are you one?”

Hot Rod shuffled closer and sat, careful not to bump into anything.

“Nothing like that.“

He looked down at the ground, legs swinging off the swivel chair Knockout had been using before.

“New Iacon’s a nice place. We’ve got unity now. Decepticons, Autobots, Comradores—working together under one system. Prowl and Ultra Magnus handle the structure. Lotta rules. I help where I can.”

He began, nervously rolling his digits.

“They haven't said anything officially, but I know they're training me. To lead.“

Hot Rod looked at Optimus straight in the optics.

Optimus let the silence settle before asking, “And what do you think of that?”

Hot Rod looked unsure. “I don't know. I feel like they just expect me to be this…thing I'm not.“

The Prime nodded slightly, his gaze distant. “I understand what you mean.“

The young mech stared in shock. “You do?“

Optimus raised a browplate, smiling. “Leadership was always meant to make you more than you're capable. The expectations allow one to grow, but it can also weigh one down.”

Hot Rod fell quiet, staring down at his own hands. Who knew the famous Optimus Prime was so…grounded in reality.

After a moment, he asked the question lingering in the back of his neural net.

“Why are you in here alone? Doesn’t anyone else know you’re awake?”

“I suppose Prowl hasn’t spread the word,” Optimus said carefully. “I trust him. He must have his own reasons.”

Hot Rod frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Isn't this supposed to be an occasion worth celebrating?“

Optimus hummed lowly. “Perhaps. I wouldn't know.“

The young mech crossed his servos, frowning. “Not perhaps, it certainly is!“ The Prime softly placed a hand on the young mechs shoulder. "I appreciate the thought." He paused, realizing he never asked for a name.

"Ah, what is your-?"

the medbay door slid open with a mechanical whir. Optimus shut his intake while Hot Rod practically paled and attempted to hide behind the larger mech.

A heavy shadow passed the edge of the entrance.

Hot Rod was too late—his spark dropping into his fuel tank.

Ultra Magnus stood there, the only sign of his surprise was by the way his optics flashed before dimming again.

Broad frame blocked the exit, gaze locked. It left no chance for escape. He crossed his servos, glaring. It was the kind of stillness that screamed controlled fury.

“…Hot Rod.”

The name was flat on his glossa. Cold. That dangerous brand of calm the older mechs used right before they tore into a troublemaking sparkling.

“I–I didn’t–”

“Don’t. Speak.” Magnus’s voice was as sharp as his silhouette, tough enough to cut through solid metal.

The tension was so thick it sent Hot Rod into a panic.

Magnus’s optics flicked to the room, to Optimus still seated.

His gaze returned to the younger bot. “Do you realize how far out of line this is?”

Hot Rod took a step back, vents sputtering. “I–I just–”

“This isn’t a playground. This is restricted medical territory. You are not authorized to be here.”

Magnus didn’t ask how he got in. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was here.

“You've been banned from even being near the hospital unless for emergencies after the stunt you pulled.“

Magnus’s jaw flexed.

"I don't care how or why. You’re coming with me. Now.”

“But–”

“Now.”

Optimus intervened in that moment. “What exactly did he do to be restricted?“ He asked, genuinely curious.

Hot Rod wasn't sure how to respond—out of embarrassment, the situation, and that it was the Prime asking the question.

Magnus huffed, rubbing his faceplates. “The kid crashed into the building while racing.“ The bluntness made Optimus hide a smile behind his hand.

Hot Rod's “Hey!“ Went unnoticed by the both of them. “We'll talk later.“ Magnus grabbed the red bot by the servo, leaving the Prime stunned.

He didn't quite know what to expect but it certainly wasn't this.

Perhaps Hot Rod's intrusion—and Magnus's visit—implied he would soon meet his former comrades. His friends. His family.

Looking back on it, Optimus should've been more cautious.

Afterall, time was a friend to none. It changed the environment, the development of civilizations. 

But it also changed minds.

He himself was a testament to that fact.

But he would continue to put his faith in them, just as he had done millions of vorns before.

Because without faith, what would he be?