Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If never again I see the sun

Or feel the wind across my plating

If never again I see Luna II

Crest over the horizon

Then let me have the ecstasy

Of this moment alone with you

Cybertron, but wrong. Strange and different from mine, a cruel progression of what would have happened if I had never started the war that killed our home world. A Council bent on taking away the autonomy of its people? Familiar. The way I am idolized by the Antivocationist League? Strange. Beautiful Cybertron, nearly whole, the Cybertron I once sought to overthrow in my misguided attempts to bring peace. Peace through tyranny. But tyranny has brought me nowhere and nothing. Or perhaps that is untrue. Tyranny brought me to my lowest point, but it brought me to the Lost Light, a place that I, only here in my most private thoughts, dare to call ‘home’.

A cold wind blows this high up. The matter transporter in front of me lays empty, no sign of the Lost Light’s crew, my crew, to be found. The moon disappeared nearly an hour ago, but I can’t bring myself to accept it. With trembling servos, I try my comm for what must be the thousandth time, but nothing but static greets my audials. Another try, still nothing.

“Rodimus, this is Megatron. I’m at the coordinates. Where are you?”

Terminus keeps saying this is Rodimus giving me a second chance. I know better by now. I know Rodimus, and I know Minimus Ambus. They’d given me a second chance and I proved myself unworthy. No, this is no extra chance at life. They’ve abandoned me. Realized I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Left me in a place where I’m bound to be killed one way or another.

“Megatron!”

I’m snapped out of my thoughts as Terminus grabs my shoulder. When I look at him, I can’t help but feel guilty. If I hadn’t stayed to say goodbye, would they have left me? Would they have found some reason to make me stay behind?

I push those thoughts from my mind and focus my gaze past Terminus. The once lovely skyline of Adaptica lies tattered and ragged, all jagged edges from the tear of Luna II’s tractor beams. Refugees scatter like the ants of far-off Earth amongst the wreckage, so very small and so very vulnerable.

Terminus turns to follow my gaze, his optics dimming as we take in the sight. I feel their sorrow and pain in my spark. How many times have I seen this destruction wrought by my own hands? Entire worlds put through such pains and trials simply because they were in my way. Civilizations that never found their way to the stars because I perceived them as being beneath me. How much blood, rust, and energon has been on my hands simply because I didn’t care to know who it came from?

I know the answer, of course. I saw the flowers. Sat amongst them. The remnants of every Cybertronian whose energon was spilled because of me. I can still feel the vestiges of their energy, cold and electric, against my plating when I stop and concentrate.

Terminus’s hand on my shoulder pulls me back to the present. I’m not in the sparkflower field on Necroworld; I’m standing in the ruins of the AVL’s refuge city. They need someone to turn to, now more than ever. I don’t want this position. I don’t want to be their leader or some sort of saviour. But they need someone, like Terminus said. Someone with experience fighting against a government who hates its people. Someone made wiser by failing time and again to do the right thing.

As we make our way back down the building to the rended streets below, Terminus and I talk in hushed tones, unsure of who may be listening.

“They need a leader, Megatron. You know that they do.”

“That leader doesn’t have to be me, old friend.”

Terminus huffs an unconvinced chuckle. “Who else could it be? Who else has the experience?”

No one in this timeline. “I’ve made too many mistakes leading armies against their oppressors. Became the oppressor myself. How can I possibly lead them now?”

“You and I both know you’ve learned from those mistakes, Megatron. You can avoid making them again. You owe it to those you’ve wronged to try and make things right.”

No, there is no room for trying. I must lead the Anti-Vocationist League. I have to give them my everything. To prove to myself that I can do as much good for this Cybertron as I failed my Cybertron.

With a heavy exvent, I turn to Terminus. “Perhaps… No, not perhaps. You do have a point. You always do.”

I shake my head as we reach the ground, looking at the carnage around us. It’s painful to see and even more painful to know that I’ve left worlds in far worse condition.

From our left, Anode, Nine-of-Twelve, and Clicker approach. Were they not with Rodimus? Perhaps I was given the wrong coordinates… Shaking the thought away, I fall into the old habits again. Command, control, but now with something new I’ve learned. Empathy.

“Gather the survivors and compile a full headcount with injury reports. We’ll move those who can withstand it and send medical attention to those who can’t risk it. Once we’ve found a new base of operations, we can start making contact with the other underground AVL cells.”

The pair share a look that betrays their satisfaction at my taking up the mantle of leader. I don’t have time for that right now, though. Perhaps I can address it later, but now I have more pressing matters. The new dawn of the AVL will not be one defined by its energon price if I have any say in the matter.

The headcount is, in a word, lacking. To my frustration, I find not a single designation that I would deem ‘able-bodied’ for a revolution. This is only Adaptica, though. There are others, all across the world, and I just have to keep reminding myself of that fact. Besides, combat is not everything. A war is won through logistics, and those who can't fight can easily fit elsewhere. For now, I just have to make do with what we have, as little as that is.

—

My life becomes a blur of motion after Adaptica. Never staying in one place, relying on the AVL’s network to hide while I try to pull together all the information that I can. Nine-of-Twelve and Anode are indispensable on the information gathering phase, able to move more freely than I, considering the rather large metaphorical target on my back.

With each new location, I spread the word. Speeches, words of what some might call wisdom, even my poetry when a few moments of downtime can be had. I speak every day until my vocalizer and the servos that govern my intake creak and strain with the effort. Countless faces pass before me and I endeavor to remember them all, just as I once endeavored to learn the designation of every Decepticon.

As I meet them, I can’t help but hope. Hope that maybe I’ll find familiar faces, or at least names. Starscream, perhaps less likely to slip a blade between my plating. Shockwave, whole and unmangled by Shadowplay. Soundwave, ever loyal and one of the few that I might have called friend during the war. Even Orion Pax, for so long my bitter enemy, would be a welcome anchor to my universe.

I find myself thinking of that first chance meeting, the only time I met Orion, often. He spoke my words aloud, forced the Senate to hear what I had to say, even if it was not from my mouth. That Orion punished Whirl for my mistreatment. That Orion told me he believed in my writings. If we had more time, perhaps he and I need not have been on opposite sides.

It’s a surprise when I finally see someone I recognize, partially because I never truly knew him under the designation I see him identifying as now. But there, amongst those few who have gathered with me beneath Nova’s Point, stands Damus. I falter, not for the first time since I began this endeavor. My mind takes me back to the crater I left in the flower field of the Necroworld. The crater where Tarn existed in one instant and ceased in the next. I nearly turn around and leave.

As I speak that night, I can't help but direct my words to where Damus stands front and center before me. A different message than those he read in my universe: my new philosophy. Peace through empathy.

I know it’s coming, when the speech is over. I could see it in every tense shift and hopeful lean. Damus approaches me, monoeye focused as he moves through bodies to try and close the gap between us. A student, eager to learn. I never spoke to my Damus, Tarn, before he latched onto tyranny. My heart breaks. For a moment I contemplate leaving before he gets to me, but I know he’ll follow.

Instead, I simply step to the side, finding us a more secluded alcove in this meeting cavern. I kneel for him, bringing us optic to optic. A trait of all who undergo empurata: despite the theft of their ability to easily convey emotions by the subtleties of facial movement, they find ways to make their moods known. Damus has a tension in his shoulders and a drive to his gait that can mean nothing but trepidation and a confidence that had to be mustered up, perhaps beginning to muster even before he made his way to this illicit meeting.

“Damus.”

I address him before I can stop to contemplate if it would be appropriate to know his name in such a position as we are. We’re strangers here, and very few know of my traveling to this universe from another. He pauses, all tension and nerves, before taking the final step towards me, standing as tall as he can manage.

“You… know my name?”

“I do… Your name is Damus, but you go by Glitch to match your outlier. The Academy of Advanced Technology did what they could to hide your status from the Senate. Seems it's kept you from the Council as well.”

I can practically feel the pride rolling off of Damus’s frame. To be known by one who he admires so deeply, to have your secrets spoken by someone in whom you place your trust. It must mean the world to him, as seeing him like this means worlds to me.

“How do you know that? How do you know me?”

“I make it a point to know all of my soldiers.” Not a lie. “You wanted to speak with me, I take it?”

Damus nods, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I did… I wanted to say that your speech tonight felt… very personally inspiring. I've been doing my best to find and help distribute your teachings through the local AVL pockets, but to be able to hear you in person, and to feel like you were speaking to me? It feels surreal. Like I was meant to hear you tonight. Like… destiny.”

I can't help but smile. “Perhaps… If I have learned anything in all my solar cycles, it's that destiny does not exist. We are where we choose to be and we are who we choose to be. I once chose to be… less. To be unkind and to force my ideals on others. Destiny would dictate that version of me to a death at the hands of nobler Sparks. But here I stand, though I do not feel I deserve to, changed because I choose life over death. Empathy over tyranny.”

I watch as my words seem to spin behind Damus’s optic. Would that I could see inside, visualize what words stick and what words are cast away as unimportant. If this Damus is anything like Tarn, every word hangs in reverence like grey corpses etched with my words upon the walls of his processor. He watches me as intensely as I watch him, neither of us wavering.

Finally, Damus speaks again.

“You’ll need soldiers, empathy or not. You're waging a war, and the council will fight you every step of the way. You’ll have to fight back.”

I dip my head in acknowledgement. “I will. I'll need soldiers as strong in their convictions as I am. Soldiers who would put their lives on the line for my ideology in hopes that it's the right one. I'm loath to ask it of anyone, but it is not a war I can wage on my own.”

“You might be afraid to ask it, but there are plenty who would answer and plenty more who would ask it for you until you find it in yourself to voice it. I can find you soldiers. And, if it helps, you shouldn't think of it as putting ourselves in harm's way just for your ideas. We put ourselves on the line for Cybertron, for our brothers and sisters. You just opened up a pathway to help us get there.”

I stare at him openly now, not even trying to hide my admiration. Yes, it is Damus. In every word, I hear his zeal. Though this iteration of him is less outspoken, I can see where the Tarn I knew fits onto Damus’s personality like ill-suited armor.

“If you take anything from tonight, Damus, what will you take? What message have I imparted to you?”

“That’s easy,” he begins without hesitation. “My words are my weapons. We must make them hear us. Even if they refuse, we must keep trying. Until our voice is all that is left, if need be.”

My words are my weapons. I suppress an involuntary shudder as I think of what Tarn’s words wrought upon his victims.

“Our words are not weapons, they are an outstretched hand. Our weapons turn only on those who subjugate us, not on those who may yet see the light. I… The Spark can be changed by words, but it can be broken by them as well. Change is always the preferable option.”

Damus keeps his monoeye locked on my faceplate. Can he tell I’m trying to steer him? Will my warning sink in, even if he does not know the dread from which it is based?

Whether he sees my intent or not, he nods. “I understand. Peace through empathy, not through bloodshed. My tongue can shed as much as my blade, but that’s not true peace. I’d be no better than the Council.”

I feel my shoulders relax as I hear him. “Precisely. I’m glad that my words convey the spirit of my philosophy. Making sure this brings true peace is all I want. Not senseless violence for the sake of being violent. Not terror tactics. Not scheming and backstabbing. I just want it all to end.”

Damus sets his claw on my shoulder, a bit of a stretch even as I stay down on one knee. He doesn’t have to say the words for me to know the intent. What I want, an end to the senselessness, is what they all want. We are aligned, if only for now, in the desire to shed the mantle of Functionism. It will have to be enough for my warring spark.

We part ways, Damus going to his comrades as I make my way through the tunnels and out onto the surface. I can see the city in the distance, an indifferent jewel shining against the night sky. How long until that jewel is a smoldering ruin, its people scattered or dead or worse? How long until I make a mess of this world just as I made a mess of my own?

I’m pulled from my thoughts at an obnoxious buzzing on my hip. The comm Roller gave me, the one tied to Orion Pax’s comm channel. My spark nearly seizes as I answer. Could it really be…

“Roller, is that you?”

His voice is clear as day, unmistakable for anyone else. Orion Pax.

“Hello? Roller, are you there?”

“I’m… not Roller. But he gave me your comm.”

There’s a long silence, and I’m sure I hear the other side of the line close. As I’m about to put the comm away, the reply comes.

“If you’re not Roller, who are you? You sound familiar.”

“The leader of the Anti-Vocationist League, Megatron. Perhaps you’ve heard of–”

“Oh, I have absolutely heard of you.”

I try not to be annoyed at being cut off. I have to remember that this is not the Optimus that I know, but an alternate version of the mech he was before he assumed Primacy.

“Have you? Nothing untoward, I can only hope.”

“Nothing scandalous. In fact, I’d been hoping to find some way to contact you. You’ve been very busy, and yet, somehow, our insurgencies haven’t crossed paths. We need to remedy that, I think. Find common ground outside of our disdain for the Council.”

“You’re proposing an alliance? You’ve not even met me. Why would you put your people towards my cause and trust that mine would come to yours?”

“Because I’ve heard you speak, though not in person, and I don’t think our causes are all too different, Megatron. We could both benefit, I’m sure.”

I can’t help but smile, pacing the length of the ledge. An alliance with Orion Pax. If nothing else, perhaps he will be the temperance I find myself in need of as I try to navigate this insurgency.

“Then we can discuss it. I haven’t a formal base yet, and it would be dangerous for us to meet somewhere without proper defense. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll let you know as soon as this is something I can facilitate.”

“I don’t mind waiting. I find myself ever busy with our fight, something I’m sure you can sympathize with. Until then, Megatron.”

“Until then, Orion Pax.”

—

I bring a hand to my faceplate, rubbing the bridge of my olfactory receptor. Another cycle, another AVL cell addressed, more death. Every day, more death. It never ends, not here or in my home universe. Even after the war, how much death did I cause? Are my old comrades on the Lost Light even still alive?

It’s hard to concentrate on what Nine-of-Twelve and Anode are saying. It’s always more of the same, these days. More Council propaganda against our cause, more insurgents captured and either brainwashed or outright executed as enemies of the state. Another cell outed. Another cell forming. Day in and day out, until the news blurs together and I can't even remember how long I've been here. At this point, I am being spoken at rather than with.

The only personal gain from having the resources for a permanent base is that I’m finally afforded a bit of privacy in my berthroom. A holy space where I can lock the door and have precious moments of solitude and contemplation and weakness, away from prying optics and those who would occupy my every moment with what I’ve come to discover is hero worship.

Worship from fear, I know. I can handle it. Groveling, kowtowing, ‘Lord Megatron’ this, ‘Your Eminence’ that. It stopped eliciting favor from me after the first round of recruits. They try to stay on my good side with false praise and submission, hoping for a chance to crawl over my corpse and claim what is mine.

Hero worship? It’s different. Altogether something I cannot handle, it seems. I do not enjoy or deserve the admiration. I am doing what any one of them can, standing tall and pushing back. Why should I deserve to be called a savior? A hero? I am not the Prime, it is not in my nature to enjoy such genuine and undeserved sentiment.

The door to my room finally comes into sight, and it seems that at some point in my thoughts, I have lost my two advisors. It’s no matter, as I would have bid them goodbye at the door in any event. I’m already eager to begin my winding down ritual: a cube and several minutes of silence to reflect on the day before I let my thoughts flow through my digits and onto a datapad.

The door whirrs open to reveal that I will not, in fact, be having my wind down ritual. I stop still, plating tight as I take in the sight of the visitor sitting at my desk. There is no universe, parallel, perpendicular, or otherwise, where I would not know Orion Pax. After so many meetings with Optimus Prime on the battlefield, it’s as though the energy of his spark is imprinted into my very being. Standing in front of him as he leans, ever so casually, back in my chair whilst holding my datapad, full of my private thoughts, feels oh so electric and ever so… right. If what Damus said of destiny is true, then surely this is a destined moment.

Orion stirs from his reading as I stare at him. His optics glance up to meet mine and the datapad lowers. Several moments of silence pass between us before he stands and sets the pad down, coming around the desk so there are no obstacles between us.

“Megatron. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you face to face. I hope you don’t mind my reading of some of your work; I consider myself a fan.”

“That work isn’t meant for public eyes, so you’ll have to excuse that I do, in fact, mind. I’m not fond of people going through my belongings.”

Orion vents a huff of a chuckle and leans against my desk. “I hope you’ll forgive me, then. I didn’t mean to get so lost in your private thoughts. They just seemed to… capture me. I can’t help but be mesmerized by your command of the written word. Your speeches, your poetry… They speak to me.”

I feel a rush of warmth surge over my faceplate and hear my cooling fans click on. How unbecoming. “That’s… very flattering.” A moment of silence passes between us. “I thought you weren’t meant to arrive on base for another decacycle.”

Orion’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine, steady and unnerving. “Our business wrapped up sooner than expected. Here I thought you might appreciate the surprise. You sounded so eager to meet face to face over comms.”

“Of course, I’m just… not fond of being caught off guard. Surely you can sympathize.”

Orion dips his head, acquiescing to my reasoning. “That’s fair. I could have let you know, but that’s neither here nor there anymore. We’re both here now, and I’m glad to finally see you in the metal.”

I dip my head in return. “And I to see you…”

When I lift my head, I truly pause to take in the sight of Orion Pax. He’s not quite how I remember from that fateful and unfortunate arrest, but he’d be unmistakable for anyone else. It’s so strange to see him as his original self when I’ve grown so accustomed to the look of Optimus Prime. Still, it is so easy to overlay the two in my mind.

Orion clears his intake, and I realize I’ve been staring. It seems I’ve been doing so often recently. With a short apology, I blame the lapse on my lack of recharge. This seems to satisfy him well enough, as he straightens from leaning on my desk and approaches the door.

“I’ll leave you to your recharge, then. It wasn’t my intention to strain you.” He pauses next to me. “My men should arrive in the next few days. We’ve all been excited to meet you, Megatron.”

I look to him. The closeness as we stand by the door feels… odd. Like we’re both waiting for something but neither of us knows what that thing might be.

“As I’ve been excited to meet you, Orion.”

The electricity hangs for a few more moments before he huffs another chuckle and leaves without another word.

I’m baffled as I stand in my room, alone now. That interaction was, to say the least, odd. Off. Different than I expected. Of course, I didn’t expect to meet him alone in my room, but nonetheless.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I make my way to my desk and pick up the datapad Orion had been so engrossed in. An unfinished work, one regarding my travel to this universe and the turmoil in my spark that I’ve felt ever since coming here. In a way, I feel relieved that I won’t have to unburden that secret directly. My spark feels strangely lighter.

I sit heavily, staring at the datapad. Should I start a new one now that this one has been compromised? Perhaps. Or, I could continue this one and begin a second that I keep more… hidden. My hands waver for a moment before I add to the pre-existing text. Perhaps I’ll make another when I have more time. For now, I find myself not minding so much, so long as Orion is the only one who’s been prying.

—

As promised, Orion Pax’s cohort arrives only stellar cycles after him. It comforts me, somewhat, to see familiar faces amongst them. Ironhide, Ratchet, Jazz… I even find myself relieved to see Prowl, despite his counterpart in my universe being instrumental in setting in motion the events that led to my being here. Seeing them crowded around Orion brings me a sense of familiarity. Even here, they’re drawn to him like the moths of Earth are drawn to the brightest source of light.

Introductions are smooth. They don’t know my past, only what I’ve done here with the AVL. It’s strange and almost laughable, to have a warm welcome from faces that I only ever see in person on the battlefield. I cannot help but smile as I witness the ease in which they speak with one another and with me.

Orion lingers near me, leaning again. I can’t help but voice my judgment this time.

“You should stand up straight. No one will respect you as a leader if you don’t conduct yourself like one.”

Orion doesn’t straighten up, but he tilts his head to look up at me.

“Is that why you never relax? Always ramrod straight and stony-faced?”

I purse my lips and look away, refusing to dignify that with an answer. Proper posture is as much a part of me as slouching seems to be a part of him. He’s not what I expected, though I don’t know why I had any expectations to begin with. He and Optimus are… two different people. Though I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. We are built by circumstance, and Orion has lived a much different life than Optimus.

As the group scatters to find berthing for the night, Orion stays behind. We stare at each other for several moments before he falls in step beside me as I leave the room with intent on taking a brief moment of personal time. I look at him, optical ridge raised.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to talk, if you’ll permit it. About some of what you wrote.”

“Ah, about my private thoughts that you read without permission?”

“Yes, those.”

I roll my optics. Shameless. I don’t reply, leaving the space between us for him to fill when he decides what to ask. It takes him a few moments to find the right words, but I don’t mind waiting.

“You’re not from here.”

It’s hard to suppress a chuckle. “That’s all?”

“You’ll have to forgive me for not knowing how to ask someone if they’re from a parallel universe. I’m not exactly used to this sort of thing.”

We come to my room, and I usher him inside if only for some privacy for this conversation. He takes position leaning against my desk as I sit, taking a brief moment to make sure nothing has been moved since I was last here. Satisfied, I turn my attention back to him.

“You’re correct. I’m not from this universe, but from one similar.”

“You don’t exist here.”

“No… You’re correct, I don’t have an ‘other me’ in this universe.”

“But there was another ‘me’ on your side.”

I sigh and pass a hand over my faceplate. “Are we going to have a stunted conversation where we simply trade single sentences, or will we speak civilly as is befitting our age?”

Orion shoots me a look, one of annoyance and acquiescence all at once. I am reminded of Starscream’s begrudging manner of taking orders. How far have I fallen to think even of the vain Seeker with such nostalgia?

With an exvent, I sit back in my chair and shutter my optics. “I can wait if you need time to collect coherent thoughts. I’m sure you must have many.”

“More than you could ever imagine. I suppose I can start simple, but I want to know… everything.”

“Should I write you a primer and present it as a lecture as though we were at the Academy of Advanced Technology? Or perhaps just curate for you the, ah… what’s the expression again? Ah, yes, the ‘cliff notes’.”

The confusion in Orion’s expression at the human colloquialism is entertaining enough.

“I don’t understand what that means. And a lecture wouldn’t convey what I want.” He shifts, turning more towards me so that his body language makes it clear he’s invested. “I want to hear about you. Your life and experiences and opinions on the shape of your universe.”

I frown, gesturing to my stack of datapads. “You’ve already seen that. I don’t know what else I could tell you.”

“It's different,” he says simply. At my insistence, he elaborates. “Hearing it directly from you is different from reading the written words. I’ve come to learn that from your speeches. The way you speak the words gives them new meanings…”

I find myself shifting in my seat to alleviate the unwelcome tension that his compliments stir in me. “I did not know you were such a fan of the written and spoken word.”

“Only since I've begun considering yours.”

More heat. Embarrassment? No. Anger? Why would such a compliment elicit that? No, this is an all too familiar flush of pride. Something within me preens and gloats over Orion Pax’s interest in my words over all others. Ugh…

“Well, that’s very thoughtful. I’m pleased to know I’ve, at the least, given someone an appreciation for literature.”

Orion fixes me with a look of quiet consideration before helping himself to a seat on my berth. Whatever questions he’s decided to ask, he’s decided he’ll be here for a while.

“You wrote about a war that ended recently, but not about what started it. I’d like to hear about your war.”

I frown so deeply I can feel my faceplate strain. That is not something I want to answer to, not right now. But I know that look in his optics, and it’s a look that says I can’t wile my way out of this.

“I started it. Or, rather, I lit the fuse that had been laid out. Our government was not dissimilar to yours, and I was of the victimized class. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and so I did something about it.” I pause, gauging his reaction. When he doesn’t so much as flinch, I continue.

“It raged for four million stellar cycles. Millions of our people were created with the sole purpose to die for the fight. An enemy faction formed early, drug out of the ashes of the old Senate, and we pushed and pulled until Cybertron died under our feet. Then we went to the stars, and continued our fight on myriad worlds that, just like our home, cracked and died under the weight of our war.”

I hang my head, lifting a hand to cover my face so I don’t have to look at Orion Pax and his optics that practically burn a hole in my helm. I feel so much shame for the war, so much regret, but there is nothing I can do to bring back the beauty of our world or the lives that I so carelessly threw at the Autobots in my bid for utter control.

“You wrote, ‘I have laid my weapon down, but all know why. All see its significance. What has led me so far astray from all I once fought for?’ I’d like to know a bit about that line.”

With a heavy exvent, I peek at him between the digits of my hand.

“Do you only wish to know the depths of my suffering? You’re worse than that Pit-damned therapist.”

That brings a chuckle from him. “You see a therapist?”

I feel my faceplate heat up against my palm and swivel the chair so I’m not facing him.

“I did; he’s in my universe of origin. And I know for a fact that he is, was, much different here. In any event, I think I’d like to stop taking your questions. They’re far too personal.”

Silence sits between us for several moments before I hear Orion stand and move across the room, thankfully going towards the door.

“Fine, though you only answered one. I’ll leave you be. But, Megatron, please keep this in mind: you can talk to me. I may not understand everything you’re going through, but I’ll listen to you, if nothing else. You can trust me.”

With that, the door opens and closes once more, leaving me alone. Alone… Truly, that is the one thing that I never thought my revolution, my war, would bring me to. Loneliness. Craving another to confide in. I had Soundwave, then, of course, but he was ever a loyal servant, not an equal in which I could truly give my thoughts over to. And here was Orion Pax, of all bots, trying to take that place.

Orion Pax… Such a strange feeling, thinking of him as anything but Optimus Prime. I find myself having to be reminded in every interaction that this is not the Prime of my universe, but the undiluted version of the mech that became that Prime. Or, a version of him.

I don’t know what I expected, really. Certainly not someone so driven to earn my trust. Or who would read my manuscripts unprompted. Or who would go out of his way to hear my uncensored thoughts and emotions. Someone to whom I find myself wanting to confide in despite myself. To whom I’ve shown my face consumed in the grief I feel over what I’ve done.

So strange, this way I feel for Orion Pax.

Chapter Text

Burn slowly, my Spark

That I may live a thousand lives

And perhaps in each

Find you anew

A war is not won in a century. I am intimately familiar with this fact after living its truth for so long. After countless battles, I’ve learned that as a leader, patience is paramount.

And here I am learning that patience, it seems, is paramount in all things.

Orion Pax has proven himself to be inescapable. In a way, it’s welcome. Having him close at hand makes it simple for me to ask questions when gaps in my knowledge of this universe inevitably come up.

However…

I find myself at a loss for the few moments of alone time I had cherished on the Lost Light and the fewer still of this indulgence since my arrival in this world. If my time is not consumed by planning for our slowly growing forces, it is consumed by Orion and his own scheming.

This cycle, for instance, he has brought me from my solitude to visit the medbay.

My Spark hurts as I see our injured. There are not many, thankfully, as we’ve been focusing on lower risk missions as of late, but any injury that takes a body off of the field is a blow we cannot afford at such a vulnerable time in the revolution. I visit them often, both for the morale of having one’s leader visit their sick bed and to try and ease my guilt at bringing my people to another civil war.

A visit to the injured is not what Orion has in mind, it seems. Instead of lingering by the medberths, we make our way to Ratchet, who seems to have been blessed with a small reprieve from cases requiring his immediate attention.

Instead, he’s checking over a small, curated set of medical devices. I recognize a few from the bit of research I’d done millions of solar cycles ago when I’d naively hoped to one day take the mantle of red and white, but others are as foreign to me as this world.

Ratchet looks up, typical dour expression softening ever so slightly as we come to his side.

“I hear you’ve an interest in the medical sciences.”

My faceplate warms, and I can practically feel the grin Orion must have under that battle mask of his. With a huff, I dip my head.

“I did, long ago. I’ve since given up my endeavors.”

Ratchet tuts his glossa and shakes his head. “Let me guess: someone fed you some scrap about the best medics being forged? Let me tell you, it’s just something big names with bigger egos tell themselves to feel special. Anyone can learn to repair their fellow mech. And I’ll teach you if you’re willing to learn.”

The offer takes a moment to fully register in my processor. My optics narrow and I can’t help but cast a disapproving glare to Orion before taking a last step to come closer to Ratchet.

“If Orion has tried to strong arm you into this–”

Ratchet interrupts. “No, no. He just mentioned your interest. No one’s been strong armed into anything, and if I’m being honest having someone that can even just patch leaks for me while I take care of more dire issues will be helpful.”

Ah. I’m to be a glorified nursing student. So be it.

“If you’re not averse to the idea, then. I do have some experience in low priority repairs, just no familiarity with the formal tools used in your trade.”

The medic gives me a scrutinizing once over with his optics before nodding.

“We’ll start now, then. Come on, we’ll see what you can do then go from there.”

To say the least, Ratchet is not impressed with my skill, or rather my lack of it. If I had been scolded like this a million solar cycles ago, we would be in need of a new chief medical officer. I am unused to so much criticism, but to say that it doesn’t push me to perfect my paltry performance would be a lie.

By the time Ratchet lets my poor servos rest, I can feel the tremble and ache of strain in my joints. Perhaps the pain will lessen as I become more used to the motions. Moving away from the practice cables I’ve been hunched over, I see that Orion hasn’t left my side. He waits patiently, his optics unwavering as he watches me.

The crunch and grind of my plating as I stretch out after Primus knows how long of bending over the practice dummy makes us both wince.

“You’re too hard on your frame.”

“Or I’m simply old.”

“Or both.”

I glare at Orion as I stand, dusting off my hands and sighing as I look back at the mess of solder and patches I’ve made on the practice table.

“Perhaps this is a fool’s errand… I’m too old to learn something so delicate.”

Orion shakes his head. “No, no, that’s no way to think about it. You’re doing fine, Megatron. It takes practice to get to, say, Ratchet’s skill level. I’m sure mine would be worse.”

I snort and turn away, doubtful of the claim. “Of course, of course. Watch me fail and then try to salvage my ego. I know what you’re doing.”

As I walk to the door, Orion’s pedefalls follow mine.

“What am I doing, then?”

“You’re trying to stay on my good side. Though you’re not very good at it. Invading my privacy, trotting along behind me everywhere, then turning around and propping me up… You remind me of someone.”

My pace slows as my mind wanders. I try not to think of my lieutenants often, but it’s hard not to when something reminds me of one of them.

“Tell me? I’d like to hear about your old friends.”

Orion’s voice and his hand on my shoulder pull me back out of my own processor. I look to him, optics scanning what little of his face I can see until I determine his curiosity is genuine.

“Very well… But Soundwave was not my friend. He was…”

“More?”

I snort and shake my head. “Afterspark, no. He was one of my lieutenants. I’d sooner cut off my hand. As… well adjusted, we’ll say, as Soundwave was, is, I was never interested in… romance. Where would you get that idea?”

Orion shrugs, but there’s something in the way he shifts his gaze away from me.

“So I remind you of him?”

“You do, in a few ways. Soundwave was one of my biggest supporters, even before the war. The first to claim my badge and the title ‘Decepticon’. He worried over me, which was frustrating but endearing.” I look at Orion and allow myself a small smile. “I don’t think what we had was friendship, but I would say it is close, at the least.”

That does seem to perk Orion up, at least. After a few moments of silence, he speaks again.

“I wish you would tell me more about your past. You can’t just hold it all in, you know. I can see how much it weighs on you. Read how much the memories hurt you. If you share with me, I can help you carry the burden.”

I don’t respond right away. How could I? Such a request… Orion doesn’t know what he’s asking of me. What he’s asking to know. I’ve kept Optimus out of my writings up until now, but he’ll learn about my sordid past with his other self eventually. I’d like to delay it as much as possible.

“Perhaps. I’ll consider it.”

That seems to satisfy him for now, at least. I’ll have to come up with better excuses if I want to keep him at arm’s length like I have been. If he gets too close, what’s to stop him from seeing the truth behind my attempts at being more than what I was?

He’ll come to hate me just like Optimus does if I’m not careful… For some reason, the thought terrifies me.

—

“Did you know the other me?”

I blink, looking up at Orion after a moment of stunned silence. He’s not looking at me, optics fixed on the datapad in his servos, but I can tell his attention is mine alone. Haven’t I been dreading this? The moment he learns about Optimus Prime and the history of violence we once had?

But, then, I suppose I don't have to tell him everything. Just my brush with the other Orion Pax, perhaps. Surely that wouldn’t hurt.

“I met him, you, briefly. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments, though I was ultimately not at fault.”

Orion hums, trying to look like he isn’t interested. I see how his optics light up, though. How interested he is in just this little piece of knowledge that ties us together.

“What happened? I’d like to hear about it, if you don’t mind telling me.”

I sigh and set my datapad aside. I won’t be getting any more work done for some time, maybe the rest of the day if Orion is particularly stubborn.

“I was arrested. I was a miner, then. An old friend and I were enjoying a rare day of leave at a popular oil house when we were interrupted by some unruly patrons.”

I pause, unable to resist a small chuckle as I remember my first run in with Rung, though I didn’t know him at the time. To think that we caused those events to happen. It’s more entertaining to think of it now that I’ve had time to process everything.

“Well, needless to say that my friend didn’t take kindly to a little orange mech being thrown into our table. He and I were both arrested, though I wasn’t involved in the altercation itself. I spent the night in Rhodion Station.”

Orion looks up, now. Surely he’s trying to put together the rest of the story.

“I was beaten by one of the officers.” Orion shoots up from his chair, datapad clattering to the floor. He starts to speak, but I hold up a hand to halt him. “To him, I was just as soulless as the rocks I mined to find precious energon. Amusing to think he was a member of the crew that Rodimus and I captained up until my arrival here…”

Orion crosses his arms over his broad chest, optics narrowing. “I don’t see how you can find it funny. You were assaulted by an officer of the law after being wrongfully detained for something you didn’t even do. How is that amusing?”

“Because it set forth the events that brought me here. If I had not been in the wrong place at the wrong time, I would never have been on the Lost Light, and therefore would never have come here. Damus calls it ‘Fate’, Nine-of-Twelve says it’s ‘Destiny’. I say it’s a nice alignment of coincidences.”

With a long, painful span in between.

Orion looks away, frown still on his face. “Go on and finish…”

“After I was released, I was sent to the front desk. You were there, waiting with my datapad; it was all I’d come in with. And you told me that you’d read it.” I chuckle softly. “So imagine my surprise when I come in and see you reading my datapads again.”

Orion is quiet for several moments before smiling softly. He reaches down to scoop his datapad back up and takes his seat once more.

“So you’re telling me you’ve always been a compelling writer? I’m glad to see I’m a fan of you in all realities.”

He must sense the shift in my mood at that assertion. My smile is gone, the laughter quelled. I’d love for that to be true, but I can’t tell him that. Instead, I deflect with a question.

“You consider yourself my fan? I’m flattered.”

Orion gives me a look I’m not familiar with. Something soft yet serious all at once. When he speaks, his voice is genuine in a way I’ve never heard turned at me.

“Your biggest fan. And I’ll never let you forget it.”

Unbidden, my faceplate warms. I turn my chair to face away from him so he can’t see the flush of energon across my cheeks. I hear him laugh at my reaction, lighthearted and unmalicious. Why is he like this?

“You’re so shy about compliments. Won’t you ever warm up to me, Megatron?”

I huff and turn my chair back around so I can fix him with a half-hearted glare.

“I find myself far warmer with you than anyone else, or have you not noticed? Do you enjoy pulling these reactions from me, Orion?”

I’m surprised when Orion retracts his battlemask, the panels hissing softly as they nestle into the hollow spaces of his jaw guards. I realize I’ve never seen his full face before, here or in my own universe. He gives me a soft smile, full of emotions that in all my years I have seen pointed everywhere but towards me.

“Of course I do, commander. How else can I show you how much I love you?”

I freeze, my optics pinned on Orion. Every thought tree terminates and my processor heats so dangerously that my fans click on in full force. Time practically halts as I stare at him, trying to find some response. Any response. As long as I’ve lived, as many experiences as I’ve had, this is absolutely lost to me.

“Leave.”

Orion’s smile falters. “Wha–”

“Leave.”

Orion jumps at the force of the command. In an instant, his battlemask is back in place, locking his smile away. He doesn’t speak as he does as asked. The door clicks shut. I’m alone.

I’m supposed to be alone. I break whatever I touch. I disappoint. I corrupt and ruin and destroy and I isolate. Another ping as my processor heat begins to outpace my cooling fans.

I set my hands against my faceplate, blisteringly cold and hopefully enough to help cool me off at least a bit. 

What a mess. What a horrible mistake in letting Orion so close. What would Minimus call this? ‘Grossly negligent fraternization with a subordinate’ or something of the like. Rodimus would ignite over this. I’ll never live it down. If I don’t die of embarrassment here in my room from a melted processor first, of course.

—

Avoiding Orion after the embarrassing encounter is easier said than done. Not only that, but the shift in our dynamic is obvious to everyone who encounters us on a daily basis. Instead of attending meetings together, we stand on opposite sides of the conference table and acknowledge one another only when necessary. Instead of walking the halls together, I retreat to my quarters while Orion mingles with his not quite Autobots.

I knew this would happen eventually. He would come to hate me. I didn’t realize it would come so soon. I thought I had more time. That perhaps I could convince him of the new me before revealing my old self.

This is my fault, really. My ever sabotaging self. How many things had I ruined, now? My planet, my place on the Lost Light, and now this friendship I had found with Orion.

Love.

What a notion. Orion Pax feeling love for me. Where could it have even come from? I don’t know what I did to encourage such emotions. Surely, I was nothing but friendly? Laughing at his jokes, allowing him into my quarters and my mind, answering his prying little questions.

Hm…

Perhaps that could be construed more romantically than I had anticipated.

But how could I not indulge him? Was this not what I had wanted? Orion, unchanged from the mech that had once complimented my work, standing at my side as we change Cybertron’s fate. Did I not crave the clench of my Spark when he said my name? Or the flutter in my fuel tanks when our fingers brushed?

…

Oh dear.

The longer I dwell on it, the more it solidifies into a daunting reality.

I may be in love with Orion Pax.

Guilt eats away at me as the realization truly sinks in. How could I want such a thing? In this context, Orion Pax is my subordinate. He works under my commands for my mission with the Anti-Vocationist League. The moment I saw him, perched defiantly at my desk as he pried into my innermost being without even seeing me beforehand, he was already unattainable.

And yet here I am, feeling something so wholly unfamiliar that it was able to creep up on me and grow into this monumental desire before I could even detect it.

I must apologize to him, if nothing else. Tell him that his feelings are appreciated but that I can’t give them back. As much as I hate it, he has to know why I cannot have the love we supposedly have for one another. Once I tell him, the problem will go away. After all, he surely couldn’t love me after what I’ve done.

When I finally find it in me to ask for his audience, I don’t even have the nerve to ask him face to face. Just a short and simple message requesting his company on the surface late into the night cycle.

Our current base is just at the edge of the Robinas Trench, on the Eastern border between K’th Kinsere and Esserlon. Though the location is in no way isolated, it’s near enough to the ruins of Adaptica to be innocuous. From here, I can look East and see just the edge of Tesk’s skyline. To the West, the electrical storms of the Rust Sea flash and strike at the ground.

I don’t come to the surface often, danger lurks everywhere in the form of my fellow mech, but when I do, I wonder at my planet in its near whole state. Alive again, unlike my own.

It’s while I sit in the dust and marvel that I hear Orion’s approach. He doesn’t speak as he sits beside me. The silence hangs between us, broken only by the far off sounds of thunder and city. I’m struck by how much just his presence beside me eases my mind. For a moment, I consider keeping it all hidden just to keep him near me. My rationality wins out. He would find out one way or another.

Gathering what wits I still have before my nerve is lost, I speak.

“I apologize for our last interaction. I was surprised, to say the least, but that was no excuse to expel you so rudely from my quarters. I’m sure you can imagine that I’m not used to someone talking to me the way that you do, and most especially not on such subject matter as… emotional connections.”

Orion hums, glancing over at me. “Can’t imagine you let anyone get close enough to you for that.”

I huff a bit. “I suppose not. There’s only one Cybertronian who has been so candid with me, though his motives were far from yours.”

“Starscream, I’m assuming. I enjoyed reading what you wrote about him. Oh what was that line… ‘All at once possessing the ego of a Prime and the self loathing of a scraplet’.”

Caught off guard by the recitation, I can’t help a laugh. “Yes, Starscream. Quick to claim his allegiance and even quicker to hold a gun on me. Flowery praises one moment, harsh criticism the next. Call me sentimental, but, if he weren’t one of my first warriors, I would have killed him the first time he tried to betray me.”

Orion tilts his head, optics searching my faceplate for something. Evidently, he doesn't find it.

“You wouldn't kill me, would you? Surely you don't think I would betray you.”

“No, I don't. But you must know that this is what I became accustomed to.” I lift my head to look out towards the storms. “I am conditioned to see this as a calm before a great storm. And if that storm is coming, I would rather it happen on my terms.”

Orion leans back, raising an optical ridge and shifting to have me more fully. “Alright, then tell me what it is that makes you think that I'll stop loving you. I'm not fickle, you know.”

“I don't expect it to be a matter of being fickle.” After a moment, I look back at him. “I started a war in my world. And you stood on the other side of the conflict as my greatest enemy, yet somehow the only one who ever understood me.”

I speak with him at length. I tell him of the conflict, from where our timelines diverge, the atrocities I've committed. In my eyes, I'm no worse than the Functionist Council and their endeavor of technosupremacy.

Orion, to his merit, doesn't leave. He listens and asks questions and challenges my views. In the end, I wish Rung were here, the Rung of my universe, to help me work through the ideas he puts in my head. 

As the sun rises, Orion finally sets a servo on my shoulder. I don't remember us coming close enough to touch. His optics burn right through me. The only person who now knows me as wholly as I know myself. When he speaks, he chooses his words carefully. 

“What you've done is horrible. I can't say that I approve of your whole past, even knowing that it's the reason you were in a position to come here at all. But if the war was as bad as you say, then Optimus, this other me, is no saint either. A leader must make hard decisions, and sometimes the decisions of a hero can and will be just as heinous as the decisions of a tyrant. You said you had a field of flowers representing the deaths you caused. I wonder how vast his field is.”

I pause. I hadn't thought to look for Optimus on the Necroworld. But if Censere truly matched flowers in the way he said, surely Optimus has acres of his own. The thought does bring me some comfort.

“And,” he continues. “You're making strides to atone. I can't say when you reach that point, of course. I'm no Knight of Cybertron. But I think that, if you succeed in saving us, you'll have made quite a bit of progress to evening the scales. Goodness or evil is not a metric measured just in lives saved or taken.”

I shake my head, laughing softly as his words of wisdom. 

“You sound just like him when you say things like that. It makes me feel so nostalgic for a friendship I never had with him.”

Orion stands, his battlemask retracting with a soft his. He smiles warmly, a nice expression on his faceplate. 

“You don't have to be nostalgic for what's right in front of you, Megatron. I'm not going anywhere. And should I see the warlord you're afraid of becoming again, I'll help remind you of who you've become.”

It's a surprise when he leans in, soft derma pressing against mine. The kiss only lasts for a few moments, but it warms me down to my spark. Orion speaks again.

“You don't have to respond to my feelings now. I can be patient, believe it or not. Just knowing that you know my devotion can be enough until you decide what you’ll let yourself have. But know this, commander. I am of the opinion that everyone deserves to let themselves love someone. Even the Functionaries. Even the Council. And especially you.”

He turns on his heel, taking a running start before transforming and heading back to base. The rising sun reflects off of the glittering sands up against his paneling, casting him in vibrant color. I watch in stunned silence, a servo lifting to run a trembling digit over my derma. Had he waited, I would have answered here and now. Instead, I send him a comm, short but blunt.

I love you, Orion Pax.

Chapter Text

Upon glassy smelted sands my house sits

Ruinous and rebellious do I stand

For I forged my solid ground here

And with you I will make a future all our own

The world turns on, heedless of my wishes for time to stop. Time. Time is always what I need, isn’t it? But, of course, I never truly receive what I wish for. My revolution came at the price of peace. Peace at the cost of my freedom. And now my freedom at the cost of my old world and the place I began to make for myself. I continue to sacrifice at every step.

The ceremony is tasteful. It was Orion that insisted we should have some public recognition of our relationship. We are already high risk targets, what’s another bullseye amongst the myriad painted upon our backs?

There seems to be little surprise amongst our subordinates, and I’m unsure how I feel about that revelation. As used to controlling my emotions as I am, to know that the love Orion and I have for one another was plain as day is unnerving.

Terminus, my dear friend, seems even less surprised than the others. As we mingle, energon cubes distributed in celebration of some happiness amongst our rebellion, he comes to stand by me at the edges of the congregated officers. We watch Orion quietly as he’s congratulated by his cohort for several klicks before the silence between us breaks.

“Not where we saw ourselves, hm?”

I huff and allow a smile. “No, it isn’t. But isn’t this a strange mix of better and worse?”

Terminus nudges me, a wry smile on his face. “Better in that you’ve decided there’s something, or rather someone, better than writing.”

My face flushes, and I bring my cube to my derma to hide behind it, feigning a sip. After a moment, I lower it again and speak.

“My writing was just a dream before. He helps me feel like it’s more than just hopeful thinking. The two of you have been my biggest support.”

Terminus hums and taps my cube with his, a half toast, before sipping at the energon. I smile and drink with him, happy to stay on the fringes of what’s meant to be my own party. It’s more fun watching Orion flit between his friends.

The door whirrs open and my optics land on the new guest. I recognize him. His name is Cruiser, but he’s earned the nickname Bullseye, a sniper usually stationed near our primary entrance. I frown. Something isn’t right. His faceplate looks pinched, as though he’s in pain. The smell hits me from across the room. Freshly spilled energon and burning circuits. I’m already halfway to him, Terminus on my heels, when Orion notices.

Bullseye slumps into my arms, a gurgling sound coming from his intake. A table is cleared and I hoist him up onto it. Ratchet is at my side in a moment, diagnostic cable already in his hand. Before he can plug into the back of the ill-fated marksman’s neck, though, Bullseye’s optics dim and flicker, their light going out.

It’s a common misconception that greying is instant. In reality, it depends on the strength of the spark that went out. I’ve seen bodies grey before their spark truly snuffs out, and I’ve seen colorful corpses that persist for nearly a solar cycle before the last vestiges of their spark are gone. Poor Bullseye was closer to the weak end of the spectrum. Barely a klick passes before his body is grey and limp.

The room is awash with soft whispers. Words of grief, regrets, and of course speculation. Soon, the voices raise to a low chatter, vocalizers becoming bolder as his energon cools. Ratchet shakes his head, leaving to find a gurney so the body can be moved more properly.

I didn’t expect today to be without sorrow, but to have it come so close to us. Orion comes to my side, taking my servo and murmuring words of solace. He knows better than anyone that the deaths weigh heavily on my spark. Terminus’s servo rests reassuringly on my pauldron. I shutter my optics, setting my own servo on Bullseye’s chest. Bullseye’s… warm chest.

Immediately, my optics flash open again. With newly acquired skill, I find the manual releases that cause the locks on his chest seams to click open. The chatter stops, all optics on Bullseye’s spark casing when his chest panels swing open.

A bomb, fuel rods glowing, is bolted messily to the cracked casing. It’s a wonder Bullseye made it all the way to this level of the compound. Terminus ushers the guests from the room as Orion comes to stand at my side.

“There’s no timer. What do you think the trigger is?”

I shake my head. “I think it’s already begun. I think it began the moment he greyed. It’s a wonder there’s not a chunk taken out of the base somewhere.”

Terminus holds the door open as we turn to leave. It’s rated to contain a blast. The Council’s attempt on my life will claim only one Spark.

Orion passes through the door. I pause, offering for Terminus to step through first. As he starts to turn, a sound echoes through the empty room. I haven’t heard it in millions of solar cycles. The chime of a mining explosive signaling its detonation.

I’m on the floor before I can register Ternimus’s servo on my shoulder, shoving me through the door. The blast door slams shut as I clear the gap, pneumatics sealing just as the explosion inside makes the foundation tremble and shake loose dust from the tunnel ceiling. 

I stare at the door. Terminus didn’t follow me through. Old calculations of blast force and radius run through my mind. The force of the explosives themselves, the shrapnel from the body. The room can take it. There’s no worry of it collapsing. But Terminus.

I throw myself from the ground, joints straining as I pull the door open. Orion’s servos join mine as we drag the door open on its track. Terminus's body falls through when the gap is wide enough. I fall to my knees beside him, quickly plugging a cable into the diagnostic port on the back of his neck as I try to keep my optics off of the jagged pieces of Bullseye lodged in my oldest friend.

The diagnostic readout is grim. I can barely focus on the glyphs, glaringly red across my HUD. Leaks, breaks, tears. His Spark stutters as Ratchet brings the gurney around the corner, originally for Bullseye and now for his unintended victim. Ratchet helps me lift him into place.

I want to help. I’ve been learning so much. But I let Ratchet take him, because, if anyone can save him from the red death warnings that have already burned into my optics, it’s him.

Orion’s servo slips into mine, a comforting gesture but I can’t find the strength to return the grasp. Or, rather, if I tried I would fear crushing it in my own. I look to him, and I can practically hear my plating rattle with something I chose to believe I can no longer feel.

Fear.

“Orion, I cannot lose him again. I dove into such a dark place without him after the evacuation of Messatine…”

“If there’s a chance, Ratchet will save him. You and I both know that he’s the best. Besides that, you were alone then. You’re not alone now. You are surrounded by people who care about you, whether you realize it or not.”

My optics flick around the cramped tunnel. Anode and Nine-of-Twelve linger, concern practically written upon them. Hound and Ironhide pretend to have a conversation but are clearly watching us. Just past them, several others mill about and discuss Terminus’s condition.

I look back to Orion. “You know I can’t confide in them as I do with you. And, even then, I made you wait a century.”

Orion nods, his hold on my servo tightening so he can lead me through the hall. “True. And only because I wore you down until you couldn’t stand it anymore. I doubt anyone else has the patience.”

I’m thankful that he’s trying to keep my mood high, but my mind wanders again to Terminus. As we pass the hall the veers off to the medical wing, I stop. Orion’s hand nearly slips from mine. He comes closer, looking down the hallway with me.

“He would kick you out. He doesn’t like people hanging around at times like this. If the worst comes to pass, he’ll blame himself worse if there are any spectators.”

“If the worst comes to pass, it is because I didn’t treat the situation with more urgency. I’m no stranger to attempts on my life. It should be me on his table. Not Terminus.”

Orion reaches up and turns my head, forcing me to meet his optics. “Then Terminus and I would be the ones worrying our processors into a meltdown.”

“I’m not melting my–” A heat warning flashes across my HUD, and I grumble.

Orion strokes my faceplate gently with one digit, retracting his battlemask so that he can press his derma to my servo. Reluctantly, I follow him. Ratchet will comm us when there’s news, he reassures as we walk down the hall.

He does his best to distract me, he really does. Work, poems, banter. I admire his tenacity, even if his efforts have little effect on taking my mind from my friend. How much have we been through, Terminus and I, only for him to take such a blow in my stead. Not like this. Never like this.

"Orion, it should have been me."

Orion stops halfway through his recitation of an old poem, optics softening. He takes my servos in his own, running his digits over the seams as he considers what to say. Finally, he speaks.

"Megatron, there isn't anything I can say that will make you feel differently. I've known you long enough to realize that. But what you need to understand is that Terminus made a choice. He pushed you through and knew there wasn't time for him to get out and get the door shut. You and I were right in front of the door. If he had hesitated for even a moment, it would have been all three of us."

He's right. I know this, but accepting it feels like failure. Failure to protect those I hold close and cherish. I grow tired of the losses. Tired of promising something and seeming to give no progress. Something must change.

Ratchet's comm sends us both onto our pedes. It's all I can do to keep myself from sprinting through the halls, but Orion's hand in mine is a fine motivator. I cannot face the news alone.

The medbay is deathly silent, like the moment after a too-near blast on the battlefield, strung along endlessly. My audials ring in the weight of it. Silence can be so lovely, but in such solemn quarters it is only oppressive. There is no laughter of my friend, jesting that our score of saving one another has been evened out. There is no clink and jingle of tools being cleaned and set to their places. There is only sorrowful stillness.

I expect my old friend rage to show his head as I stand by the greyed body of Terminus, but he does not come. Denial, too, stays away, for how can I deny what is in front of me? Despite my inability to change this, I cannot accept it. So what if left for me to feel but depths of sorrow I have never known? When I did not know my friend's fate, it was simple to create a better narrative for him, but this is not something that I can rewrite.

Warm servos brush optical fluid from my cheeks. When had I begun to cry? Orion's voice, distant and yet so near, converses with Ratchet. Apologies. Why must they apologize? This is no fault but my own. I should have been more vigilant. It is not just Terminus who was lost to us, after all.

How many have fallen in these last centuries? All of them Cybertronians who put their trust in me to bring them to a brighter dawn. Am I not as terrible here for bringing them to war as I was in my own universe? Do only destruction and death follow behind where my pedes fall?

I am suddenly jostled from my spiraling thought trees as I hear Orion calling my name. Blinking more fluid from my optics, I look up to him. When had I dropped to my knees?

"Megatron, we have to say goodbye. Let the others know. They'll want to pay their respects."

My derma move, trying to pull forth words. I'm not ready. Why must I say goodbye now, so soon after losing him? Why must I say goodbye at all? This should have never happened. It wouldn't have happened if I had just done a million things differently. How many choices had I made that brought us to this Spark rending moment?

Orion's servos wrap around mine as best they can, warm steady as he urges me back onto my pedes. Ratchet passes him a pair of small vials, one for each of us. It's been so long since I've poured out my innermost energon for someone. Ironically, that last time was also for Terminus.

I watch Orion, the bright, beautiful life fluid flowing into the vial. I stare at mine silently before finally pouring my own innermost energon. We place our vials beside the medical berth, their soft light throwing soft shadows onto the body.

When Orion turns to leave, I have to force myself to follow. Leaving Terminus behind the first time was hard enough. I planned to say goodbye to him amidst the destruction of Adaptica. But now that he is taken and not simply staying somewhere that I cannot be?

Every step is agony. Every condolence falls on deaf audials. How can I walk away from him? How can I accept the words of people telling me that this isn't my fault? I could have done more. I should have made him leave the room first. I should have moved us from the blast radius sooner. I should have had extra guards with Bullseye.

Bullseye.

Another failing. I was supposed to give him a new life. I was supposed to give all of the Anti-Vocationist League a future where death is not their only certainty. And yet, every day more of them die. There is no Censere here to chronicle the growth of my flower field. Will it span an entire planet when all is said and done?

I barely feel Orion's hand in mine or his arms tight around me, as though he could crush my sorrow into functional joy. Recharge does not give rest. I have energy and no will with which to use it. Regret stains everything a dull brown, murky and muddy and unsure.

The first time I truly feel again is the day thay all of Cybertron quakes, her celestial body wrenching from its place in the heavens to crawl angrily through the stars. Everyone notices the tremors. Buildings collapse across the whole of planet. Mineshafts crumble and return to Primus. And so many of our people die.

Funerals are the only events held for so long. So many funerals. So many reservoirs of innermost energon drained dry in mourning for countless Cybertronian lives lost. Wailing and screaming fills the cities. Functionaries begin targeting those who mourn 'too long'. It's cited as a disturbance of the status quo. Some of them are never seen again. Many return with the Council's cruel version of Empurata forced upon them. And still others are forced to the mines, desperate for more energon to fuel the giant thrusters that propel Cybertron through space.

In the early days, we couldn't fathom why the Functionist Council would construct the thrusters. What need had Cybertron for mobility? Our star system was remote. The Galactic Council left us be so long as we kept to ourselves. There was nothing to flee. But what could they possibly be seeking?

Before long, their purpose becomes clear. Destruction of all that would threaten Cybertronian supremacy.

The first planet was beautiful by all organic standards and many Cybertronian ones. Lush jungles spread across the mainlands, towering mountains pierced the heavens, and seas that shone with all of the slendor of the visible color spectrum. Two races lived in harmony there: fishlike creatures in the sea and beings spawned from the greenery on land. Neither had cause to supplant the other, reaping only benefits from trade and community with one another.

When Cybertron arrives, there is no hesitation. They offer friendship through their staticky communication lines. And the Functionist Council responds with a volley of armaments to the planet's main cultural hub, a port city that glistens like a jewel between the sea and jungle. Within solar cycles, the jungles burn and the seas begin to dry under a constant onslaught of destruction.

It never even recieves a name in Cybertronian. I give the dying planet a designation in the human vernacular. Eden. It is a name I read on the Lost Light as I poured my precious free hours into studying that which I had tried to destroy. Eden, a lost garden of harmony where no blood was shed until a serpent stole away their peace and innocence. I see the tale mirrored here. Adam, the seafolk; Eve, the jungle dwellers; and Cybertron, the venomous snake striking out and dissolving all that they had hoped and yearned for.

The second planet to fall was far more advanced. They tried to fight, deploying their space worthy defenses when Cybertron opened fire, but by then it was far too late. Another planet burned, hollowed out by an onslaught they were powerless to stop and unable to escape from.

As we approach the third planet, I find myself unable to stand the slow approach of another people being wiped from existence. I must do something, anything, to try and halt the genocide of organic life that the Functionist Council is hellbent on reaping.

Chapter Text

Silence is loudest when heard after the sweetest song

Lonesomeness is greatest when found after companionship

Sorrow is sharpest when it cuts through boundless joy

Losing you is more painful than if I never had you at all

The discovery of the U2 occurs purely by chance. The ship must have drifted for centuries before my Lunabots happened to find it and bring it home to me. The moment I step onto her bridge, I feel at home again. Orion takes notice and takes to calling me 'captain' instead of commander when the mood strikes him. I don't try to hide the small smiles his antics inspire.

Truly, being on the ship, my ship, is the happiest I've been since the death of my dear friend, Terminus. I walk the halls and think of the fleeting joys I've experienced. Poetry reading in the bar. Curling up with Ravage in my old quarters. Rodimus's tantrums on the bridge when Ultra Magnus took my side on some quarrel.

They all feel so distant. Will I ever see my friends again? Do they even see me as such? Terminus said that this was a second chance, and after a time I began to believe him. There is, however, a niggling part of me that continues to say that I was abandoned. Left behind on purpose in a place where I should surely have perished. And yet, I persist. Like a bad rust infection, I continue to whittle away at the Functionist Council's efforts.

Thus, the U2. With her addition to my arsenal, as well as the presence of the Lunabots, I find a new way to fight back. On her maiden voyage, I christen her with her new name. The Last Light, in honor of my lost home.

The Last Light's speed gives the Anti-Vocationist League what we need to combat the Council's use of the planet as a weapon. When a new course is charted, we skim ahead to uninhabited planets in the new trajectory. By the time Cybertron inevitably approaches, the planet is being evacuated and a defense force mustered to deal what damage they can to a planet sized assailant. The force is crushed, but enough time is bought for the last of the transport ships to clear the danger zone.

Again and again this dance goes. Soon, the galactic community knows that the approach of the Last Light means Cybertron approaches. Planetary councils prepare for the worst long before Cybertron even turns her gaze to them. Our arrival means the end of their civilization as they know it, and a dawn of something new.

And as the Last Light fades
Some peace may yet come
For even when all is lost
The sun rises again

I tap my stylus against the datapad I've been working on. With another planet liberated, the crew is in high spirits. I've given them a free shift before we set our next course, a way to relax after such a close call. Even with the joy around me, I can't seem to relax. My optics scan the verse I've just written before I let out a deep vent and set the pad aside.

Before me, the view from the bridge is astounding. Beautiful reds and blues and purple bloom in a nebula we've made a hideout in, the electromagnetic field hiding our presence from local scanners. The lights shift and shimmer, illuminating the bridge and throwing strange shadows this way and that like the shifting reflection of waves.

Almost absentmindedly, I draw a small object from my subspace. Worn and broken, I rub my thumb over the engraved golden metal. As I ruminate over the old gift, hunched forward in my captain's seat, the door to the bridge hisses open and pedesteps approach.

"Leave it to Megatron to give everyone a night off and then go do his job."

Orion comes up beside me, digits drawing over the back of my chair before his servo lands on my pauldron. He soothes his thumb over a transformation seam, and I feel my tension ease. His digits move to caress the side of my helm, and I push into the touch eagerly.

"Can I not find my joy in solitude while admiring the view? You know I'm not as interested in the crush of the bar as you are."

A soft chuckle preludes the press of derma to my helm, and I turn to meet the second press with my own. This moment alone, with the abilty to take more than just a peck of a kiss, is a luxury we rarely get to take advantage of. Together, we enjoy the silence and the way the nebula throws lights over our frames.

One of Orion's servos lights on my wrist, and I'm reminded of the badge in my hand. There's a question in his optics, barely restrained curiosity. I huff softly, allowing him to take the trinket for a closer look.

"Ask your question. I can practically hear your processor spinning with restraint."

Orion gives me a look before bringing his gaze back to the golden medal. "I see you looking at it often. Will you finally tell me what it is?"

I lean back in my seat, optics on the badge. "It was a gift from my captain on the Lost Light."

"From Rodimus."

"Yes, from Rodimus. He concocted some badge system long before I joined the ship as a way to reward his crew."

Orion chuckles softly, tracing the engraved surface. "Is this him? Did he really gift people his face as a reward?"

Despite myself, I smile. "He did. He called it a 'Rodimus Star'. By the time I came to this universe, everyone on the Lost Light had one. I think a few bots had a whole drawer full."

A smirk gleams in Orion's optics as he glances back at me. "What did you get yours for? Let me guess. Best kisser? Stoniest glare?"

I can't help but laugh, reaching up to take the badge back. "For abandoning my evil ways. Ironically, I hadn't quite repented yet when he gave it to me. I like to think that I've finally earned it after my time here…"

Orion brings a servo to caress the side of my helm, thumb trailing over a ridge on my faceplate as I stow the Star. When I look back up to meet his optics, I note how seriously he's looking at me.

"You didn't have to earn it here, Megatron. You were already good when you came here. It just took a little longer for you to finally realize it." His derma brush my helm for the briefest moment. "Tell me about Rodimus."

I hum softly, dimming my optics and relaxing as he strokes my cheek. "About my Captain?"

"Co-captain, if I remember correctly."

"Yes, yes… How to describe Rodimus? Well, he's not like anyone else, surely. Incomparable. Brash, stubborn, lazy. Determined, kind-sparked. He's a good leader, despite his mistakes. Ironically, I tried to recruit him in the early days of the war. I saw a strength in him that never faltered, even if he doesn't truly realize it's there. I suppose that, if I had to simplify, I would say that he's the embodiment of a flame, untameable and passionate."

I see Orion narrow his optics as he listens. It's so funny to me that after all of our time together, he still finds the energy for jealousy.

"Feeling jealous again? You shouldn't. I've told you a thousand times, no matter how fondly I talk about anyone else, you are the only bond I've made. The only one I've pledged my spark to. Conjunx mine, I'll keep saying it until you believe me."

Orion's optics soften. He sinks into my lap, a feat possible only after we both shift to accomodate our bulk and kibble, and I wrap my arms around him.

"I know, Megatron. It just catches me every time that you've brushed against so many people and yet somehow I was the one. Orion Pax of Iacon. Not Soundwave or Starscream. Not Optimus Prime. Not Rodimus or Ultra Magnus. Me. And the chances of you even meeting me were so slim. What were the odds of all of your decisions through your entire life leading you through a portal to an alternate universe?"

I hum softly, letting Orion settle his helm against my chest. He gently traces the swirls on the other side of my chest, pulling out a soft sigh.

"I don't care about the chances or the odds. I came here. Every choice led me to you and to the people we've helped together. I could never hope to question it, because to question what brought me to you would be to question what we have."

Orion glances up at me, mischief in his optics. "'What we have', conjunx mine? I don't think you've ever said it out loud. Maybe you'll have to reassure me."

I laugh softly. Centuries together, and I can't ever quite pull forth the word 'love'. But now…

"Orion, let there never be doubt that I—"

An alarm lights up and we both jump to our feet, grabbing one another to steady ourselves and prevent a nasty fall. We rush to the flashing communications station, the navigator (who is very good at minding his own business) turning his attention on us now.

Orion beats me into the chair before the console, servos on the controls as he pulls up the communication. A message, not a hailing frequency. The signature causes us to pause. The Functionist Council. Orion's digits tremble as he opens the transmission.

[Attention, Megatron of Tarn, Captain of the Last Light and Leader of the Anti-Vocationist League. Your efforts are noticed. Your mission is heard. We have discussed amongst ourselves and agree to hear you in the metal. Your presence, and the presence of your command, is requested post haste. Our assault will cease, pending your arrival. No response is necessary.]

The transmission cuts off abruptly, more like someone ripping out a power supply than ending a call. Orion and I stare at the console. After a moment, I play the message again. And then a third time. By the sixth playthrough of the message, Orion and I are practically beaming.

A ceasefire. Now that is something to celebrate.

—

I haven't set pede on Cybertron in so long. Iacon gleams, even from the old, abandoned spaceport a gleaming gem of authoritarian 'safety'. One can almost forget the destruction of Adaptica and the crater it left on her surface. Or the planetary thrusters, cold now as Cybertron has paused her death march across the galaxy.

The streets are nearly empty. What few pedestrians we see are either Functionaries or alt mode exempt. Their eyes trail us as we make our way through the city, the Council watching through them. The further into the ghost town of a city we push, the less this meeting feels like an amicable occasion.

The Citadel stands at the center of the city, imposing as ever as it looms above our procession. Our pedesteps echo in delosate halls, sonorous in the silence that surrounds us. Something is most definitely amiss. Surely they haven't killed enough of our people to turn even Iacon into a ghost city.

Beside me, Orion is ever alert. The fins of his audials twitch and flick at the smallest sound, his optics shifting. Through our internal comms, he makes his concerns known to me.

«There are Functionaries around every corner. I don't like it.»

«Of course there are, Orion. The Functionaries serve as the Council's guard in addition to their police force. It makes sense for them to be so prolific in the Citadel.»

«There's no one to keep an eye on, Megatron. Why would they need so many? It doesn't add up.»

I give Orion a scolding look as a Functionary motions for us to enter the main meeting hall. Maybe I had become too trusting in my hope for peace, but this was a chance that had to be taken. It's not until we are all inside, myself, Orion, and Nine-of-Twelve, that the trap springs. The doors slam shut behind us, locking with a thunderous sound. Before us, the Council's seats sit empty.

Instead, a large monitor crackles to life. On the screen, seven councilors stare impassively. As much as they have taken from me, I have returned the favor. Six-of-Twelve speaks, the matrix sitting where his monoptic head should be flaring slightly with each word.

[So you truly believe that we would set our goals aside in the futile pursuit of peace. I'm ashamed to say that I expected more of you, Megatron of Tarn. No matter. I won't have to expect anything of you any longer, after today.]

Without waiting for a response, the screen cuts out. At the same time, the room begins to shake and crumble. Outside, the very ground itself trembles. Between the efforts of Orion and myself, the grand doors crumple, their locks barely withstanding two heavy alt modes slamming into them.

Watching Orion cut a path through the Functionaries that try to harry us is an experience akin to staring into a hurricane. Raw power is something that I have always seen in him, a precursor to the strength of Optimus Prime. Over the centuries, he's made himself familiar with many weapons, but the battleaxe is as natural to him now as it was to him in my universe. The bulky, two-handed weapon may not be as flashy as the energon axe that Optimus could call forth from his arm, but it is no less devastating.

As the path before us slowly opens, the way behind closes. Functionaries follow, relentless in their pursuit as we make it out of the Citadel and onto the city streets. Blaster fire nips at our heels, rabid and incessant. The remaining guards from the Citadel are joined by others from the city, chasing us through glittering Iacon all the way to the old shipyard.

It's a testament to Nine-ofTwelve that he is able to shut the gates and give us spare moments. I take Orion by the servo and start to follow, but stop when met with resistance. Orion looks back at the gate, already creaking under the Functionaries' assault.

"Go. Someone needs to make sure you have time to make it out of their blaster range."

He tries to back away, but my hands seize his pauldrons. I drag Orion tight against me, and our chassis clash, the shapes painfully hard and unyielding against one another. No, we do not fit together like pieces of some cosmic puzzle, but even so I do not, cannot, let go of him. Orion, my light. Orion, my darkness. Orion, who I cannot afford to let slip through my digits as though I had never grasped for him in the first place.

“I cannot let you give your life for me, Orion. I forbid it, as your commander and as… as someone who loves you. Please."

It's the first time I've said it aloud. The truth of my adoration. And yet, it isn't enough. Orion's servos grace over my arms, the touch full of determination as he removes my arms from around him. His battlemask retracts. He's smiling with the same radiance and adoration as the day he told me he loves me, now bearing a sorrow that threatens to crush us both.

“You'll have to forgive me for disobeying, then. I can't follow that order, and you know it.”

I try to speak, but the words seem tangibly thick and stick within my vocalizer. I cannot lose another when I have so precious few friends left in this place. I can't lose Orion, too.

As though he can hear my torrent of thought, Orion sets a servo over my spark, pressing gently as he meets my eyes. "You will always have me, Megatron. I'll always be a part of you, until the day that you die. Please, don't let me do this in vain."

Finally, I nod. How can I deny him? Another tremble of the ground beneath us warns of the coming destruction. The servo on my chest pushes me away, and I turn to run, leaving Orion behind as the gate breaks and our assailants make their way into the shipyard.

Safe in the dropship we'd taken to the surface, I can feel my resolve begin to break. As the ship ascends to take us back to the Last Light, I can't bring myself to look out through the windows. I don't want my last glimpse of Orion to be his death at the hands of the Council's mob.

Only once we reach the Last Light do I look back to Cybertron. She shakes and bends, the ground breaking apart and unfolding itself until it becomes clear that we're watching a transformation sequence. As large as Cybertron is, it takes nearly two solar cycles to fully transform into the image of Primus.

We never stray too far from the planet mech, but, then again, it never really allows us to try. The Council, it seems, did not destroy all of Cybertron's spaceworthy ships, as we are veritably chased through the stars with Cybertron on our tail. What few ships we had, the Last Light not-withstanding, are crushed by the Council's armada.

It seems like all is lost. The Council ships close in. Primus stretches out his great and terrible hand to swat us from space. And then, a light.

Bright golden, the portal opens without fanfare. Escape, sanctuary, something. The Armada ceases their chase for us in favor of following new orders: Breach the portal. The Last Light is caught in the surge, pushing forward just like our pursuers into whatever lies beyond.

Blinding light. Disorienting pushes and tugs from the warp of space and time.

And, then, a surprise to my optics, Worldsweepers. Sigil ships, hundreds of them, all in the image of Decepticonism. And if there are Decepticons, that must mean that there are Autobots.

Hopeful, I dial in two comm frequencies. It feels like an eternity, waiting for an answer. When the line finally opens, I find myself at a loss for more than a single word.

"Hello."

[You!][You.]

Two voices and two very different deliveries. Shock and disbelief from Rodimus, and cold, angry resentment from Ultra Magnus. I can't help but smile, overcome by the joy of finally finding my way home. I chuckle softly, leaning forward in my seat.

"Of course it's me… Were you expecting someone else?"

Chapter Text

My Dearest, Orion Pax;

It is with great difficulty that I find myself penning these glyphs. You are gone. You have been gone for centuries. I had hoped to find you on Cybertron, alive though battered and bruised, after the planet was liberated from the Council's grip. Instead, I held a funeral for you. Into deaf audials I whispered things I had never said to you aloud that I wished I could somehow make you hear. I spoke of the home on the edge of the Sea of Rust that I wished to build with you. I told you of the home you would find with me on the Lost Light. I begged you to care for your own safety as you had time and again placed mine so high. Pleaded for you to come back to me. And when I ran out of words, I asked you to tell Terminus that I will live as long as I can to honor you both and the sacrifices that made my survival possible. I do not write to you to drag myself further into guilt. I write to tell you of the life you gave me.

First, I must apologize. I could not keep my final promise to you. You commanded I speak with Optimus Prime, should I find my way home. Convince him of my change of spark. I was not able to do this. Optimus Prime was dead when I came back to my universe. He died as you did, engulfed by his compassion for every Cybertronian through which energon flows.

As he made his sacrifice, we battled the planet-turned-Primus. Through persistence, teamwork, and Rodimus knowing just how to uplift and inspire his crew, we were able to convert Cybertron back to her natural state and defeat the Council. The power unleashed was so strong as to reignite the cold sparkfield of Luna 1, ushering in a new generation of Cybertronians. The appearance of a new, living Cybertron was a boon, as on the other side of the galaxy, the Cybertron of my universe had been devoured by the same darkness that took Optimus.

One not so sympathetic to my plight was put in the Prime's place as the adjudicator over my trial. He was someone you knew once, Prowl of Praxus. I'm sure, knowing as you do all that transpired in my life before our meeting, that you can extrapolate as to why he would not be so forgiving. What I experienced of my trial was difficult, but another friend of yours, Ultra Magnus, stood ever faithful as my council through it all.

I cannot tell you the fate I was doled by the hand of Prowl's justice. Simply, I never suffered whatever he decided for me. There is a me who languishes under his punishment, who thinks of you and no one else as he wastes in a prison or mine somewhere remote with no one to call friend. But I am free.

I do not pretend to understand the science. Brainstorm and Perceptor assured us of the process, and Nautica, bless her spark, tried to explain it to me once. The results are all that truly matters; our ship, the Lost Light, can travel between the endless universes. A version of our crew exists in the one we came from, living in the aftermath of everything that has happened to it. And a version of us exists with our ship. A version where we're all free from our past selves. No jail cells await us for finding a way to escape our fates. We are bound by nothing but ourselves, a family adrift in the vast and endless possibilities that we created.

I see glimpses of you and I amongst them. I see hopes and dreams for something more. I see us brush against one another, constant companions across every universe. I see Megatron and Orion Pax circle one another in an endless dance of fate and fire and finality. I do not pretend to know our fates in every universe, but, should you and I be the only iterations of ourselves that share happiness, even if it was taken too soon, then I am glad to be the version of myself that held you.

My thoughts linger ever on the memory of our servos entwined and the press of your derma, soft and tender against my own. Where once the recollections brought me only sorrow, I can now find solace in the knowledge that, amongst all of the wonders I have seen, I was so blessed to see your bright love for me before I let it slip through my digits.

Despite your distance from me, I—

I sigh, passing a hand over my faceplate as an alarm pings on my HUD. Another jump is scheduled, and hopping to another universe is something that requires both captains on the bridge. Reluctantly, I set my datapad down. I'll have to finish the letter after the post-jump ship inspection. Can never be too careful when flaunting the rules of time and space.

The halls are full of life as I make my way to the bridge. Tailgate greets me as we pass one another, a kindness that at one point I would have never imagined. My smiles come easier now. There have been many times I never thought they would come again, but I've finally found a place where I am truly happy.

I often find myself wondering how Orion would interact with the crew. They would love him, surely. Clever and kind, with that hidden mischief in his heart. He would fit perfectly in the space beside me in the hallway, our pauldrons brushing as one of us moves closer to allow someone to pass. It's a thought that passes my mind often. Dates at Swerve's, tucked in a corner booth by ourselves while the other patrons are up to their normal mischief. Walks on the hull, the silence of space a blanket around us as our servos entwine. Quiet cycles spent in the solitude of our habsuite, sharing the heat of our chassis and long, uninterrupted kisses that were so rare when I had him to myself.

The journey to the bridge ends, and so too does my train of thought. As I pass through the door, I can feel the air crackling with anticipation. Rodimus is practically alight with barely caged excitement, ripples of heat distorting the air around him. Ultra Magnus is the only one who can stand the heat, standing near to my co-captain's side and lecturing him on some important procedure changes for this jump. Some things never change, and, as much as I wish Rodimus would have even an ounce more responsibilty in his struts, I find myself thankful that this is one of them.

Rodimus immediately ignores Ultra Magnus's cautioning as he notices my approach. The grin that he gives me is infectious, it seems, as Ultra Magnus simply sighs and smiles. Even the Former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord is prone to the thrill of finding new universes yet uncharted. I take my place beside Rodimus, who refrains from setting his servo on my arm. He's already bubbled the paint twice and no doubt wishes to avoid having to explain to Ratchet why his servo is no longer attached.

Ultra Magnus steps away, using the ship-wide intercom to call all crew members to their jump stations. For many of them, this means their berthrooms, safe and accounted for. A few klicks later, all habsuites are locked and all rooms show the proper number of lifesigns. Brainstorm, Perceptor, and Nautica signal their readiness in the engine room.

No matter how many times we jump, the process becomes no easier. As we begin the readings on our new location, I am reminded that we could be anywhere. We may even be the copies of ourselves left behind. Even Rodimus sits in supsended silence, the end of a digit wedged between his denta so tightly that he'll surely be left with a dent and chipped paint.

Finally, Brainstorm comes running onto the bridge with Perceptor and Nautica hot on his heels. His eyes are wide with scientific triumph, and his words chill the energon running through my cabling.

"We've returned to the Functionist Universe! I even reran the readings. ["Twice," interjects Perceptor.] We've definitely returned. And if this data is correct, it could very well be before the Last Light fled through the Warren!"

As Ultra Magnus and Rodimus discuss this with the scientists, I step aside. Or, more properly put, I stumble away from them, a hand to my spark. I feel him. And I feel my own yearning and pain, the same as I felt it when he urged me to go. When I thought, surely, that I'd felt his derma for the last time. I didn't find his body when the battle was over. Is it possible…

I turn suddenly to the others, and my expression must be something to behold as even Rodimus goes silent at the sight of it.

"We must go to Cybertron. Time is running out. I–"

Rodimus holds up a hand and gives the navigation command to Crankcase. When he looks back at me, he gives me a small smile.

"I get it. Like Censere, yeah? Finding one last lost bot. And, y'know, can't say I'm not excited at the thought of meeting your Orion Pax." He punctuates the last statement with a wink before plopping down in the captain's chair. "Go do whatever it is Megatron does when he's anxious. I'll comm you when we get close."

I let out a long, heavy vent and give him a small smile. These changes, I like. The care Rodimus has come to show for each of us instead of just using the Lost Light as a way to run. With a soft word of thanks, I leave the bridge to his guidance.

What will I need? Will I even arrive in time? He'll be injured, in any event. I'll have to ask First Aid and Ratchet to prepare the medical bay. A smile tugs at my lips as I think of the wonder Orion will feel seeing his old friend living to give bad bedside manner once more.

The door to my habsuite slides open with a soft hiss. Sparse as it is, I keep my treasures close. On the desk, old captures of loved ones that I'll never see again, images pulled from my memory banks to serve as reminders of all I've loved and lost. Terminus, Shockwave, Soundwave and his cassettes, and, yes, even Starscream sit framed with my favorite memories on the Lost Light. Interspersed amongst them, frozen frames of Orion remind me of the happiest moments of my life. His unmasked face. A view of his servo in mine as I studied every nick and dent on them. Orion framed by flames as the city around us burned, his blue optics cutting through it all.

Tentatively, I pull open a drawer. Its only occupant is a familiar one. A hefty yellow brick of a communicator, but it settles into my servo as though it belongs there. The comm Roller gave me all of those centuries ago. The comm that connects to Orion Pax and no one else. We're too far for the frequency to pick up, but, when Cybertron is in sight, I'll be ready to call to him again as I have time and time again.

My optics stray to the datapad I had been meticulously penning my final words to Orion on just before the jump. If all goes well, I will be able to tell him these final thoughts in person rather than as a message to the ether.

Absently, I run my digits over one of the framed photos. Orion smiles back at me, rust hazing the view even though he's mere steps away from me. It was one of the last moments we had to ourselves on Cybertron before taking to the Last Light, and it was the first I put in a frame.

A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to see Rodimus stride in. At least he knocked first this time. We may yet teach him some manners.

"So… We're back here, huh?"

Eloquent as ever.

"It would seem so. I'm sorry to ask something so intrusive as to enter an active war zone for my personal business. You're a gracious captain to grant it, Rodimus."

A handsome scowl, but a scowl nonetheless, answers my compliment. Rodimus waves his hand dismissively and looks away.

"Yeah, yeah, you don't have to say it out loud. We all know I'm awesome. I just came to let you know that Magsy's getting a shuttle prepped and we've got a few volunteers to go down with you. Since, you know, active warzone."

As he talks, Rodimus wanders around and fiddles with things on shelves. I'll right anything he puts askew later; I know it only means that he's nervous and needs something to do with his hands. I don't stop him when he picks up one of the frames on my desk, noting the way he smiles as he examine a scrolling slideshow consisting of pictures of the crew. Not all of them are memories, but some are.

"Don't remember some of these. You gotta get me a copy of this slideshow." He sets it back down, giving me a sly smile. "After you add Orion to it, of course. Lots of memories to make once we get him."

I chuckle, shaking my helm a bit. "I'll make you your own. Moments I think you'll appreciate."

Rodimus's smile morphs into a lopsided grin as he pats me on the arm before heading back towards the hallway. "I'll leave you to it! No running off and getting left behind this time."

I roll my optics, letting out a huff of an exvent. We've had this conversation many times, and by now it's more of a good natured jape than an actual chastisement. Before he's gone, I call out to Rodimus.

"Rodimus, thank you. For all you have done and continue to do for me. You're an excellent captain, and, to me, an even better friend."

Rodimus turns to regard me for a long moment. It almost looks like he's going to say something equally sentimental. Instead, he pantomimes emptying his tanks and holds up a fisted servo with his thumb pointing downwards.

"Save your mushy stuff for your conjunx, 'kay? You're gonna need all your words, I know it." He heads out the door, but, as he passes, he calls back in a voice just loud enough for me to hear him, "You're not bad yourself, Megs."

Alone once more, I set about my own preparations. Even after a fresh jump, the Lost Light is build for crossing distance quickly and always seems to arrive at her destination sooner than one expects, least of all us. I need to make sure I have what I need for contacting Orion.

A small manifest for the prepared shuttle pings on my HUD, marked URGENT by Ultra Magnus. The document is concise, much shorter but no less informative than his usual reports. A summarized list of readings for the shuttle's diagnostics. Cargo manifest detailing what weaponry and hopefully unneeded emergency supplies will be on board. Finally, it lists who will be accompanying me to Cybertron's surface. Most of the designations don't surprise me, considering the nature of the mission. Drift, Roller, Cyclonus.

A fourth name on the crew manifest makes me smile. Whirl. The two of us have come so far. It's hard, now, to imagine that the Whirl who domesticated a hoarde of scraplets is the same Whirl who took away my hope for peace so many millions of years ago. Since the crossing of universes, there has been a tension between us, and I sincerely hope that this is the breaking of that barrier.

Once I've looked over the report, I send back my approval with thanks, as always. Ultra Magnus's efforts to be thorough are always appreciated, and his more recent attempts to shorten his reports in the far flung hope that Rodimus may one day read them is a nice display of change in the old mech.

With that out of the way, I return to my contemplations on what to bring. My medical kit, obviously. I, personally, shouldn't need anything else, but for some reason I linger.

I know why. I'm waiting. Waiting for Orion to ask me what weapon suits the occasion. 'The battleaxe,' I can imagine myself replying. He laughs and sets aside a sword he'd acquired as a gift from a planet we had helped. He asks why I always choose the same weapon, and I give him some diatribe about axes symbolizing authority and strength. Of course, I know that I always choose it because he looks so handsome throwing all of his weight into a deadly swing of the weapon.

My spark clenches. Soon. Soon, I'll see him again. Even if it's only because I must gather his broken body, he'll be in my arms once more. Right where he's supposed to be.

Finally, we close in on Cybertron. The planet hasn't yet fully transformed, cracks in her surface just beginning to show from space, but that doesn't make the sight any less spark crushing. Absently, I wonder if I could have done more. Of course I could have. There were endless options from my time in the Functionist Universe. Countless changes I could have made to every decision that may or may not have changed the outcome of our war. Now is not the time to dwell on what could have been or what might have happened. Now is the time to take action and push my future forward.

A call comes over the intercom as I enter the hangar. Ultra Magnus's voice, stern and calm, calls the crew to battle stations. A precaution in case any Functionary ships should mistake the Lost Light for her twin and veer from their intended course. They'll cover our descent to the planet as well as our return trip.

The hangar is buzzing with activity, mainly from Whirl and Roller as the two engage in some pre-battle tomfoolery. The two (chiefly, Whirl) whoop with excitement. I can imagine that this will be quite therapeutic for the flier. The Functionists took what he loved most, after all, and any blow to them is sure to be cathartic. As I draw near, Roller heads into the shuttle to join Drift and Cyclonus. Whirl sideyes me (I think) before turning away. Despite his lack of interest in me, I approach, keeping my voice low so that what little conversation we may have will stay private.

"Thank you for joining us, Whirl."

I recieve little more than a shrug at first before Whirl turns to fix his single optic on me. "I'm not coming for you, just to make things very clear. I'm going for Orion."

He doesn't seem to enjoy the wry smile I give him at the confession.

"Look, apart from the whole you scrap, Orion was pretty great to me. So excuse me for wanting to get an old friend back."

"I think he'll be happy to see you again, Whirl."

That makes him pause. I can practically see his processor whirring as he tries to decide at what point he parts way with his police chief in a world that didn't have me to end his tenure as an officer sooner. After a moment of what Whirl would never call panic, he looks back up at me. His voice is uncharacteristically tentative.

"Do you mean that?"

I nod, motioning towards the shuttle. "I do. But you'll have to see for yourself, won't you?"

Whirl does his best attempt at a faceless glare, as though he's trying to decide whether or not this is a trick. It passes after a moment, and I swear there's a spring in his step as he makes his way onto the shuttle.

Once we recieve the go-ahead from Rodimus, Drift takes control of the shuttle. His deft handling of the controls weave the spacecraft between our enemies, surely a skill learned from his time liberating prisoners after his defecting from the Decepticons. Wherever their source, he puts it to good use now, taking us down towards the spaceport where I last saw Orion.

Instead of calling Orion through the transponder, I jack into the old piece of tech to employ a few tricks I've learned. Namely: how to track someone via their commlink. So long as Orion is active, his commlink stays connected to Cybertron's vast data net. Brainstorm showed me (several times before I learned to do it on my own) how to use this method to find Rodimus shirking his duties on the ship, and it serves its purpose now, as well.

By the time I confirm that Orion is, in fact, alive, we're nearing our destination. I send the location to Cyclonus and Whirl, watching as they launch themselves, both already mid transformation, from the shuttle's loading entrance. I have no doubt that the pair will prove their deadly efficiency in clearing the field.

This time, pressed into the cockpit with Drift and Roller, I do not take my eyes off of the carnage as we descent onto the landing pad. The ground is littered with bodies, and for a moment I panic. Orion isn't standing amongst them. But he is here and he is alive and I just have to find him.

Before the shuttle has properly landed, my pedes are already on the ground. A scolding in my comms from Drift goes ignored as Roller's bulk follows close behind. We both thunder up the loading ramps to the main platform of the spaceport, stopping still at the grisly sight before us.

Bodies litter the dockyard, greyed husks of Functionaries left lying where they fell. Energon stains the wrecks, spilled from ragged gashes in their chassis. Orion's work, no doubt. The bodies are already cold, so it can't be the aftermath of Cyclonus's blade.

Where is he?

As we search, Roller points out a trail of energon. Quickly, we follow it. I can only hope that it isn't all Orion's, there's far too much for a single mech to not have bled out in the process. Distant blaster fire and the resonance of metal on metal become louder as we follow. Cyclonus and Whirl can't be far, Orion hopefully in their company.

One final corner brings me to the scene. More dead Functionaries, in various states of death, lie haphazardly across the ground between myself and my crewmates. Behind them, slumped against a wall, is Orion, servo clutched to a leaking wound in his side and energon splattered over his armor.

Cyclonus shucks a final body from his blade before taking Whirl by the arm and guiding him out of my path. I hurry to Orion's side, my knee guards sparking against the ground as I drop and slide the final few feet. Without hesitation, I pull my medical kit free of my arm and unfurl it. Orion's head turns towards, me, and I try not to dwell on how dim his optics seem.

"Meg…a… tron…?"

Gently, I set my servo on his. With a gentle squeeze, I bring it away from his wound. "I'm here, Orion. I have you. Just focus on me, love."

Orion tries to nod, but there's barely any motion to it. Roller hovers nearby, and I can practically feel Whirl's anxious gaze from where he stands with Cyclonus. Despite the looming pressure, I speak softly as I work.

"Easy, Orion. This will sting."

"The slug passed through cleanly, that's good."

"There we are, no more leak. We'll get these fuel lines properly soldered on the ship."

"No, no. Keep your optics on me. Right here, love. That's it."

Soon, the ragged edges of the wound are pruned away and the severed fuel lines clamped. I pack the wound generously so that nothing comes free before scooping him up into my arms. My knees protest, already aching from the jump from the shuttle and their age. Roller stays close at my side in case my knees give out, Whirl and Cyclonus going ahead to have Drift prepare for launch.

As we finally find our way into the troop bay of the shuttle, I collapse into a seat and hold Orion close. Orion's arms, weak as they are, wrap around me. His battlemask is gone, a bit of soot on his faceplate suggesting that blaster fire took it, and so I am graced with the soft upturn of his derma.

"I told you to go…"

Gently, I press a kiss to his helm. "I did. And then I came back. I can explain after we treat you. Ratchet is waiting."

Orion hums, one of his servos lifting to trace the carvings on my chest. "This is the Afterspark, then? I didn't save you?"

I shake my helm, chuckling softly. "Not the Afterspark. I'm told that it's rather lackluster. No, Orion, I'm taking you home. And I won't let you slip through my digits again. I promise."

A soft hum responds. With him in my arms so that I can feel his spark spin, I allow him to at last offline his optics. We'll be on the Lost Light soon, and then he'll be in the care of Ratchet and First Aid. He'll live, and he'll recover.

And, most importantly, I will have him for as long as our journey may last.