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D loved to write poetry.
Though D loathed Orion's ventures into the archives, he loved the broken data pads Orion would bring back for him. They were old, damaged things—unable to communicate and barred from the programs used by the Cogs. However, they retained the bare minimum of function: the ability to read and save what was written. Upon a data pad obtained in such a way, D would compose short poems. Having only just learned to read and write, he often said that nothing grand could come from his hand. Yet, even without considering the limited education available to miners, those words sounded more melodious than any song to Orion’s ears. Out of a sense of bashfulness, D refused to show them to others, so slipping away to the rooftop late at night to listen to D recite his poetry became the routine that closed their day.
The sun shines only upon the beautiful,
Yet it burns red for you alone.
I stayed only in the night, following your constellation across the galaxy,
But it seems the sun chased you, and so I could not find you in the dark.
While the light, lonely in its unrequited love, pursued you,
I looked up at the constellation that resembles you
And waited for ages I do not even know how to count.
As the sun has no reason to shine upon me,
It seems we are destined to live forever at different temperatures.
No matter how much Orion praised his poems, D would always read them with a flush of embarrassment; yet, the verses read in his soft voice sounded more beautiful than any melody. D knew he had worked hard and that he was quite clever for a miner, but he said that every time he wrote a poem, he was reminded of his own status—as one who knew nothing and had been taught nothing.
"Then I’ll bring you poems that even the Cogs don't know. Since the archives are closed to you," Orion said with a bright smile.
It was the moment for D to lose his temper and shout. However, instead of an angry D, what returned was his face, flushed and glowing.
"You don't need to go that far just for me..."
"Oh, come now. I want to be able to read more of your poems, too."
Orion spoke as if it were nothing, but reaching those archives would be no easy feat. Still, D found it difficult to refuse, gladdened by the fact that Orion prioritized him so. He felt a sense of shame that the only thing he could offer in return were these immature poems, yet he wanted to see Orion’s face as he listened with a smile. There was little joy in those days, but D had thought that life was a happy one simply because Orion existed there. In that way, the poems he wrote grew in number—one, two, three, until they were beyond counting.
That data pad, filled with those poems, was still in Megatron's possession.
D-16 had carried that data pad as if it were his very life. He had assumed it would surely have been destroyed during the process of obtaining his Cog, the transformation of his body, and all the subsequent accidents, but because he had tucked it into the deepest recesses of his frame, it remained unharmed. Megatron considered throwing it away, but instead, he simply left it on his desk as if discarding it there. He told himself it was merely because it would be embarrassing if some fool found it while he was throwing it out.
The High Guard base—now the residence of the Decepticons—had many areas in need of repair, but having waged guerrilla warfare on the surface for a long time, it functioned sufficiently as a military outpost. Since energy was not active in many sectors, the few technicians among the High Guard had to scramble about busily, yet they took care to ensure that Megatron's room was supplied with ample power. Had the tactless Shockwave not entered his room, seen the data pad on his desk, and asked, "Shall I repair this for you?" Megatron’s mood would not have hit a wretched rock bottom today.
"Leave."
Megatron threw the nearest object at Shockwave's innocent face, and unfortunately, it struck him right in the eye. Seeing Shockwave’s slumped shoulders as he retreated while clutching his red optic made Megatron feel a slight twinge of guilt, but he was in no mood to express it. The data pad was still exactly as it was when Orion first brought it to him. Slightly broken, but just functional enough to use.
He remembered Orion’s shining eyes as he recited the poetry. Why did that fellow always say he liked them, even when he didn't know the meaning of the words I wrote?
If a single drop of rain brings the thunder,
And a tempest I cannot endure arrives,
I hope to find shelter beneath your roof.
How could Orion read this and not know that every line was a confession directed at him? It didn't seem like he was pretending not to know. The fool. Megatron felt he should be irritated, but a hollow laugh escaped him instead. What was the use of writing so many poems to an audience who couldn't understand them? Perhaps no words would have mattered to one who never realized that he was my home and my sanctuary.
Tell me when the typhoon has passed,
So that I may hold your hand amidst the remaining ruins.
He felt ashamed of these writings that clumsily contained nothing but immature, foolish, and ignorant emotions. More than the writing itself, he felt humiliated by the raw feelings bleeding through every single line. All the memories of the past had turned foul within the despairing eyes Orion showed him that day.
Megatron looked down at the palm of his hand. The sensation of the small hand Orion had held back then was vivid. Should he just hack his memories to pieces and pretend he knew nothing of the life where Orion existed? Yes—so that he could think of Optimus as someone other than Orion. So that every time he saw that cursed face, Orion's face wouldn't overlap with it. Or else...
"Should I erase my emotions?"
"From experience, I would not recommend it."
Looking toward the doorway, he saw Shockwave standing there, a slight crack in his red optic. Shockwave held tools for repairing data pads in his hands.
"I thought you might want to fix it yourself, but it seems I overstepped without reading the room. I brought these as an apology."
Megatron stared blankly at Shockwave's face. If he got angry, it was more embarrassing when a subordinate showed such consideration, rather than snapping back like Starscream or silently enduring the rage like Soundwave.
"...I am sorry."
When Megatron offered an awkward apology, Shockwave spoke stoically.
"There is no need to apologize for trifles."
It means he won't accept the apology. He’s stubborn in strange ways, Megatron thought.
Megatron took the repair tools from Shockwave but stood there as if rooted to the spot. He had never learned how to repair a data pad, nor had anyone taught him. However, the words to ask for help did not come easily.
"My apologies. This is how you perform the repair."
Quick-witted, Shockwave first placed the tool in Megatron’s hand and began to teach him slowly, starting from the easiest and simplest steps. Before long, the data pad was in his hand—not as good as new, but perfectly functional.
It is an utterly embarrassing experience to receive help from a subordinate one has mistreated for no reason. When that subordinate steps forward with consideration first, the embarrassment pierces the sky. Megatron could not bring himself to say thank you; instead, he covered his reddening face with his hand.
"...That..."
"Assisting with science and technology is my duty. There is no need to command it every time, nor is there a need for gratitude."
"Stop rebelling and just accept the apology quietly."
Only then did Shockwave shrug. If that fellow had a face, he would surely be smirking. For some reason, he’s harder to handle than the others. I must be careful.
While Megatron ground his teeth and glared at Shockwave, Shockwave looked down at the repaired data pad. A few lines of poetry flashed across his red eye.
The world’s axis tilts; an uneasy sky and trembling earth.
Fantasies, spreading faster than destruction, stain the tips of my feet.
In a darkness more intense than an explosion, until your beauty conquers the gloom—
May your voice reach me.
During the days I wander the universe,
Until your starlight leads me home again.
"What are you looking at?"
Megatron's voice trembled with unease. Shockwave said nothing. He merely scanned the poems a few times and then spoke in his usual, dry voice.
"Shall I reset the data? So that you may use it properly."
Every poem contained here was a record of love left for Orion Pax by D-16. And there was no way a clever fellow like Shockwave wouldn't recognize that.
Will you throw it away? Will you discard the past?
Discarding it was nothing. It wouldn't erase all the memories, but if the things that reminded him of Orion most were gone, perhaps he would feel a bit better. It was an object better off destroyed. In many ways. All the past humiliations, shame, and raw emotions he wanted to show no one were contained here. Yet, he did not want to feel better. To erase the emotions he felt that day was the same as erasing all of who he was back then.
And no matter what the present was like, those days of the past would still shine beautifully. Within the poems, heavily beautified by memory.
In the quiet heights of Iacon, Optimus Prime thinks of D-16—of Megatron. He wonders if he still writes poetry, and if he hasn't grown to write even more magnificent verses by now. When he looks up at the night sky through the shattered ceiling of Iacon’s underground city, he wonders if Megatron, like they did that day, is somewhere looking up at the constellations and writing a poem.
Though he can no longer hear those recitations, he still remembers; and he will wait for the version of D-16 that might one day return in the future.